Waistdog Blogs has moved! Please update your links to http://waistdog.skittsh.org.

Spring Water: Bottled water derived from an underground formation from which water flows naturally to the surface of the earth. Spring water must be collected only at the spring or through a bore hole tapping the underground formation and the spring. Spring water collected with the use of an external force must be from the same underground stratum as the spring and must have all the physical properties, before treatment, and be of the same composition and quality as the water that flows naturally to the surface of the earth.

Well Water: Bottled water from a hole bored, drilled or otherwise constructed in the ground which taps the water of an aquifer.

This is from the Bottled water Web site.
An explanation of the various types of bottled water available.

When spring water is taken from a bore hole………
Does it not become Well water?

And my favorite part…..
The water must have all the physical properties of spring water…..before treatment.

Once treated.
It’s the same. Whether it is well water, spring water, faucet water, or pond water.
It’s all neutralized, and made to be the same.

I was contemplating all this, the other day, while sitting in bumper to bumper traffic;
On the one block long…..two lane main street;
Waiting for the new, and wonderful “smart lights” to let the traffic flow.

I counted seven different cars,that had people drinking bottled water.

On the corner (the same corner as the smart lights) is a drinking fountain.
With faucets for filling jugs, and containers.
Because the water here is good.
Real good.

But seven different carloads of people, had spent over a dollar a bottle, for water.
So they can quench their thirst, while they wait at the light, next to the faucet, where they can get water for free.

Even better water.
Because it hasn’t been treated, and neutralized.

But the label on their 10% post consumer recycled material plastic bottles, says their water comes from a spring.

The free water, from the faucet on the corner, comes from the ground.

But is it from a spring?
Or, a well?
A bore hole?
Or, a hole that's been bored?

Without a label.
Without the ramblings of a PR man.
Without a price tag.
How can we trust it?

My God!

It could be...........

Water.

Just to help my mood.

This information is taken from the Oregon Department of Forestry web site.

FLORENCE FIRE

Located in the Siskiyou National Forest in southwestern Oregon, the fire is 164,000 acres and five percent contained. The fire now rivals some of Oregon's largest historic fires. The last fire of this size was the third Tillamook Burn, the 1945 Wilson River/Salmonberry Fire, which burned 180,000 acres.

I keep thinking I'll find something humorous.
And then I stall out.


I'm going to keep trying though.

There's something silly going on out there, I just know it.

I'll track it down, and find it, even if I have to beat it to death with a stick to make it funny.

I had decided that I've been bitching and moaning too much.

My blogs' have been affected by the heat, and the smoke.

Everyone's cranky.

I thought......today, I shall be humorous.

Well fuck!

That's not going to happen, in the slightest little bit.

One of my first friends of the internet.
Scott Vice......Doctor Bobo, of the SS3 board.
Died on July 29th.

I hadn't had much contact with him lately.
But I always really enjoyed talking to him, and hearing what he had to say.

I'm sad.

This sucks.

This monkeys' gone to heaven.

Bye Scott.

There's been something missing.
Something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

Just something wrong with the whole scene.

I couldn't place it......until just now.

No air tankers.

It used to be, when there was a fire; at least in THIS area......

You'd spend the day with the constant background noise of vintage bombers flying overhead.

The wonderful sound of antique engines.
The afterglow of the dreams of World War Two.
Spending a little time, doing something good.


But.....

They're not up there.

Our politicians feel it's much more important to bail out their big business buddies.
Cover up, the cover ups.
And, root a little bit deeper into the rectum of the corporate hole, to see if they can get a little more honey for themselves.

Meanwhile, our firefighters, who aren't getting paid shit for what they do, get killed while flying forty year old, poorly maintained, pieces of junk.


I don't know?
Maybe if the President had junk, and the people that actually do something for a living had Quality?

Yeah, I know.
"Be happy you've got a hose, white boy!"

When my old dead dog was dying;
He'd crawl off into the bushes.
And wait.
I'd keep going out to get him.
Haul him out....
He'd go back into the bushes.

I wonder about the good meaning people, that push the Pilot whales back into the water.
They keep saying "the poor little whales are off course." "They're lost, or sick."
"we must help them"

But the whales come back, and beach themselves again.

Maybe because that's what they WANT to do?

I know the people mean well.
But why don't they just leave the animals the fuck alone, and let them do what they want to do?
Do our brilliant scientist's really believe that the whales don't know what they're doing?

My old dead dog, wanted to go off by himself and die.
He didn't want me dragging him out of the bushes.
That's what I wanted.

I'm sure the whales wanted to beach themselves so that a bunch of people would drape festive blankets over them, pour water on their bodies, and make them a media event.

The whales have been doing this for centuries.
Without us.

Maybe there's a reason.

For about the past week.
I've been waking up to a sky that looks oddly sinister.

Most of Oregon is on fire.
The smoke from those fires is settling into the valley here.

Sitting here.

You don't really see the mountain.
Or anything.
Just the sky.
Orange/brown/grey nuclear fog sunrises, and sunsets.

Not pretty.



It makes people nervous, and edgy.
They can smell the smoke.
They keep looking around, wondering if it's getting closer.

It's not.

It's nearly 60 miles away.
In another state.

But it's sent its smoke here.
To work on us.
Get us primed.

Send us back into our little primal brains.
Our stubby hairy fingers, hovering over the "fight or flight" button.

They eyed each other with caution.

The pedestrian.
Waiting to cross Mt. Shasta Blvd.

And the man in the beat up old toyota pickup.
With a muffler that makes it sound like a 1930's farm implement.
Waiting to turn, onto the street, that the pedestrian is ready to cross.

A four way intersection.

With two people.

And.

Smart Lights.

In the past.
One or the other people, would have smiled, and waved to the other, to make their move.

And it would be done.

The pedestrian would cross the street.
Or, the old toyota, would make it's turn.

Oddly.
It worked.

Now, we have the future.

The smart lights, conrtol the flow of the past.
Damming it in the name of progress.

Instead of the usual nod, or wave.
The smile to go ahead.

The two stare at each other......
Each thinking...

"What the fuck!?"

"There're two of us here!?"

"What the fuck!?"

But they wait.
Because the red hand, hasn't changed to a green hand; allowing the pedestrain to walk the 40 feet to the other side.

And the giant green arrow, that the driver of the Toyota waits for, doesn't come........because there are three or four progressions of light changes, that the smart light needs to deal with. Allowing the ebb and flow of traffic from all the other lanes to clear before giving the brightly lit OK for the two to proceed.

And what happens?

The pedestrain starts to look around, at a shop window.
He misses the giant glowing green hand.
The Toyota driver wants to honk........to warn him.....
But he has no horn.
His car is a piece of crap, in this modern world.

But he gets his giant green arrow.

And he's off.
Turning.

Making a turn, he is.

Allowed to do so, by the Smart lights.



In the rear view mirror.......
The pedestrian stands.
Waiting for the red hand to change back to the green one.

While I was down in the bowels of the netherworld.

Hangin' with my homey's.

Doin' the slow hand jive, with my compadre's and bro's.

My local ISP was under attack.

The Axis of Evil.
The Commie Menace.
The Triad of Terror.

Whomever it may be.
Was fucking up my internet experience.

And, evidently......the experience of anyone else using this particular ISP, and a few others.

So, for the past week.
After getting back from braving the very depths of what we know as life.......
I've had very little contact with the reality of my cyber world.
I've been cut off.

My ISP wasn't "Hacked". in the classic sense.

They were "flooded".

Big time....ultra distructive flooding.

Axis of Evil?

No?

College in Korea!

Yes.

My California ISP has been flooded by fun loving college lads in Korea!

Isn't there anything to do in Korea?

This is it?
You flood ISP's of different nations?
Because?

What?

You're Idiot's?

What'd you guys' just prove?

You've jacked off?
And there's nothing else to do?

I'm sorry boys.
And, GIRLS?
I guess I don't know who all was involved.

But it's so. tasteless.
So.....Tacky.

You kids could be out, drinking beer until you throw up.
Having crazed orgies.
Racing cars.

But instead.
You do this?

Until you start acting up, in a responsible way....
College will never do you any good.

I'm ashamed for you.

There's a moment during any good thrill ride.

The moment that, no matter how many times you've been on the ride.........
No matter, how READY, you think you are.....
It nails you.....with a sort of full stops out, adrenaline, and awareness overload;
That can be near orgasmic in it's intensity.

That moment can be had, on the road to the bay area from here.

And, best of all.....

You don't need no ticket, for THIS train!

It's free.

Brought to you by The State of California's Highway department.

And God.

The meaning of life......rolled up into a brief transistion, from freeway, to freeway.

You live, or you die.

Simple as that.




You can be good.
You can be bad.
It doesn't matter.

It's a crap shoot.




It's the transition from the 505 freeway, to 80.

The 505 is part of the route from my house to San Francisco.
You spend about 250 miles or so, traveling along, with very little traffic.
Cruising happily at the 70 mile an hour speed limit.

You've got two lanes.

Life is good.

But then, 505 sort of spits you out, onto 80.

I like to think of it fondly, as the "Segue to the gates of hell."

80 brings all the people from Sacramento, and Reno and the east, to The Bay area.

It's a LOT of people.

8 full lanes, of bumper to bumper churning steel.

The odds of all of them being really good drivers, dwindles as you get glimpses of their terrified eyes.

They know.
They've been seeing it coming too.

