CHICKEN SOUP

Well I've been pining for the din of a  roosters pre-dawn cacophonous, caterwauling, barking dogs, bad mufflers,chaotic bus rides and the smell of burning garbage and diesel fuel.
Is it fall already???????

Speaking of the rooster and it's daily symphony, I have always been amazed that the lowly chicken ever survived the evolutionary process. How could an animal that announces it's position at such a voluminous degree, on a daily basis, to every would-be predator either past or present, not only survive, but flourish as it has?
To all you Soulless Darwinists out there I can only say with the same vigor and obsessiveness that you attach to your ideological malfeasance with regards to the non-existence of a higher power, that evolution is not an exact science, and the proof is in the pudding. Or in this case the chicken soup.
Only a God cold have fucked this up so precisely.
Yes these are the same Deities that gave us teeth that don't last as long as the rest of our bodies.
 Who said that Gods don't have a sense of humor.

Sometimes we tend to assume, { those of us that aren't going to hell anyway} that God must be an all knowing and above the imperfectous maladies that are ever present in our own psyches, {those of us that aren't going to hell anyway} that we often tend to forget some of God's forays into the bizarre universe of the macabre. The Duck Billed Platypus??? C'mon.
This thing is just an uncreative use of spare parts. Put a little thought into it at least.
We expect, {those of us not going to hell anyway} more from our Gods than to just phone it in for God's sake.

And as far as God being completely well adjusted, I'm sorry but I must take issue. One only has to read the Old Testament to understand how impetuous our Big Kahuna can get.
I'm angry so I think I'll flood the earth, and leave one guy and his family left to sort it all out.
I'm so mad I'm not even going to help him build a boat for all the animals that "I" want left kicking around after the dust settles.

Did he even ask Noah what "HE" might have wanted on his, {one can only assume} reluctant voyage. The man was a goat herder for God's sake. Noah knew as much about deep water sailing in stormy conditions as a Bedouin camel jockey.
Talk about your poor choices. But I suppose when your having a bad century with your own creations behavior, a kill them all and let God figure it out milieu might seem appropriate.  
Not on my own Son's worst day, even as a pre-adolescent, could we see this magnitude of bad behavior, and hissy-fitting.
Talk about your over-reacting.

"WHAT IF GOD WERE ONE OF US
JUST A SLOB LIKE ALL OF US"

PRAIRIE OYSTER

I'm sorry I seem to have gotten a touch of the  Ramble Verbitis today.

RAMBLE VERBITIS:
NOUN:
A noninfectious temporary state of insanity brought on by unknown sources resulting in an excessive, unnecessary use, and or, abuse of the subjects native language. Flu like symptoms and other manifestations of abnormal behavior generally abate when subject finds something more productive to do with his or her time.

See: Unbridled Mental Meandering

SWEET MELISSA

SWEET MELLISA

Cows, however sweet in nature can periodically find themselves foraging in the same pastures, and enjoying the same grasses of gossip that are usually left to the appetites of the less refined species, for example…goats. Although I’m sure they would disagree… Goats believe they are as noble as royalty, yet never come to terms with their own offensive aroma. However these assertions and similarities are achieved, they are the property of goats, and as such cannot, and will not be spoken of outside of the Capra circle. The Cosa Nostra of the animal kingdom it would seem. With their apparent disregard for the privacy of others, goats it would appear are extremely secretive and consequently suspicious of others. The bells that adorn the necks of goats are not so much in place to provide a beacon of audible positioning regarding their locality, as they are an attempt to disguise their conversations, and more likely than not, the topical gossip being discussed at any given time. A misconception the humans always get wrong. As well as most everything else the humans get wrong.

The topic at hand amongst both the bovine class and the ewes on this particular day was the return of two of the more adventurous creatures abiding, at different times of the year, on the farm of one Juan Middlelarge.

Ian and Mellisa had returned from their travels, and Farmer Juan went jogging.

It was during Farmer Juan’s elongated runs, due to an extremely arduous, and exhausting training schedule he had undertaken, that a gala soiree of epic proportions would be planned. The ducks would get drunk, the geese would display disgust at the ducks getting drunk, the chickens would stay up all night knitting bibs for the ducks…(which they wouldn’t wear)…the dogs would bark joyously, the pigs would break wind, the goats would smell audacious without breaking wind, the pigeons cooed, the cattle mooed, the cats chased rats, the rats wore hats, and the mice ran away the spoon.

All the while some of the older mares on the farm would feign indifference, in a vain attempt to disguise their jealousy with regards to the revelry concerning the travels of the waylaid fun seekers. The younger more easily elated of the remaining horses would stomp their feet with anticipation, awaiting the retelling of all the adventures and romantic locales that Mellisa would most certainly be affording them. Where had she gone? What had she seen? These were the things that could turn a run of the mill, just another day at the farm, bucket full to the brim with boredom, ordinary day watching cows eat grass, into a full blown, run around the coral, whinny at the stars, kick up ones hooves, and jump clear over the fence and head for the hills, celebratory event. But the elation was short lived.

Mellisa was a beautiful equine whose pedigree was, at first glance, not of high lineage. However, the result of the pairing of her parents, had created a wonderful, mix of kindness, beauty and fortitude, that even when being discussed by the other, somewhat jealous, and at times catty horses in the coral of farmer Juan’s modest, but very hospitable farm, had to concur that Mellisa was in fact an extremely lovely and spirited creature. She was born of plough horse stock, but had truly become an outstanding thoroughbred, both in stature and internal tenacity. The latter attribute could at different instances result in a considerable amount of grief for Ian. He was always at a loss when it came to understanding her completely. These are the way things should be he thought. Better to misunderstand her nature and fumble along through the darkness relying solely on previous experiences, than to just listen to her and comply with her wishes. So fumble he did. Ian could be such a fool for someone who, by his own estimation of course, was so above the fray.

Mellisa's life choices had always been her own and she lived by the consequences of those decisions. She was in all fact, a wanderer from birth. The other side of the fence had always appealed to Mellisa’s, gypsy at heart nature. It wasn’t because she believed that the grass was always greener on the other side, naiveté was not her strong suit. It was simply a genuine need to find out.

Because of her obvious physical glowing attributes, Melissa was often the topic of discussion at the late night poker games the “cigar smoking ducks” frequently carried on till all hours of the night. Ducks could be so vulgar and pedestrian at times she thought…As if they had a snowballs chance at Mellisa’s notice... It was not that she disliked ducks, per se, but they had a peculiar habit of getting underfoot in the barnyard, and had at times almost caused a mishap with some of the four legged creatures in the barnyard. Herself included. It was always assumed, by the humans, that ducks waddled the way they do due as a result of their rather inappropriate choice of footwear, clearly ill-suited when not paddling about in the pond. But as all the animals on the farm knew, it was more likely than not, a result of some extremely, debaucherous late nights in the comfort of the barn, that had produced the somewhat precarious sauntering.

My how the geese in the adjacent pen detested these foul fowl. Geese have such dignity in comparison Ian thought, and would often comment on how gracefully they carried themselves in light of their obvious similarities. Gladys, the most capable and dignified of the gaggle, would always attempt to correct him whenever he would point out the more than apparent regularities, or as she would say, irregularities in their physical appearance, and capabilities. As far as Gladys was concerned the ability to float and fly did not a lineage link make.

As a matter of fact, Gladys would always maintain, if it were not for the geese, and some of the other animals on the farm, it was her estimation that the ducks would not even have the wherewithal to find the pond, let alone fly without the example geese provided for them. Hobbling the verbiage of geese is risky business at best, and usually the exercise of fools given their more than quick to enter the fray, tenacious nature. Gladys’s contempt for ducks knew no master Ian thought, however deserving.

Ian was an ass. He was born an ass and quite probably would die one, failing some miraculous breakthrough in genetic engineering. And even if by some remote possibility that a revelation in the field of bio-engineering were to take place, it was almost certainly to become the sole proprietary domain of the designing, elitist humans. If only I could somehow persuade them of the importance of my quest, to become more like the beauty that had stolen my heart and had caused me to behave as irrationally as a newborn lamb he thought. Ian wasn’t unhappy about being an ass per se, as he was always proud of the contributions his kin had made to the advancement of all things worthwhile. Burros and donkeys have always stepped up to the plate whenever asked, Ian believed, and he was not prepared to entertain any of the preconceived past reputations perpetrated by the automotive industry to push his kind back into the stone age. The unwarranted attacks, with regards to his ancestries reported, or in his estimation, misreported stubbornness, were at best, unsubstantiated allegations that were not formative of anything even remotely resembling fact or truth, and at worst an obvious attempt at genocide. Extreme rational I know, Ian would say to anyone drunk enough to listen…mostly ducks… and the odd pigeon, who it seemed were not really interested, they just generally didn't have anywhere else to go. Ian could at times enter into the field of the conspiratorial macabre.