It happens fast.
Just as you think "here it comes."

It's there.
You're into 8 lanes of traffic.
They're all doing 95.

It doesn't really matter, how fast Your're going.
It's NEVER fast enough.
The end result is always the same.

Every possible sense in your body, is on full alert.

And then, just when you think you're going to scream.....
You break through, to this state of near bliss.
You're going WAY too fast.
There're FAR too many other cars, close by you.
but....
It's good!
It's real good.
That's when you get...
"The snapshot from the portal of Hell."

There's ALWAYS a vehicle, that you pull up, right beside, as you enter the portal.

You look over.
And during this state of bliss.
You get the mental and visual snapshot, of the car, and persons IN that car.

One year it might be a station wagon filled with nuns.
Or a giant semi truck.

Another year, it might be the girl in the short mini-skirt, on a scooter.
Putting on her lipstick.
All this, mind you.....at 95 miles an hour.
And surrounded by hundreds of other cars and trucks.

This year.
I was blessed, in my state of bliss....to look over....and not 6 inches from the side of my car......was a small SUV of some sort.
The "Overly calm" woman driving....had her cell phone to her ear.....held by her left hand, while leaning her arm on the window.
She was talking, very calmly, but doing a LOT of talking.

In her right hand, in between turns on the steeing wheel, she was tossing a ball, so it would bounce off the dashboard, hit the windshield, and bounce back to the awaiting "Little Penny; the amazing hyperkinetic, yippy, rat dog."
Who was bouncing ALL over the car, retrieving the ball.

So MY visual for the day, was a car, FAR too close to me...doing 95 miles an hour.....driven by a woman on the 4000mm Prozac,
who was talking on the phone, and throwing the ball for her dog, while steering with either her knees, or breasts.

The answer to the meaning of life.
squeezed into a moment of complete terror, and wonder.

You live, or you die.

Simple as that.




You can be good.
You can be bad.
It doesn't matter.

It's a crap shoot.

Tomorrow, I head to the bowels of the west coast.

The purported hottest day of the summer.

And I go to the depths of Hell.

A trophy run to Oakland, Alameda, and Hayward.

Then back.

Back to the two smart lights that I hate.
That will be refreshingly small townish in feel, when I get back from my journey.


I've got to spend the evening sharpening the fins on the Caddy.
Putting on the Kevlar rag top.
Installing the bulletproof/tinted glass.
Loading up the guns, and ammo.

I'll probably need trinkets for the natives.
Things to keep them pacified.
Pot.
Qualudes.
Morphine.

And cases of King Cobra, and Olde English 800.

And, maybe a little Mad Dog 20/20.

And for the classier of the group..........some Night Train.

"All aboard!"

A round trip of almost 700 miles.
With a few hours in between for some high speed chases,
gun fights, and street brawls with gangs of hoodlums.

With maybe a quick stop at a store that sells only original antique, and fities era toys.

A few more close calls, and gun battles,

And I'm back in time for alpenglow sunset on the magic mountain.

All in all......
Just another mundane day of mediocrity in the life of the dead-beat artist.

Speaking of whores..............

Yesterday was the fourth.
The day that the town of Mount Shasta drools over, all year long.

The day of the big FUN RUN, and WALK.

The day the entire town spreads it's collective legs, and says....

"Fuck me! White Man! I want your quarters!"

It's a veritable feeding frenzy, of lust, and greed.

When you go to town on the third, you can almost feel it.
The shopkeepers, quivering.......drooling.....clutching their little hands together in the anticipation of the next day.

Everyone's ready.
The banners are up.
The new antique/reproduction/digital/lit from within townsquare-like clock; is ready for unveiling.
The "smart lights" are up. And, I might add.....looking quite smart.

The motels are full.
The restaraunts are full.
The shops are full.

As I was driving through town on the third.
It was bumper to bumper traffic.
For the two blocks, that constitute the downtown area.
There were side-walk sales.
Every store, had tables out front.
The sidewalks were crammed with people.
There are booths.
It was hectic.
Nerve racking.
Nasty.

And yet. Somehow....familiar.

I'm from LA.
I know congestion.
I know the city.

This wasn't what I was feeling.

It was a strange feeling.
Familiar.
Somehow, soothing.
And yet, completely irritating, at the same time.
Overwhelming all the senses, in a sort of nirvanic bliss from hell.

As I was turning off the main street.
I looked back over my shoulder.
And it hit me.
What I was seeing.

The twinkly little lights in the trees.
The banners.
The flags.
The masses of happy, but edgy people.

Main Street, at Disneyland.




Have I mentioned that Mount Shasta, is a dormant volcano?

I HAD been thinking about writing to my local newspaper, about what's been going on with the towns development.

Then realized, that the only people reading our once a week paper........already know what I'm talking about.

So.....

To the BLOGMOBILE.

The world shall hear me whine!

Yeah.

All three of ya.

This may become a series of sorts.
Progress, you know......never ends.
And so, the story will continue.

We need a nice, PC, polite kind of title for this....

Let's see?

I know......

How 'bout

"Fucking the Magic Mountain, until it spits up money."

I'm not talking about tomorrow.
Where the town whores itself out, in the name of patriotic freedom.

"You can prove what a great strong country we are, by BUYING THIS! HERE! NOW!"

No.
I'm talkin about the whores that are ripping the heart out of this town.

The developers.
The realators, and builders.

The greed that takes hold with the start of small town development.

The same greed that has family members shoving their hands into the butt of their dying mother, to see if she's hidden any more money.

It WAS the Quest for the Golden Arc of the Covenant.

It's now, the Quest for the Golen Arch of the convenience.

The holy grail to the developers of the town of Mt. Shasta. Is a giant twirling, glowing, weenie. With a dollar sign for a hat.

We have the block and a half long, downtown area.
They're making it look all homey, and folksy, and cute, and quaint.

And...it looks good.
They just put up a reproduction antique clock.
Things look darned nice.

For a block and a half.

Then there's the new street lights.

If you were sitting at a stop light, in say...downtown Los Angeles.

This is the size, and style of lamp, you would be looking at.

Now put that same light, at the end of a block and a half of quaint, cute little shops.
In a town, whose motto is "The Alpine Community."

Now.
Just for fun.
Let's brag about the fact that that same light, is something called, a "smart light."

Meaning, either, the light adjusts itself to the flow, and needs of the traffic.
Or,
Ir LOOKS smart, in a city enviroment.

What it can't be adjusted for, however, is NO traffic.
Which is just what we have here, for say 3/4 of the year.

We now have traffic jams when there IS traffic.
And pissed off people, wondering why they can't just DRIVE....when there isn't any traffic.


They've taken a small town.
And destroyed the feel of it.....
Overnight.

Just so the rubes in their glowing SUV's will have easy access to their Burger King.
And, with any luck, they'll drive into the quaint little town, and buy some cute over-price momento, from their stay in, "Everywhere USA."

"Mommy? What was the name of that town we were just in?"

"I don't know dear?"
"Look on that ashtray we bought. I think it says there."

"It says......... THANKS FOR SHOPPING IN EVERYWHERE USA.......It's Not just ANYWHERE.....ANYMORE.

CRAP!!!

I've ruined the dog!

Taken her usual measured doses, of High End, top quality, heart healthy,Range Free, OSHA approved dog food;

And substituted, standard milk bones, and, a nice little tasting of Lasagna.

It's a NEW dog.


And, maybe a bit too happy.


I've got two days, to get her back to her sluggish, apathetic, slothdog self.

Right now, she's into sort of a cross between Rin Tin TIn, and Xena the Warrior Princess.

Not what a 91 year old man needs to be walking in on.

Plus.....

One of my little duties, while I was there. Was to refinish the kitchen floor. Which is wood.
It needed staining, and (in a brain storm I had late one evening) WAXING!

Are you starting to see where this is going?

Yep.
91 year old man.
Sheena, the twirling hyper dog.
Very shiny, and just oh so slippery, kitchen floor.

I guess since I've already been paid.....
The correct thing to do, would be greet the little man at the door......
Slip a couple of milk bones in his pockets.....
Shut the door....
and go home.

And when he calls, I'll just say "What dog?"

House sitting.

Sitting, IN the house.

Watching the dog.

The dog, that sits in the house;

and watches me;

Watch IT;

While we....together...

House sit.

Although....

In the larger scheme of things.........

The house....

Will sit fine.....

On it's own.
..........................
These are the thoughts that roar through your head, when you'd really rather be doing something else.
Anything else..
But house sit.




The house I've been sitting.
Used to have fancy tv.
They decided to take it out.

They have a nice shiny new laptop.
But, no internet connection.

They have books.
About things I'm not interested in.

They have food that's too pretty to eat.

I have to mention something, that I was instructed to do with the dog's bisquits.

I should say, that the owner is in the area of 91 years old.
So he's, a bit.........a.........Quirky!

These are the small dog bisquits.

I'm to cut them in half.

And then, shave off all the rough edges.

Because.....

Well....

The dog's, delicate little mouth?

He's also never, handed the dog a bisquit.
He puts them on the floor, to avoid the drool, and dog germs.

SInce I am Alpha Dog, for the week.

We get ENTIRE full, non-cut dog bisquits.

I handed one to the dog the first day.

She looked up at me, with this strange confused expresssion on her face.

Took, and ate the bisquit.......paused......looked at me again.

Saw I was going to hand her another whole bisquit...........and....