It all started out innocently enough for the most part, but upon reflection Ian knew he had made a terrible mistake. It wasn’t so much a desire on his part to cause anyone any pain, or even discomfort, but the harder he tried to gain the adoration of Mellisa, the farther she withdrew. How desperately Ian wanted to assure Mellisa that his ill behavior did not come from a place of nefarious, or diabolical motivation, but rather one of confusion, and an underlying inability to adapt as readily to a new place after being away for as long as he had been. She had stolen his heart and along with it, his mind had somehow ended up on the missing list as well.

I always do this, Ian said to himself. I always underestimate the cultural differences from the farm in this county, to the faraway one where Farmer Juan would send him every year in order to appease Ian’s distaste for cold climates. Ian’s love affair with the county of Latina, had been going on for almost two/thirds of his life, and had, most certainly by this time, engrained its effect upon Ian’s life to an almost non-refundable position. Even if I could, I should not, Ian realized. An unfortunate by-product of a functioning mind, is that we simply cannot unlearn the learned.

Ian wanted so much to be more important to the lovely Mellisa that he, at times, forgot his own rules, pertaining to proper decorum, with regards to the wishes of Mellisa, or anyone for that matter, and let his foolish heart dictate the essence, or lack thereof, of his behavior.

Ian had, on one occasion, heard the hens in the chicken coop regale a story once of a program they had seen on farmer Juan’s television box, which they frequently viewed through the window, from the rail of the back porch. It was here they would go to get out from the mid-day sun, on hazy summer days. They were mostly enamored with the dark skinned giggly woman who would appear just as the sun became its most relentless. Sometimes two or three of the ducks, who were obviously a little too ill from the previous nights escapades, and far too lazy to advance themselves to the cooling relief of the pond, would stumble up the steps and demand that the hens command the television to show a program they had heard of, whose sole participants were rather large, sun-glassed men playing cards, and smoking cigars. They believed the name of the program was called “Hold- Em” and took place in a fabulous place called Texas. When the hens would giggle and cluck about, and attempt yet again to tell these misfits of nature, that they had absolutely no control over the small box inside the house, pertaining to its ability to go from one image to the other, the ducks would have none of it. “Nonsense” they would quack in unison, as close to harmony as ducks can aspire to. Ducks wholeheartedly believed that chickens, because of their obvious design flaw…I.E. wings that would not get them airborne… must have been gifted in another fashion. And by what passes for logic in the world of duckery, that gift must surely be clairvoyance over inanimate objects. If you wish it, it will come. As with most other times on the back porch, the ducks became tired of the teasing of chickens and soon took their leave grumbling obscenities, as only ducks can, and waddled back to the barn for cocktails, rice wine, and snicky snacks.

And so it was only after this rude and crass encounter had diffused itself, that the hens could resume their sojourn on the porch. Ah yes, the giggly woman Ophelia had returned. She had on this particular day, a guest of some apparent renown. A balding man of very tall stature, who was playing an instrument, and singing with a very soothing baritone voice. Rather pleasant for a human Ian thought, having just arrived to see what all the hollering was about. “Ducks” was all the hens would say. It was in fact, all the explanation required. As the chickens bobbed up and down to the beat, Ian began listening to the words. His grasp of the human’s speech had improved over the years and if he were correct, it would seem that the gist of the song was, more or less, about how humans were the only living things on the planet that had the inherent ability to get lost. Not lost as in a geographical sense, like ducks could get lost, but rather spiritually, and emotionally.

Another vain, human misconception Ian thought, as he had just recently become lost in that venue himself, and although he realized how selfish, and childish, and in the grand scheme of things, petty, and undeserving of consideration, this feeling of uncertainty was, for him it was real.

Ian, remembering his time with Mellisa, and the long walks they took, the adventures in the back roads of an immense and at times dangerous landscape that surrounded them, only had warm recollections of how they had supported each other, and had respected each other, and considered each others opinions with regards to their, at times unsure positioning. The danger did not deter them, and Ian was always in admiration of Mellisa’s non-reluctant attitude with accepting risk. In life there should be risk, Ian thought. How else do we know were alive. Life had become too homogenized for his tastes, with the incessant piling on of rules and regulatory processes that seemed to serve only to withdraw the life marrow out of existing, and to reduce us all too robotic manifestations of someone elses idea of what we should all be. Individuality must be eradicated at all costs, would appear to be the only clear sense of direction this mantra has embraced. But make no mistake, Ian had, over the years learned to adapt. Instead of fighting against the wheels of madness, he had in fact, learned to fly under the radar and actually benefit from the cacophony of paper pushing Pollitt bureaus. The trick was to keep a very low profile, and not become middle class. A viable alternative from poverty for most people, a death sentence for Ian. He was glad they existed however, knowing full well that it was they who got things done and paid for. He respected their choice, and from a real place understood their position, having been raised in that environment since childhood. But since childhood he was also instructed, by a mother with an adventurous spirit, that to turn your back on yourself, and your true personality, is also going against a natural law of nature. “To Thine own self be true”.

It was the length of adaptation that was always underestimated by Ian, and consequently would lead him to a less than admirable form of behavior. He didn’t excuse this reprehension, or dismiss it, he only wished to assure Mellisa of its source. Yes it’s true I can be childish at times when things don’t work the way I had hoped, and yes I was at times asking for more than I could receive in return, Ian had told Mellisa, but the truth was he had not taken her seriously enough and honestly believed he could help her though a difficult time, by being a larger part of her life. He was wrong, and he wishes she could forgive him. The friendship they shared and the way she could make Ian laugh, will always hold a warm spot in his heart, no matter the outcome. There is not now, nor was there ever, any diabolical or sinister motive involved in Ian’s at times clumsy advances, nor would he ever apologize for having deep feelings, and romantic ideas with regards to Mellisa, or feel shame in wanting to be with her.

His frustration got the better of him, and his own life situation with the imminent passing of his father can make for a state of uncertainty, and with that, a reaching out to a person he had grown to depend on. Clearly Mellisa had her own situation to deal with, and as such the added pressure was more than she needed. I was being unfair and unreasonable, Ian after long deliberation had come to realize. But these were not insurmountable obstacles to overcome Ian reasoned, and in reality only adjustments that he had to deal with, not she. It is an assignment Ian would accept as his responsibility, and make every attempt to compensate.

If only I could make her understand how important she is to me and how I would love to be a continuing part of her life, and how hard a time I have been having at thinking that my good friend should think poorly of me Ian thought. He also understood what Mellisa meant when she told him that she was losing something too. In reality Ian believed that at this time in their lives that they were old enough to let go of some pride, (mostly his own) and understand that they didn’t have to lose anything. He only had to listen better. But ultimately this would have to be Mellisa’s choice, Ian knew. He only hoped that with a little time she could see the goodness in him, and forgive his indiscretions.

In the grand scheme of things Ian understood that whatever the outcome life would go on, it has no choice. It is us who make choices. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, but choices none the less. Birds will sing, fish will swim, dolphins will play, ducks will drink martinis, geese will judge martini drinking ducks, chickens will watch daytime television, and Juan Middlelarge will continue to run, for no apparent reason other to get away from his livestock and their squabbling.

Would the world perish if Ian and Mellisa can’t seem to resolve their differences…

No, but I believe it would be less delightful

Lake Chapala News

SIGN OF THE TIMES

Well that about sums it up I guess.
It is now official. The Political Correctness Crowd has finally apexed and have seized the coveted "Holy Grail". They have wrest it from the bosom of  our final defense. 
Sadly, the once seemingly invincible and steadfastly loyal "KEEPERS OF THE COMMON SENSE" have fallen. The enemy has laid siege to their  most prized of purposes...Control and operational capacity of the PUBLIC UTILITIES COMMISSION, and more importantly THE SIGN MAKERS UNION.  
Logic and culpability have clearly gone on vacation.  
"THE VERBIAGE STORM TROOPERS AND MINIONS OF MAYHEM" have been given their marching orders and as such will  not  be held accountable for anything. 
All have been sworn in and, from what I have been lead to believe, made to pledge an oath to the reining faculty.

"PLAUSIBLE DENIABILITY AT ALL COSTS"....is the new mantra.

Resistance was dealt with severely, and the conspirators were forced to attend counseling in a sweat lodge of their choice.
More extreme cases of defiance were sent overseas to an Ashram for an unspecified time.
Cold is the heart of the present day Do-Gooder

Lets analyze this thing for a moment shall we. 