Off she went, into Dog Happy Dance!

Twirling, spinning, jumping.

And, that night, when she went out to play in the yard.

The neighbor dogs came by.

The word was spread.

"That guy!"

"Alpha Dog!"

"He gives the WHOLE bisquit."

Actually.

Not a bad epitaph.


Here lies Waistdog

HE GAVE THE WHOLE BISQUIT

Back from the Mumbo Basin.

I seem to be floundering.

Flopping about, on the deck.

My pattern has been shattered.
Shattered by summer.
And by too many demands, on my feeble little mind.

I sort of overloaded.

The work thing.

Even when you're self employed;
Can suck.

I've said it before.
I'll say it again.

I'm a really crappy boss.

And I'm a worse employee.

I do good work.
When I want to do it.
I just never want to do it.

I'd rather sit by the shores of Mumbo Lake. And spend the day staring at my bare feet.

I'm distracted by shiny things, easily.
I'll be working in my shop.
Doing something fun, like re-lining, and antique case, or, or........God. Finishing Scorpy's purse.

But I look out the window.
And there're things out there.

Shiny things.

Winking at me, from the bushes......
From the trees....
The clouds..

I hear the wind calling.

"Why aren't you out here?"
"This is where it's at!"
"This is where it's happening!"

And then the delema sets in.

The tearing of the wind.

I have the work, that I love to do.
Yet, I want to be outside, where I love to be.

So......being the rebelious youth that I am.

I sacrifice work, for play.

Because I can.

For, I am be mine own boss.

Real bosses couldn't control me......

And neither can I.

Here, in the lower left hand corner, of the cosmic vortex;
at the base of the magic mountain......

The forces of the universe are at work.
Emanating from deep within the bowels of crystals.

Throbbing with the subtle light of love.

All that was......
All that is...
All that ever will be.....
Is contained within a crystal.

The crystal does SO much. It IS so much.

It's the ultimate cosmic device.
For those that believe in the power of crystals, it's a miracle rock.

A healing rock.

My favorite use for it though.....

Guidance rock.

Crystal on a string.

Dangling in front of your thought free, and tranquil mind.

Swings one way. The answer's yes.
Swings the other. The answer's no.

You get the idea.
It's been around for hundreds of years.
But the addition of the crystal plumb bob, makes it cooler.

What I like to think of, as the COSMIC 8 BALL.

I've seen three different people use this device.
Use it to make simple decisions.
Which tells you how far they've taken their tranquility.

One. Consulted the crystal, to decide if she should stay at MY house? Or, her friends house.
She chose her friend. Which was fine.
Another, consulted it, to decide if she wanted to ride up the mountain with some of her friends.
The best part being......the crystal didn't move. So she stayed home.

Couldn't make up her mind.

The last one. Is the reason I was reminded of all this to begin with.

Yesterday.
At the gas station.
A young, teenie, hippie, cosmic,new age, new wave, punk, disco,cowgirl...........
Was standing in front of a gas pump.
Transfixed at the twirl of her crystal.

For maybe three or four minutes.
She stood.
Mesmerised.

A thoughtless, blank.

Waiting.

She blinked once.
put her crystal 8 ball back in the pouch around her neck.
Turned to her friend in the car, and said
"The middle one. Super un-leaded."

The blankness achieved, by never having to think.

Being at one with the emptiness.

The bliss of the abyss.

If we'd all been issued magic 8-balls when we were born.

We'd all BE there, by now.

I'm putting the Mighty Inner Viking God to rest.

In fact....I may well, put him down.

For Good.

There are times when things need to move on.

You wake up one morning.....
Your loins screaming with the desire to gather rocks.

You go.
You gather.

You gather GOOD rocks.

The Mighty inner Home decorator/designer, notices that you've gathered ATTRACTIVE rocks.

You've built your wall.

You look at your tanned arms.
Your tanned face.

Think of the hours of toil.
Of labor.

In the heat.

The sweat.

You're ready to relax.
Enjoy the summer.
Watch the newly planted things grow on the wall.

You sleep well....but seem, somehow cold.

When morning comes....

You put on your best Inner Viking Summer garb.

Your fur shorts.

The cute little Birch bark, half tee, that you and the Inner decorator made last winter.

And, you think....Barefoot!

Ah.
Sweet summer.
Time to kick back.
Rest those cute little feet against the warmth of the new wall.

Open the door..........

It's snowing!

Fuck this Viking shit!

Gathering rocks, gives you good understanding into the reason as to why people that used to gather rocks, aren't around anymore.

They die.
Their little bodies, die.
Rocks, are more work than people need to do.

I'm done with my walls.

My mighty inner Viking, has taken a break.

No more fortress to behold.

No more, grand and glorious, stone erection, to my hopes, my dreams, my..........happy place.

The Mighty inner Viking, was hoping for a little more.

The towns people gathering around to admire the wall.

Folks nodding .....in that, knowing sort of way.

Saying things like.......

"Hey. nice wall."

"Build that yourself?"

But, instead.

I stand in my best Mighty inner Viking stance......
I admire the wall myself.

I nod.
In that knowing way.

I say to the rocks.......
"I am be my own mighty inner Viking.
And YOUR God.
I have moved you from there......to here.

You have been reborn.

Reincarnated.

For you.............who were once, simply rocks in the forest.

Are now....simply rocks in the wall.

Evolution?

Or, the hands of the Mighty inner Viking God?

It's left to the rock, to make that decision.

The ART of the mundane

A few weeks back.
When the sun was popping out........
The birdies were chirping......
And springtime was creeping onto the magic mountain......


I was struck dumb by ancient genes.



No....
Not the "I think I shall become a responsible, wage earning adult, of the highest order." type of genes.

Farther back.....more ancient than that.

Back with the "stare into the fire with a blank look on your face." genes.

I decided, in my astute, wisdom filled sort of way...

To go gather rocks.

I needed rocks.

For a wall.

That I needed.

So. For a couple of weeks now.
I've been driving out into the woods, to the secret mystical rock place.

That's where the rocks are.

Since I wanted rocks that were sort of big.
I can only take one rock at a time.
Put it into the truck.
Get another rock.
Put it in the truck.....

You get the idea.

Then you drive out of the woods.
Back home.

And take a rock out of the truck...
Put it on the ground.
Take another rock our of the truck....
put it.....well.......You know.


Living at the base of the magic mountain.
At the corner of the cosmic vortex.

I should be looking at rock gathering, as a sort of Zen kind of thing.

As a serene oneness overtakes my astral being,
The plodding of the steps,
Mother Earth's granite orb offerings.
The smell of it all.....
The weight of it all....

Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.


Uh huh.

Gathering rocks, is like washing dishes on Prozac.

Today.
I will have completed my task.
My rocks will have been gathered.
My wall completed.

I will have become one with the weight.

I will have transferred some of Mother Nature, from there.....
To here.

And.

Stacked it.

I'm sort of thinking CAT.

After looking at the claw marks on the manzanita, for a long while.

Contemplating general size, and shape.
Direction, and position.
Orientation, and application.
And general, playful, manner, in which these marks were slashed into the bark.

I'm seeing......a cat.

A cat, not unlike the size of THE BIG RACOON.

A cat that likes to frolic, and play......flinging it's cute little, kitty like self from branch to branch.
Slashing at the bark, with claws the size of a small human.
Ripping, eigth inch deep grooves around six inch trunks.



A common mountain lion would be fine.
He'd play in the bushes for a minute.
Then move on.

A bobcat, though.....
He plays in the bushes......because he's NUTS!

He's just dickin' around.

Screwin' with stuff, to see what it does.

The WARNER BROTHER'S version, of the wild cat.

And he's in MY bushes.

I wonder if ACME has a web site?

Claw marks on the Manzanita

That shall be the title of my new mystery novel.

Starting today.

You can all play along.
Help me solve the mystery.

But first.....

I hadn't been finding myself with anything to say.
So no blog.
I'd think about my busy day. And when I'd think of it in words;
Get bored, and wander off.

I could picture the two or three people that read this, calling each other on the phone..........
"Did you read about Rick?"
"He was looking out his window today, and decided to go out and look at the side of his truck, because it looked as though there might be a new dent there."
"Then when he got outside, he found that it was just a shadow, so he went back in."

Forget Survivor.
This Waistdog guy is FASCINATING!

BUT......Now! I AM fascinating.
I have.......The Claw Marks on the Manzanita!!!!!!!

Manzanita for those not familiar with it.....is a bush.
A smallish tree.

The example I'm thinking of is about 15 feet tall, and has limbs the size of your arms.
Or, someone's arms.
When you walk up a trail I have.....the first thing you see is this bush.
Now....the first thing you see is this bush, with claw marks on it.

About three and a half feet up.

And, the part that adds the mystery, for me......the claw marks are horizontal, as apposed to up and down the trunk.

They go across.

Which means whatever made these marks, had to be, at least Raccoon size, to be able to stand and do this.
But. A Raccoon doesn't have this large of a claw pattern.

Unless of course.......It's a REALLY BIG raccoon.

Hmmm.
Dark trail.
Late night.
No moon.
low batteries in the flashlight.
Just you.....
and the BIG RACCOON!

The only other logical choices for these marks, are your larger wild cats.
And the basic generic bear.

I'm not finding any prints, to give me any clues.
Just Claw marks on the Manzanita

The basic generic bear would be the toughest to deal with.

They've developed a fairly testy little attitude since attaining their new sub-category status.
What used to be "Black Bears" Are now just "Bears."

And most of us prefer to think that the cats, aren't really out there.

I saw a Bobcat a few years back.
Strolling through the yard, just below my window.
We made eye contact.

This guy gave off the same look and vibe, as a hard core manic depressive.
His eyes, said it all........."Hello! I'm fucking nuts! And I'd like to eat you!"

I'd rather not be running into any of the cats.

Looks like I'm voting for the Big Raccoon.

It was late at night.
That frightful night.
In the brush, by the edge of the tracks.

When he caught first sight,
In his dim little light.
Of the teeth that would make him a snack.

He jumped, and spun,
and started to run.
but tripped, and met his doom.

To the snarling, snapping, drooling
mass.....the Fabled BIG RACCOON!

My little town here, wants sooooooooo bad to be a city.

They even thought of this eighty years ago when they changed the name.

They thought that people would be confused.
There's Mount Shasta, the mountain.
And, they figured if they named the town the same......people couldn't figure it out.
They'd stand in the road, like chipmunks...........looking rapidly back and forth, between the mountain, and the town......asking each other....
"which is which?"

So, we are officially known as Mount Shasta City.

Two blocks, however, do not a city make.

They want it bad though.

So bad, that they've started a major project, to install center dividers, in the road that leads from the main freeway off ramp.

There's a Burger King there.

And a Rite-Aid.
And across the street.
A market, a Shucks automotive supply, a Subway, and our mighty multi-plex theater.

And now.
Islands.

Central Islands.
Dividers.

We have train tracks that go through town.
No tunnels.
No bridges.

When the train comes through.
Traffic stops.

Now there are dividers to help the flow of stopped traffic.
Keep it in line.
Keep it in order.

We have turn lanes.

I'm hoping they'll put in a traffic light.

We have TWO now.

Another one would make us a city.

Dividers will help the tourists differentiate between the Mountain, and the City.

They can stand on the divider......look at the mountain.
Look at their map......and say...."Oh....we're in Mount Shasta City."

"I'm glad we're not on the mountain. Because then we'd be up there! And not down here!"
"And we'd be confused."

Tourist's are like that.
You have to take them by the hand, and guide them to where they spend their money.

Don't lead them to downtown.
They'd notice the two stoplights, and get nervous.

Keep them in line, and in order, with the dividers.
Let them see, what they always see.
The town before, is the same as the town after.

We've already cloned our towns and cities.

When we get done with cloning the people;

We'll be set.

No worries.

Nothing to think about.

It's ALL the same.

"A Florida trading card manufacturer is creating collectible cards featuring "Heroes of the World Trade Center" and has found 40 families of the Sept. 11 victims willing to participate."

"Manufacturer Kingsley Barham said yesterday that he and other employees of Chestnut Publications in Delray Beach, Fla., have contacted 100 families of World Trade Center victims since February to ask them to take part."



But......will they come with a little slab of bubble gum?

After my small tantrum yesterday, about people dumping their trash in my precious woods;
I turned my anger towards the sad state of late evening television.

I sat in my strato lounger, and commanded that I be entertained.

"Make me laugh!"
I would shout at the screen.

"Make me laugh NOW!"

It didn't obey.

But........my chair........My chair made me laugh.

About a year ago, an old friend (and I do mean OLD) (He's turning 90 this year) gave me a chair that he had bought for his wife.

She died. And never used it.

It's one of those chairs for old and invalid people; that raises you up to your feet. Or, if you prefer.....lowers you into full reclining position.
It does it with a small electric motor.
And it does it, ever so slowly.

If you were an old person......and your house caught on fire........by the time this thing had you standing, and ready to use your walker......your chair would be on fire too!
Which would either get you moving faster.........or not.

This thing's a hoot!

It's like Captain Kirk's chair on the Starship Enterprise.

Except on Qualudes.

From a full recline....staring at the ceiling.........to a full standing postion. It takes about 35 seconds.

Push the "UP" button
The motor churns, and whines.
The gears grumble and groan.
The chair springs to life. Like mollases from a cold bottle.
And slowly, ever so slowly.....you're raised up to your feet; where you fall slowly forward, until you're lying face down on the carpet.

If you're really old. This chair could be a needed item.
As long as you mastered the not falling on your face part.

If you're not so old......and you don't have a girlfriend.....and the skunk's not coming around.....and Genevieve's not on tv.

This thing's pretty darned fun.

I'm not sure if it's good to be entertained this easily.

This area here where I live, is considered by most people to be pretty nice.

Nice in a scenic, nature's wonderland sort of way.

And yet, while out in the woods.....in the wonderland....
I've been running into things that are really starting to piss me off.

Not the people in the fancy cars.
The self important yahoo's that won't make eye contact.
The self indulgent pretty people, that look way better than they should.
And know it.

It's what these, and other people......even locals......are leaving behind.

TRASH.

I don't mean the piles of Keystone Beer cans, that are left from when the high school kids go out, and see who can throw up the most.

I don't mean the occasional McDonald's wrapper. Or the gallon Pepsi bottles.

Or the Empty water bottles.
Or the bags of garbage that campers are too lazy to take into town.
Or the occasional spare tire, battery, or hubcap.

No.

Those are your basic pieces of trash, left by your basic pieces of trash; that are just fucking slobs that don't care.

No.
I'm talking about COUCHES!
REFRIGERATOR'S!
STOVES!
BAR-B-QUES!
OLD TELEVISION SETS!

The thing that set me off, was finding about a dozen garbage bags laying off in the woods.

Filled with garbage? No.
Filled with leaves!

You take the leaves out of the garbage bags, and you've got a pile of leaves.
You leave them IN the garbage bags......you've got a pile of trash.

The bags of leaves however, were nicely framed, in a lovely display, by a couch, a couple of chairs, a refrigerator, part of a tv, some tires, and some of your regular run of the mill trash.

And all of this.......not even a mile from the local dump.


We've got a handsome dump, right near town.
You pay a very small amount of money, and you get to dump your trash.
Very easy to do.

If you've got the vehicle that can transport your trash to the woods.....
You've got something that can take it to the dump.

But why take your old sofa to the dump?
When you can drive it out to the woods, and shoot at it?

So here it is.

Anyone that reads this that dumps their trash in the woods.
Especially around here.....

FUCK YOU!
Fuck you in the ass with a big sharp stick!
I hate your lame ass!
I will kill your dumb ass, if I ever see you dumping things around here.

Period!

I'm done.

I'm going to go watch TV now.

I just got a nice e-mail from a guy named Lorenzo, in Colorado.

Turns out, he's the fat guy that got all my Monkey Voodoo, Cosmic magic bullshit.

I was hoping that Melly had been in line for some of it.
But she had all the help she needed.
And, probably flipped off the last remaining residue of magic, as it fell at her feet.

But that's ok.

Lorenzo's a big happy guy.
He said he'd never dreamed that he'd be in charge of the people making fries.
He knew he was good with the scoop.
And he'd gotten a gold star, for always putting some of the crappy old fries, into the bottom of each order.

He's second in line now, to get a new paper hat.

I'm happy for him.

I'm also happy to see, that even though a bit misdirected.....
The magic works.

I've still got it.

Well,
after the cosmic voodoo I sent to Melly last night,
I'll assume that she woke up this morning with a warm comfy glow,
And a life that's changed for the better, and a working blog.

Either that,
or there's a fat guy in Colorado, that had a wet dream,
and got promoted to fry manager at work this morning.

Tonight, at exactly 9:00 Pacific standard time.

I'm going to be doing the "Twirling Cosmic Monkey; Good Vibe Dance."
For Melly.

I'm not real sure what time that will be in Texas.

But she'll feel it.


It'll be vaguely orgasmic for her.......

Somewhat dizzying for me......

And will kick the crap out of the cosmic gears; setting the cogs and wheels spinning, twirling, and whirling,
in a frenzied karmic mind blast....that will set her life ablaze with good things.

Anyone living in the flight path between here and Texas, may do well to step out of the damned way.
This thing's got Melly's name on it....and It'll just flatten your dumb ass, if y'all are outside lookin' up at it.

Anyone that wants to join in the dance....
Just twirl around a bit at 9:00.
Jump up and down.
Twitch and shake.

It all works.


And Melly?
If you start feeling a bit funny, and silly tonight.
Don't blame it on me, or the rest of us.
We just want to help.


And, uh......
You may want to put on your spurs.
And set Mattie somewhere safe.

The Lovely Melly's Blog, has turned into an error page on my machine.

That's sad.
I liked reading what she had to say.

I hope she gets things working again soon.

Unless of course, she just banned me from ever visiting.

Got annoyed at my cute, lame assed comments.

I'm probably just being overly sensative.

The skunk's gone.

Melly's gone.

And I started my day, by hopping into my cut-offs, and racing out the door, to frolic in the spring time sun.

Only to find it snowing.

What's tomorrow?
Tuesday?

Yeah. That'll be better.

There's a story about the Magic Mountain, in the latest issue of VIA. The AAA publication.
Talking about the Lemurian's that live in the mountain.

For those of you that don't know; the local belief is that the Lemurians, who MAY have been in with the crowd at Atlantis.....
Escaped the BIG flood, by coming to the mountain.
They then dug into it, and using their golden bells, hollowed out the insides, and live there, even now, in peace.
They have large foreheads, stand maybe seven feet tall, and have the fabled third eye.