FIRSTLY...MAY OR MAY NOT BE CLOSED. 
What can we learn from this? It would appear that the person or persons responsible for this public notification, are in fact in agreement about one thing. A road does indeed exist.
I shouldn't like to pick knits here but, I have two problems with this assessment. The signage and pylons are on the median and not the road, ergo of no value to the anal retentive public that is sure to take issue should a mishap, and god forbid, accident  occur. As well I believe the correct nomenclature for this type of paved surface is actually a Street.
 Possibly a Cul De Sac depending on whether or not there is an exit. I am confident this oversight is surely being addressed by the city engineers with the same zealous attention to detail and forethought as the original signage was.
As I scribe my own public notification of this blatantly absurd notice of the impending non-event happening at an, as yet to be disclosed time and location, I can only marvel at the effort to keep the public so covertly left in the dark.
Intentional, Nefarious, I leave that calculation entirely up to the conspiracy theorists out there in the hinterland of the macabre.

SECONDLY...ON OR ABOUT MAY 22/2012
Thank the Gods, Allah, Buddha, Jesus and the Dali Lama himself  that none of these creators of  confusion were ever allowed to keep the trains, planes and public transport systems running on time. I'm sure we all can attest to the reality, and with the absence of fear of conviction, that none of these modes of transport need any help in the inefficiency department. Horror stories abound in us all with regards to what one would consider to be a relatively simple enough task. Moving oneself from point "A" ..to the far to often elusive point.. "B" 
The larger problem here as I see it, is the obvious lack of respect that advances perilously close to disdain for the inhabitants of  the ROAD, STREET, AVENUE, CUL DE SAC, it claims to be warning them about. Or as in this case a non-warning with the possibility of  a forthcoming operational theater in the form of some kind of labor.
But hold onto your burros here. Upon further perusal it would seemed I have erred in this evaluation.
At no time is the word "WORK" or anything remotely close to that verb ever mentioned.
Hmmm......Conspiracy theorists... You now have Carte' Blanche.
Why indeed must the street be closed???

THIRDLY...APPROX. 3 WEEKS 
Three weeks....Why Three??..Why not Six?? or Five?? Since were approximating anyway, why not just use the vocabulary of the present day skate boarder...."WHENEVER DUDE"
In my estimation, they (the skateboarders) will probably be the only ones affected anyway.

Perhaps that is the true lesson here after all. Perhaps we should all just chill. It's all good.
Perhaps this attention to detail is merely a manifestation of  my own neurosis.
Perhaps there is nothing more sinister going on here then just a lethargic, lackadaisical attitude toward  an already, on the verge of a breakdown, over regulated society. Perhaps this is indeed, exactly what the doctor ordered. Civil disobedience in the form of passive aggressive signage. 
Let's all do our part than shall we. The next time we feel the need to text, phone, e-mail, or otherwise annoy someone you think actually cares what your doing every four minutes, feel free to preface it by simply saying....I DON'T GIVE A DAMN 


 

JOY

So what is this thing we call joy. Websters defines it as a feeling of great pleasure and happiness...I am sorry Mr. Webster, but you have forced my hand. That pathetic excuse for a description, is at best uninspired, and at worst devoid of any joy. It simply will not stand. I realize your hands are tied with regards to the politically correct crowd, and your efforts to remain impartial so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of the professional objectionist rank and file are front and center, but, "COME ON".

Even the Generation Xer's, with whom I take great exception, with regards to the the premeditated assassination of the English language, could have come up with something more inspirational than that..."DUDE...THAT CHICK IS TOTALLY RIGHTEOUS ". In this the particular instance, I'm sorry Webster but, "totally righteous" would be the the nomenclature I would default to...DUDE YOU SO BLEW IT.

So what is this thing???Well if I may be so presumptuous as to respond to my own non-rhetorical question, it is different things to different peoples. Aren't I smart...I bet you didn't know that. I think in this case. with relevance to the photos, it is indeed, when your chops are poppin, and your cuttin wood.

I was told by a pedal steel player once, that if you can stop the waitress, and she's got her tray by her side, and she is just listening to the band, you can pick up your pay and go home.
Of course later that night he collapsed on top of his own instrument, and had to be carried offstage, I believe the analysis still stands.

Being a working musician at different times of the year, I can tell tell, from the young lady's expression, that she has indeed found her grove. It doesn't happen all the time, but when it does, you better suck it up. It might not come back for awhile. I have, on occasion have had this feeling when I've played with my small band, when you just start running on all eight cylinders, or in our case five, and all the tiresome practicing, and practices, and all the gigs you worked for less money than it took to drive to the venue , all seem worthwhile . Kinda joyous in fact.
They say that Myles Davis would, at certain times during a performance, actually turn his back to the audience, and just play with the band. When asked his answer was always the same ..."I need to feel the sound hit me in the stomach. Then I'll know what to play"... Gutsy stuff, but I get it.
Myles's chops popped, and he made me feel something, and as such, and no matter where he stood on a stage, as a performing artist, he earned his pay.