Or, something.

It's all very cosmic. To say the least.

And, as far as I'm concerned....as good as any other story involving faith, and spiritual matters.

There are also spaceships that come here.
That's been part of the lore, forever.

They dock....IN the mountain.
And, I guess, Hang out with the Lemurians.

Or, something.

When I first moved up here; I was a young hippie. Full of adventure, and, well, for lack of any better term.....drugs.

One night I took a girlfriend, some mushrooms, and pot, and headed up the mountain.
We were sitting on a log, looking at the stars......
When we heard a sound.

The sound of spacecraft.

Seriously.

Perfect grade B movie, spacecraft noises.

They came, from everywhere.
The sound was all encompasing.
No direction.
It was just.....there.

I wasn't scared....More, interested.
What could be making this noise?

I actually spent quite a few years wondering about it.
Asked people.
They'd say....."Oh you were hearing spaceships."
Or, "You're a fucking stoned out piece of crap, that's going to burn in hell."
Or, "You're a loon."

I was sort of leaning towards, Stoned out Loon, myself.

Then, I discovered it.

I was in town one day, and noticed a familiar sound, reverberating through the valley.
I thought...."Hmmmmm. I wonder?"

So I went up on the mountain, and sure enough. There was the sound.

The spacecraft.

The perfect noise.

Diesel engines, sitting still, with their little motors whirring.

Get five or six of them running.
Get the wind just right,
Go up to about 8 thousand feet on the mountain.
Let the sense of wonder take over.

And you've got the finest flying saucer sounds you could ever want.

Perfect hovering spacecraft.

I love this place.

Today marked the start of Wood Cutting season.

That's where all us manly men, and a few manly women. And even some womanly women, and womanly men, head out into the woods, hoping to find some firewood that will warm our freezing butts next year.

It's getting harder to find legal wood to cut.
And, since I like trees....I won't cut ILLEGAL wood.

It's nice to get out there, in the forest. By the streams. Breathe the air. Smell the stuff.

Most years, if you run into anyone else out there.....they're friendly, happy sorts. Out there doing similar things as you.
Enjoying nature. Blissfully communing with the natural flow of things.

Usually, when you pass a car, or truck.....you wave. Smile. Nod your head.
Acknowledge the other person in some friendly manner.

Today, as we were driving out of the woods, we passed seven different vehicles.
All newish, SUV's, or fancy little sedans.
All filled with Assholes.
Non-smiling, glaring straight ahead, don't dare make eye contact....ASSHOLES!

People dressed for the woods.
In their Eddie Bauer "I'm dressed for the woods" clothing.
All bright primary colors, and pastels. With flourescent stripes, and fancy fastening devices.

Clothes that won't see dirt.

There will be photos of them standing near dirt. On dirt.
By dirt. Looking at dirt.

But there will be no dirt on them.

Their cars will gleam the same as if they had neon lights mounted above them.

They'll go back to their homes, and show their friends the pictures of them near the dirt.
Pictures of them standing proudly....with their foot placed just so, on a real rock....but at just the right angle to show off the Nike logo, and the reflective tape.

And as we pass them....

We, in the '55 Chevy flatbed....

We, with the guns, and chainsaws, and hair.....
.
We, that smile at them, and wave, and say hello.....

They worry about us.

Will we be waiting down the road from which they came?
Will we still be smiling?
Waving?
Saying Hello?

Will we be waiting for them?
The Yuppie fucks!
In their White man cars!
With their pinched up, scared little faces.
Acknowledging nothing but their own groovy pale assed existence.....

Will we be waiting?
To perhaps murder them?
Steal their cars?
Rape them?

No.

But you can bet we'd love to get them dirty.

I got to go to the fabeled WAL-MART yesterday.

Seems that a lot of people are writing about the joys of shopping there. And I didn't want to feel left out.

I have three options when it comes to my Wal-Mart shopping experience.

I can travel 60 miles to the south.
40 miles to the north.
Or, if I prefer to save on sales tax; drive 90 miles to the north. Into another mysterious state.

The Wal-mart to the south, is filled with idiots.
Morons, and half-wits, that couldn't negotiate the old BLUE LIGHT special table at K-Mart.
People that really shouldn't leave their homes.
But, there they are. Crammed together, like a pen full of turkeys.
Bumping off of each other. Ramming into each other.
Rudeness prevails.

And the Greeter?
Just sort of looks through you, and nods his old head.

The Wal-mart 40 miles north, has a higher class group of shoppers.
But never seems to have anything in stock.
I used to go there to stock up on V-8 juice, because it was almost fifty cents cheaper per bottle, than I can get it here.
But they only had V-8 juice in stock Twice.

I asked a clerk, who had the glazed look of someone using crank to sweeten their coffee; when they were getting more V-8 juice?
She said it was in the next isle.
I told her there was none there.
She said "they must be out."
I said "When are you getting more in?"
She said, "It's in the next isle."

This is the store that has the greeter that avoids me.
Walk in the door. They turn away. Look like they're adjusting carts.

They also have a little eating area. Filled with people that look like they couldn't afford a rest home, so they've come to Wal-mart to wait.

Then there's the 90 mile north, Wal-Mart.
The next mysterious state.
The NO sales tax state.

The people here, are proffesional Wal-mart shoppers.
They're frantic. Hectic. Shoppers on a mission.
They know what they want.
They know where it is.
Their carts are full.
They're eating while shopping.
They won't make eye contact.
But ask anyone......and they can tell you just where the Q-tips are.

And the Greeter?
"Good Afternoon sir!"
"How are you today?"
"Welcome to Wal-Mart!"
"May I get you a cart?"
"Would you like to try something from our food court?"
"Do you have our latest sale flyer?"

Scary son of a bitch.

And yet.
All three.
All three Mega-stores.
All THREE. Don't have V-8 juice.

They did!
But, now they don't.

Although, it MIGHT be in the next isle.

My ISP just announced that they had installed some form of Anti-spam device.

A Spamerator.

It was supposed to eliminate a huge assortment of spam from my machine.

I went from 10 to 20 e-mails a day.
Most of which were junk.

To, about 3 emails a day.

Most of which, aren't junk.

It works very well.

Although, I wonder if there are things that I'll be missing?

Winning prize notifications.

"Sorry. We were set to award you with a trillion dollars; but the Spamerator wouldn't let us through."

That would be a shame.
I'm set to share my trillion dollars with my friends.

One thing that HASN'T stopped coming through however, are ads from the charming people at FARM SEX central.

Darlene, and her Donkey would still very much like for me to watch.

The Spamerator doesn't deal with Darlene.

It's OK.
Things balance out.

For every e-mail from Darlene and her Donkey...
I get one from a Born again Christian friend.

It balances out.

To that mundane, flat line place, in the middle.

That place I like to call home.

That place....where, if it were my perfect world.....

Darlene would be a devout Christian.

Wow.
How cool is this!?

While I was out on the front porch........MELLYcame to visit.
Left me a note.

She's never been here before. At least that she'd admit to.

I hope she didn't look out the window, and see me with my Mousketeer hat on.

I don't want to seem too anxious.

I would have offered her a peanut.....
And maybe an exotic mixed drink.

I don't have any little umbrella's to put in it.......
But I do have some of those toothpicks with the tacky celophane explosion at the top.

She might have liked that.
It's pretty festive.

And I DO so like to be festive when I have guests.

That may be why the skunk doesn't come back.

Got tired of wearing the little party hats.

................

I think Wendy may need to take FRANCISCOin for a re-grooving.
He's far two young to be having all this crap happening.
I hope things get better soon.

I think a good cure-all type of thing, would be highly over-priced cotton candy, and popcorn at Disneyland.

Maybe when Melly, and Mattie, come to pick me up.....we can swing by Long Beach, and nab the Dominguez clan.
It's just down the road from the magic kingdom.

Let's see.....SIx people at Disneyland, plus rides, food, and of course gifts ..........that comes out to about Three thousand dollars.

It'll be fun!

I hope Melly has a station wagon.

First things first.
A big smiley congratulations to Scorpy who's maybe getting a JEEP

She's going to be having fun!

Myself?
I've been a bit sad lately.
I have to come to the realization, that my skunk buddy may be gone.
Either He's died off, or moved on.
But, either way, it's been a week since he came by to visit.

I just sit on the back porch, with a peanut in my hand......waiting.

It's not like he was fun.
He couldn't figure out raquet balls.
I'd throw them for him, and he'd just look at me.
I'd throw the frisbee.
He'd just look at me.
I'd try to get him to play tug-0-war with a sock.
But....

His main thing, was to come to the door, let me hand him a peanut....
And he'd eat it.

Not a lot of bonding going on.

I wasn't trying to pretend that I was some mystical Skunk Whisperer.
Knowing the hidden ways of the skunk through silent communication.

No.
I was just the guy with the peanut.

Now, I'll go sit on the front porch.
Wait for MELLY to take me to Disneyland.

I think it's going to be a long wait.

SHASTA cola advertisement from the 50's, found on a San Francisco building, has been covered up, to make room for a piece of shit Nike ad!

God Bless the PR men.

Reminds me of an ad on the side of a building in Dunsmuir. Just down the road from here.
People I knew, were putting in a gallery.
An......ART gallery.

On the side of this hundred year old building, was a sign for Holsum Bread.

Nothing special. Just a sign.
But a cool sign.
An old sign.

The first thing the art gallery owners did.....was remove the art.

Brain dead ASSHOLES!

This past week has been.....well......not even mundane!

Sort of a study in flat line.

I bought a band saw.
I installed a garbage disposal.
I made a box.

I smiled at a cute girl, and said Hi to her.

She said Hi too. But was backing away, like the skunk does after taking a peanut.

Tomorrow's Easter.

I've been working all morning, to get my little basket ready.

I've got the cheesy fake grass.....and nestled in the center, is the hollow chocolate Jesus, covered in shiny colored foil....surrounded by the marshmallow disciples.
To the back, is the marzipan Virgin Marry, and some wise men, I fashioned out of Jelly Belly's.
Off to the side, is a cross made from fruit roll-ups.
And, I think....if I plan this out right.....I'll still have room for some Bunnies, and eggs, and chicks, and ducks.
But I'm not sure if I'll be able to fit it all under the tree.
Oh Crap! Where am I going to put the bubble lights?

Easter's a tough holiday to get right.

I suppose if I were Catholic, I could play "find the baby Jesus" with my priest.

If I were Baptist, we'd be breaking out the high piced hookers.

If I lived in the Holy land, I could throw fire bombs at my neighbors.

I COULD go to church tomorrow.
Wash away the sins of the past week.

Instead, I think I'll stay home, do laundry.
Wash away the stains of the past week.
And, maybe watch some stock car racing, or MTV's spring break.
And, of course.....eat some chocolate.

Which reminds me!

Is it proper Easter etiquette to eat the head first?

As I write this, the WENDY girl, is back from 'Bammy.

She brought back pictures.
I always like pictures.
But they're not what I expected.

A bunch of good looking people, in good looking clothes, standing around a good looking church.

Where's the toothless guys in the canoe full of empty Bud light cans?
Where's the Firebird up on blocks, and the pickup with twelve barking hounds in the back?

I'm really glad now, that I didn't go.

I had my John Deere cap, and my Banjo.

I would have stood out bad.

Like a single black-eyed pea, in a big bowl of silky tapioca.

Welcome back Wendy.
And, congratulations Sis!

As I write this, Wendy is back in 'Bammy.
Sucking down Mint Julips.
Picking Okra strings out of her teeth.
Having tobbackie spittin' contests.

Her sister's getting married.
It's actually her mother's Dad's brother's cousin, who at one time was married to her Grandmother's son's sister, who had a sex change operation, and became the brother of her Uncle, the minister, who had married the nephew of the bride's father, who knew a guy that was married to his brother's sister, who was married to her mother's dad.

They'll be honeymooning at the Big 6 in Eufaula.
And driving there in the same Dodge Charger, that Wendy and Manny used.
Stopping, of course, at the Boll Weavil monument, on the way.
They'll be able to pick up a memorial Boll Weavil snow globe, with a Confederate flag base.

I hope Wendy has a great time.
And that her sister has a wonderful wedding.

I wanted to go.
But my over-alls were in the cleaners.

Welp!
Y'all missed it!

The finest blog.
The bestest blog.
The most fabulous blog. In the history of blogs.

Hours, and hours, of typing correctly.
Hours, of making every single word rhyme.
Complicated nuances, and innuendos.
The answers to the questions of the universe.
All right here, on this very page.

Until I hit Post & Publish.

Then it was gone.

Like blowing your nose on generic Kleenex.

Makes me wonder about the idea of BlogCon.

Gather all the bloggers together in fabulous Las Vegas.........
Get them huddled into a giant banquet room.....
allude to speaches, and famous guests.......
Get them ready......revved up......get their little minds purring with anticipation.

Then have the power go out.

My buddy the skunk, seems to operate on a fairly regular schedule.

Every night, around 8:00, he comes to the porch....
walks to the door...looks in, and if I don't respond, he stands with his two little feet against the glass, and peers in.
I hand him a peanut, then lay a few out for him, he eats them, and leaves.

Last night he showed up early.
acting quite nervous.
Looking around.....checking his back....tail in the air.
Ready for trouble.

When I went to the door, he took off.
Turned and gave me a look, like..."what the hell do you thing YOU'RE doing!?"
And was gone.

A half hour later he was back......standing up at the door....peering in...

It was then, that I realized......my skunk buddy...has a skunk buddy.

There're two of them.

The friendly one.
And the nervous one.

I handed the usual one his peanut, and as I turned to get more peanuts, he started motoring through the door.
This is the third time he's done this.
He wants in.
He sees the recliner.
He hears Trading spaces on the TV.
He wants to kick back, be civilized, and see what sort of thing Genevieve is going to create tonight.

He wants to watch Cops.

Or....

He has rabies.....and wants to share.

My life is in shambles.
I can't think.
I can't go on like this.

There was no color code to start my day.

They never told me where to look.

I watched the news.
It wasn't there.

I looked in the newspaper.
It wasn't there.

I looked to the heavens above, hoping for something like the Bat signal.

But, No.

I stand, motionless.
In some sort of trance-like stupor.
Waiting for my color to guide me through the day.

But....what if it's RED!
What then?
Where's my color code of life guide book?
We weren't issued those.

Does red mean stop!?
Does it mean, run and hide?
Does it mean the dastardly satanic forces of the Axis of Evil, has landed in Utah?
Are we doomed?

If you're living in a state where red doesn't mean the same thing as the next state? Will all those people move to YOUR state?

I don't know what to do!

But on a brighter note....

CELEBRITY BOXING!

It'll never be quite as classy as the Tick!

But, it's got a certain sort of charm to it.

Watch Willis beat the crap out of Vanilla Ice.

I was happy to see that they actually hit each other.
REAL boxing. Sort of.

I'm looking forward to Arnold Drummond fighting Tattoo.

Little people are ALWAYS funny.
And they make for good TV.

I'll be watching.
Unless of course, It's a code red day!
Then I'll be hiding under my desk, with my head between my knees, waiting for the big flash of light.
Holding the hands of my fellow students of life.....all praying together, for God to make it go green!

Make it go green God! Make it go Green!
We want to be happy again!

Our fearless leader has announced the installation of COLOR CODING for our daily lives.

Sort of a massive Mood Ring.

It will be different for each state, of course. Because if it were the same everywhere, it would make too much sense.

And also, they might not show us their TRUE colors, due to national security reasons.
If something is REALLY happening....They don't want us to know it.

SO if you wake up tomorrow, and it's a green day........you can open your eyes wide, and wiggle like a happy puppy.

If it's a yellow, or orange day....You should open your eyes wide, and freeze like a deer caught in the headlights.

If it's a red day....you should open your eyes wide, and shake like a kid that has to go to the bathroom.

If it's a purple day. Things are really groovy, and you can go back to bed.

Standing in the doorway of the registry.

Back-lit with the orange glow of death and destruction.

The limp shreds of the one time porn site, dangling from my muscular fingers.

A small Clint Eastwood like smile on my face.

I toss the lifeless remains on the ground in front of me.

Give it a casual look of haughty contempt.

Don't even waste my time to piss on it.

For I have won!

OK.
So here's the deal!

You're a rich guy.
You've got more money than you know what to do with.
You've got a cool house on the hill.
A three car garage, with a Lamboughini, and a couple of Ferrari's.
A hot tub the size of Wal-mart.
You've got great drugs.
Great Booze.
You've got everything you could ever want, except for one thing.

A woman.

So......
Because you're just so stupid, you can't think of buying a whore.
You go to THESE GUYS.

For a mere 80 or so grand. These quality gents, will track down the woman of your dreams, stalk her, investigate her likes and dislikes, do a background check, and then set her up so that she can meet your fine ass, and talk to you.

No guarantee's that she'll like you.
Because, let's face it....you're one odd little fuck, if you've got all this money, and can't talk to girls.

Read it. It's scary.

To think someone would even contemplate it, is even worse.

For a thousand bucks, You can get a hooker, who'll pretend to like you....laugh at your jokes....call you "honey".....say you're special.....and ride around on your shoulders while wearing a maids outfit, and a beanie with a propeller on it.
PLUS....have sex with you whenever you want.

But, a truly RICH guy. Will happily spend close to a hundred grand, just to be able to meet and talk to a girl?

Uh huh!

Makes sense to me.

The Space Age is a thing of wonder.

Computers, and the internet, fling our wants and desires;
Our hopes and dreams;
across the country.....even the world.....in a matter of minutes.

Unless of course, you're placing an order.

I ordered some zippers, and odds and ends, for Scorpy's purse last Saturday.

I ordered it by way of the company's web site.
Ordered it C.O.D.

I figured around Wednesday, that I should have gotten a total called to me.
So I e-mailed the company, and was told that they had never received an order from me.

Well, crap!
I was planning on getting that stuff, like....today.

So I decided to look elsewhere.
But it was snowing, so I didn't get anywhere.

This morning, a very nice woman from the company I had placed my order with,
called, to tell me that they had just received my order.

Uh huh!

The internet is like greased lightning.

We both chuckled about the fact that I could have driven to Ohio to pick it up, in less time.

I come up for air, from days of spelunking in my registry.
My little hard hat glistening from the dew of near disaster.
My eyes darting about, waiting for something to crash.
My brain smoldering, like some un-tended compost heap.

I come up.....and find,
That even in Ohio.
Land of the Amish, and cute large racked Mary Kay girls;
They have computers that aren't worth the shit they're made from.

All this mind numbing effort goes into figuring out how these machines work.

And then, they don't work right.

I can't fix the computers of the Amish.
They have cranks, and operate by steam, or some pnuematic piston principle.

But I can fix mine! Damnit!

I'm going back in!

This time, I'm taking the claw hammer,
And my Ronco Veg-a-matic.

Tell the kids I love them.

The registry shall be mine!

I spent part of my day, rooting around in the basement of my computer.

A dark, musty sort of place.

That smells something like an old Eldon slot car, just before the gears fried out.

I wish I knew more.
I'm really not too dumb.
But when it comes to computers, I feel as though I'm a helpless idiot.

It's true; I've only had one for a couple of years.
And I knew absolutely nothing about them before that.
So, in some ways, I've made astounding progress.

I feel pretty confident turning knobs, pushing buttons, tweaking dials.
Most of the time......you can do things, just to see what happens.
And you have redundant fail-safe measures to back you up.

But, then there's the Registry.

My God!
What the fuck is this!?

It's like the brain stem of your computer.
You push the wrong button in here, and it's like a full frontal lobotomy.

Your machine smiles, and drools.
zero's and one's, in a puddle at your feet.

I pushed the wrong button the other day.
Damn!
Had to re-install EVERYTHING.
Start from scratch.

I don't like this particular game.

I wish there were a way to track down the assholes that infected my computer.
They're in Germany. I know that.
And if I could find an address, I'd drive over there, and kick some serious butt.

I'd be tired, and wet, from the drive.
But I'd still take them down.

I might even ask Laura to go along.
Beat them in the head with her stick!

My brain feels like mush from dealing with all this.

I'm glad my skunk buddy's coming by tonight.
It'll be a little bit of reality to visit with him for awhile.

OK, I know.......feeding peanuts to a skunk is a strange reality.

But it's what I've got at the moment.

I wonder if HE knows anything about computers?

I was SO sure that I was going to figure it out!

A couple of months ago, I got what was supposed to be a virus on my computer.
Some slime ball, asshole, semi-kiddie porn site, sent me an e-mail...and of course, I opened it.
That's all they wanted.
From then on, my home page had become this site.

I could start my day, deleting it, and putting in my regular page.
But it became a pain in the ass.

I contacted them.
And they vanished.
Now I had a home page of an error page.

I got Norton Anti virus, over the past week.
Put it in....it says I don't have a virus.

So I wrote them.
And what they sent me, is so mind numbing.....I don't know where to begin.

First off. I don't have a virus. That would be too easy.
I don't have a worm.
I have a trojan horse program.

They were nice enough to send me numerous instructions about what I might be able to do.

Problem is.....I'm sort of stupid.

It's going to take ME, the skunk, his friend the racoon, and a girl with glasses to figure this out.

Amazing stuff.
W-A-Y over my little pin head.
And, the best part....it's not even a given that I'll find it, and eliminate it.

I can't track the original site down, and hurt them.
They're gone.

I don't have a problem with porn.
But why do the people that deal in it, have to be so fucking sleazy!?

The fast lane can be quite a place at times.

Last night, my skunk buddy came by to nab some peanuts.

The routine seems to be....He comes to the back porch. Waddles over to the door, and looks in.
I go over, tap on the door, and he sticks his nose to the crack, where he knows the door will open.
I open the door, and hand him a peanut....which he takes, backs off, and eats.
Then usually, I'll pile ten or so peanuts on the porch, shut the door, go back to TV, and he just lays there, eats what he wants, and wanders off.

Last night, he decided he wanted to watch TV too.
He sort of started bulldozing his way through the door.

Now, he IS cute.
But he's still a wild skunk.
He doesn't need to be in my house.

But how do you explain to a skunk that he can't come in?
If you get him excited, he sprays.....or bites.

It's not like I think he's got rabies.
But he's got some intensely nasty, sharp little razor teeth.

And how do you get rid of skunk smell from the INSIDE of your home?

At the time...since it happened pretty fast, and I didn't have time to think....
The first thing I did, was tell him "Hey....skunk...you can't come in here!"

He just kept coming, like a little black and white tractor.
So, I put my hand down, out of reflex, and pushed him lightly back out the door.

Pushing the face of a wild skunk. Is what they call it.

The odd thing is. It worked.
He backed off. Gave me a look like...."Hey? I thought I heard Junkyard wars, in there!"
"I want to watch!"

And waddled off.

I felt like the Alabama version of Croc Hunter.

A little toothless, half-wit goober, pushing a skunk by the face.

I probably should find a girlfriend, or something.

But, then again....this is pretty fun.

I used to enjoy watching the Grammy's.
You could see people, you'd never seen.
Hear them sing live.

Now, to quote a Neil Young song.....it's a "Piece of crap!"

The bluegrass segment was about the only REAL moment in the show.
And even those people dressed bad.

The whole thing is overly produced.
Overly hyped.
Overly corrected.
To be overly safe.

A lot of overly groovy rich people, getting together to slap each other on the shiny butt.
Aren't you glad you know me? Aren't you glad you can be seen with me?
Don't you wish you were ME?

And who dresses these people?
Certainly not their mothers.
Their mothers would have some taste.

I don't know.
It's getting to where, if I see someone on the Grammys, I lose interest in them.
You can take the best musician's; the one's with the most heart.
And turn them into low rent whores, by putting them on that show.

I realize that anybody, who's anybody, has been on that show.
And, I realize that music has changed over the years.
It's now, not so much the music, as it is the show.

You've got Britney, and Christina, and Madonna, and the Bend over boys, all lip synching their hearts out, while doing the latest dance moves.

They don't just come out and sing, or play their instruments.

They left their heart and soul backstage with their imported bottled water, and Pepsi promos.

They entertain.

But, I can be entertained jacking off.

Today, the black deer came.

Soul deer.

Deer from the eastern hills of New Jersey; or Oakland.

Deer from the 'hood.

Bambi's 'bro's.

Actually, three jet black deerskins from Goliger leather in Ventura.
All nice and soft. And in pretty good shape. With the exception of the one that looks like it may have been run down by a forklift.
Two large oblong holes in his little deer bod.

The beginnings of Scorpy's purse.

They don't look very purse-like at the moment.

They look like flattened soul deer from some Warner Brother's cartoon.
Squeezed by a steam roller.
Loaded with a fork lift.

I'll run them through my Acme Deer reconstituter/recombobulator.
Give them that after-life, that God only hinted at.
Re-incarnation?
You bet!
Poof! You're a purse!

I spent a portion of my morning, trying to contact the Nigerian Chamber of Commerce.

I wanted to tell them, that although I couldn't really give up my non-existant bank account number; I did have an offer for them to contemplate.

Seven hundred and fifty five gross, of "I LOVE NIGERIA" key fobs.

I was thinking, maybe on the back, having a stamped map of Nigeria, with a likeness of the Pepsi Troll, giving the thumbs up, Mento's salute: superimpossed over the map.

They wouldn't return my call.

I told them that Fred had sent me.
That he had offered me something like ten million dollars, just to be stupid.
But they didn't care.

I don't speak Nigerian either. Which could have been part of the problem.

But I figured, the Pepsi Troll is sort of a universal icon of dimpled goodness.
How could they pass that up?

Oh well.
Their loss!

I have in front of me, at this very moment; A letter from the desk of Doctor Fredrick Dogo.
Federal ministry of works and housing, Federal Secretariat office Complex, Falomo, Ikoyi-Lagos....Nigeria.

I'm going to quote the first paragraph here.....

"First, I must solicit your strictest confidence in this transaction, this is by virtue of it's nature as being utterly confidential and top secret as you were introduced to us in confidence through the Nigerian Chamber of Commerce, foreign trade division."


Uh huh!

That would be the small brightly colored hut, by the river, that sells maps.

What Freddie would like .....is that he has some thirty six million dollars, in US funds, that have come about due to some "Grossly over-invoiced contracts executed for the FMW&H during the last administration."

To shorten things a bit. What he would like, is to have a bank account in the US where he could place this money. Because, well, his country doesn't allow him to keep it....so he needs an overseas partner.

That would be ME!

In exchange for 30% of the 36 million dollars.....10% of which has been "set aside as an abstract projection for reimbursment to both parties for incidental expences that may be incurred in the course of the transaction."

All Mr. Dogo would like me to do, is send him "my company name, address, details, telephone, and fax numbers, bank name and address, account numbers, telephone numbers, fax numbers, etc."

"This information will enable us make the applications and lodge claims to the concerned ministries & agencies in favour of your company and it is pertinent to state that this transaction is entirely based on trust as the solar bank draft or certified cheque drawable in any of the Central Bank of Nigeria correspondent bankers around the world is going to be made in your name."

Uh huh!


I suppose if I had offered half size leather bikini's to Biafran girls; I could understand getting this letter.

I guess offering to make Scorpy a purse, has put me on the universal list of Mover's and Shaker's.

Wheeler's and Dealer's.

Hangin' with Princess Stephanie of Monaco, while talking average square footage of Nutria's over that of your basic Beaver.

Yup!
I'm a happening kind of guy!

Let's see......30% of 36 million.......That's a bunch of money.

And yet....

I don't have a bank account.

How can I help?

I don't have a credit card.

I feel, at once, so helpless, and yet so very honored, that my Nigerian friends would think of me in their time of need.

Mundane? I think not!

Magic!?

Uh huh!

The Magic of the Mundane!
I like that! Thanks Wendy.
A good title for my Blog.

I spent this morning, sending e-mail after e-mail, to companies that have me on their mailing lists.
Deleting me, from said lists.
Every day, I seem to get at least 5 to 10 spam like offers.

I say spam like. Because officially they're not spam, in that I pushed a button somewhere along the line, that said "Oh yeah! Send me stuff that's in my interest range!"

So I get fabulous offers of cheap credit cards...... dream vacations......bargain air-fare.......deals on homes.......trial packs of viagra.....and, to go with it......Farm sex.

I've looked at farm sex.
It really doesn't get me excited.

Shoving my face full of Viagra, and chasing livestock around the barnyard, gets me even LESS excited.

If my e-mail was any indication......I'd be leaving my deluxe new home.....driving my fine new car, to the airport, to get my cheap flight to Bermuda, that I pay for with my Titanium Master Card; accompanied by my favorite goat friend Rita, who's wearing a bright sparkly thong, from the gift pack I got from Fredrick's of Hollywood.
All this while sporting a mighty erection, thanks to my sample pack of Viagra, which was free except for the $6.95 shipping and handling charge.

Everything is free......except for a small shipping and handling charge.

You're born free......except for a small shipping and handling charge.

You die free...........except for a small shipping and handling charge.

The only thing truly free.....is the wonderous Magic of the Mundane.

For the past few days, I've scurried into computer central here.....sat at my keyboard.....and had absolutely nothing to say.

A blank.

I've been doing a lot of dead-beat artist stuff.
Who wants to hear about that?

Um.....I super glued a brass plate that I antiqued, to the front of a case, because there was nothing to screw it to!

That's pretty mind numbing information.

People are looking at the screen......blinking.....and going "God.....I wish there was video!"

I do things all day long. And yet, when I think about how it would be to read about it?

It's like watching the sun set over a speed bump, in the parking lot of a Dollar store.

Valentine's day.

When you're single, with no girlfriend, and no prospect of a girlfriend......
It's all about the candy.

And yet....I have no candy.

I bought none.

But I have beer.
Alhambra, from Spain.

There's no rule that says lonely guys can't be classy.

I spent the day re-lining an antique shotgun case, with p-u-r-d-y green felt.
Or, Baize....as they say over there in England.
I used the word, while I was talking to myself...because it's a classy word.
And I'm a classy guy.
Drinking classy Spanish beer.
OK, it's not really THAT classy.
It's a mediocre sort of swill.
But it's Spanish. And that seems cool.

I'd like to wish all my favorite girls of the internet a Happy Valentine's day.

You all know who you are.
There's a whole group of you.
Harem girls, and volleyball players.
New girls like Melly.
And, mystery girls like M, and Tig.

A small comment for Francisco....who's bummed at a bad day....a bad week...

Sad, that the big heart day couldn't be better.

You've got something special.
Something very cool.
Something a lot of people only get to dream about.

No matter how bad work gets...
No matter how bad things seem....
You've got a little 'Bammy dirt eater, playing video games at your house, that really likes you.
And wants to be there.

It just can't get a whole lot cooler than that!

Happy Valentine's day everyone.

"Carrie Webb, 78, is thankful she can buy white dirt in East Alabama convenience stores.
The local red variety will do in a pinch, but the white tastes better. Particularly when fried with a little grease."

That quote is from this STORY about Wendy's home state.

It COULD be a cure for GERD.

Perhaps Francisco will find a bag of RED in his Valentine's day gift box.

"Um.....I don't recall!"

"Um....I can't remember!"

A little Enron executive humor there.

Doesn't taking the 5th, pretty much peg you as a lying sack of shit?

I wish I had a bunch o' money, so I could do whatever the hell I wanted, and get away with it.

For instance.

Today I went into town.

Yeah. My life is like watching Curling on TV.

But, on the way in......I came across that same woman, that almost ran me off the road the other day, while reading a letter.

Today?

She's looking at a magazine.

I'm serious.

No jokes!

This brain-dead, foul excuse, piece of flotsam of a human being, is driving a two thousand pound vehicle down the road, while reading a magazine.

I suppose if I shoot her......I'll get in trouble.
End it......before she kills me, in a head-on.

If I were an Enron executive....I could go ahead and shoot her.
Then when I went to court, I could slip the judge some bucks, pat a congressman on the butt, and say "Um.....I don't seem to recall shooting that woman."

"I'm sorry....I don't remember."

"Tell me dear? What does YOUR daddy do for a living?"


"HE'S A HUMAN CANNONBALL!"

On the news this morning was a video of just such a guy.
Missing his air bag.
Landing in the dirt.


"What's your daddy do now dear?"

"He's a midget!"

I was nearly involved in a head-on accident today.
Coming over a hill near town, a woman in a mini-van started wandering into my lane.
As I swerved to get out of her way......my first thought was "I bet this jerk is on her cell phone!"

I was wrong.

She was reading a letter.

Moron girl, is reading a letter, while driving home.
looked up, just in time to realize she was in the wrong lane, and corrected herself.
Giving me a look, like, "whoa....there're other cars out here!?

It got me to thinking about the strange speeding up, and dumbing down, of Americans.

Everyone is in a hurry.

I guess life is so short....they want to get it over with as soon as possible.

They can die, and say "Yup...I did it all!" "Now what?"

It's all got to be fast.
We've got to have our food cooked quicker, because we're so busy. Microwaving speeding morsels of goodness.
We need drive-thru coffee places, because we're in too much of a hurry to make it ourselves.
Our cars should be fast.
OK. Fast cars are fun.....but very few people are having fun behind the wheel. They're just going fast.

Our off-ramps need to be set up for a minimum of thinking.
Look for the familiar giant glowing arches. Or the big Star. The star put there by God. To guide us to where the Burger King is waiting to nurture our souls.

It'll be the same as it was before.....and the same as it will be, next time.
We don't have to think. We just pull in...fill it up...slam it down...and speed off.
Until we find the next giant arch, or star.....and do it again.

Fast food places, are becoming "Comfort food."

Instead of a steaming plate of Meat Loaf, and potatoes.
Or a nice, real burger, with real fries;
We go for the same.

We don't want to take the chance that a small town might have a good restaraunt.....that serves interesting food.
We want the same.
We don't want adventure, or discovery.
We want the same.

They should put a set of pink glowing nipples on the top of the golden arches.

They'll be like Mom's breasts.

The little lost Lemmings of the highway, can go there and suckle her Mcnuggets, and purr.

Content, and comforted...that it's the same as it was.....the same as it always will be.

Their little glassy eyes, twinkling with the knowledge, that just up the road...she'll be waiting.

Her heaving breasts, throbbing in the twilight.
Beckoning......calling softly....

"Here I am Braveheart.....would you like to Super size the love?"

Mount Shasta..."The Alpine community!"

That's what our motto is. Our slogan.

Like most slogan's.....it's a crock!

At one time; people in this town, fought a little, to try and keep it a small town......with a small town feel.
Demanding that any new business in town, have an "Alpine" feel. A woodsey sort of thing.

Well, money won out. It always does.
The business people, the realtors, the developers...anyone with any actual say in the happenings of the town;
Said "Hey! Who gives a fuck!"
We don't care if the place looks just like every other freeway off-ramp in California.
"We don't care if people won't see the mountain, for the glare of the bright lights."
"As long as WE make our all important buck!" That's what counts.

Hippies moved up here in the late 60's and early 70's. They bought land, cheap.
Now they're real estate agents, with suv's and cell phones.
Rushing about town like frantic ants.
Selling. Wheeling and dealing. Making their dollars.

They want their Mcdonalds, and Burger King, and Taco Bell, and they NEED their KFC.
God! They want their Wal-mart. Their Costco.
They want their money!

They're all ASSHOLES!
Every stinking last one of them.
All the developers, the realtors, the money hungry snakes, and snake-ettes that don't care anymore.

They're ALL assholes.

The reason I bring this up, is that for nearly twenty years, I've lived in this same house.
The picture on my web page, is taken from my back yard.
The only thing added, that wouldn't actually be in that picture.....is the junked car, and the monkey.
The rest was an actual photo, of a steam train going by.

Les Scwabb...a west coast tire company.
Wants to move their store from town, out to a better location.
They want a fifty foot sign, so people on the freeway will see them.
That giant yellow, with red lettering sign, fifty feet in the air, and on all night.....will soon be part of the view in that photo.
Others will join....there will be a giant glowing clown head....a big sombrero...Arrows blinking...signs pointing the way....
"eat here! Sleep here! Shop here! Be here! Spend here!"

And WHY?
Because the assholes want it.
Because the brain-dead, sacks of garbage that have control of the town, want to offer minimum wage jobs to their kids, so that THEY can be assholes too!
Just like their parents.

So, instead of having a unique little town.
A jewel in the montains, with it's own character, and feel.
We'll have the same freeway interchange catch-all feel, as every other town.
The tourist's can stop at their favorite colored sign.....eat...burp...fart...and hit the road.
Call their relatives on their cell phones, as they hop back on the freeway, and say "Wow, we saw a big mountain today."
"You can see it from the parking lot of the Taco Bell."

"There was a cute, but irritating little monkey, standing by the side of the road, as we were leaving."
"He was flipping us off." "And yelling something at us."
"I wonder what HIS problem is?"

Yeah! I wonder!?