So Dear MR. Webster, the next time you you revise your little booklet, feel free to use my photos when you need to explain that particular word. It is, I hope, without fear of reprisal, so much more significant.

HEROES & HERATICS

During my, in the grand scheme of things, very short tenure on this big blue ball, I have for one reason or another, been drawn to persons, to whom, and against the advice of almost everyone, decided to abandon the path of least resistance, and forge a journey into an almost always, uncharted landscape. Quite possibly not because they believed it would further their pursuits into the fields of expertise they had chosen , but more often than not, would become a hindrance, and burden, that had they known how obstructive the cross they had chose to bear would become, may quite probably have given up, and almost assuredly thrown in the metaphorical towel. An unanswerable question in so much as hindsight was often a luxury, historical legends, had neither the time or inclination to entertain as a discretionary practice. Forays into the unknown, and dangerous, hinterland of yet unseen consequences, are often the occupation of either fools, or the fanatically terrified. Many war heroes when pressed on this subject, will almost always defer to the latter part of that description to explain a great deal of their legendary heroic feats.

Two of the people I admire more so than any other persons, either living or dead, have been at times, fraught with controversy. They are in fact my personal heroes, not because of their steadfast pursuit of perfection, but more accurately, it was their courage to persevere in spite of their own human inadequacies.
Muhammad Ali is still with us today, and continues to inspire me on an almost daily basis.
Courage is synonymous with Ali and I believe his picture should replace the Websters definition of that word. A photo of Ali is all that would be necessary, as it would be hard to argue that there is a more recognizable individual on the planet than Muhammad Ali.
I am realistically aware, that there is, without any fear of contradiction, many others whom have suffered at the hands of despots, and tyrants, from the global perspective, and on all too many occasions, and throughout the history of our at times bloody propensities, have truly been put to the test. But when the rubber hits the road, and from a willingness to adhere to ones own convictions, Ali truly is "THE GREATEST".
Ali is, in my most humble opinion, and from a, I really wasn't there, but that won't stop me from opining perspective, did more for the advancement of minorities, and the underprivileged, than any person, before or since. I believe he accomplished this, not by taking an either or, militant tone, or a passive resistance approach to injustices, but by standing up to the forces that for reasons we can only speculate upon,( fear and prejudice come to mind), to us would have seemed at worst, an extremely hostile, and insurmountable task, and at best, nothing more than an exercise in futility.
Ali simply let us know, and in no uncertain terms, that there was nothing wrong with any of us, that justice and a conviction of character, mean something, and that we were in fact, all deserving of the same rights and freedoms that the privileged enjoyed. Ali sums this up better than I could ever do justice to when he was quoted as saying:

"I CAN'T BE WHAT THEY WANT ME TO BE,
AND I'M FREE TO BE WHO I WANT TO BE".

Wherever you are on the pro fighter, turned political icon fence, whatever you feel about Ali's importance in the annuls of history, or if you agree or not with his, at times over the top diatribe, you cannot deny that he made difficult choices, and he lived by the consequences of those decisions. Ali quite simply, and to use the vernacular of our times," walked the walk".

As of late, and via an attempt to understand, and hopefully blend more into my soon to be adopted home in Mexico, I have taken to the history books, and discovered an extremely complicated, rich in folklore, and often at times downright incredible morass of textured historical events that often border on the macabre. Mexico is not lacking in chaotic adventures, tragical catastrophes, or in flamboyant characters that participated in the overall insanity, that more often than not, was not part of any original idea or plan. Stuff just happens, and manana is another day. I find this part of the Mexican psyche, endearing , and very often, extremely comical. To quote an amigo of mine, whose occupation is making jewelery on the beach, and who periodically likes to let me know ....... "MEXICO IS VERY SURREAL".

It was during these forays into the history books that I discovered another monumental character of such importance to Mexican culture that I find it heartbreaking that his country of birth, misunderstood his prose, and often felt it necessary to remind him that perhaps his skills as an artist, and talents as a writer, may well be better served under the protective wing of his neighbors to the north. These recommendations were forthcoming solely with the considerations of the said deportee's general health, and well being at the forefront of their agendas I'm sure.
Perhaps a sojourn into the Land of the Free may be just what the the doctor, and in this case, despot, should order to ensure the aforementioned deportee, a more prolonged visit on our little planet, and garner an opportunity to remain among the, still vertical and breathing oxygen crowd. And in keeping with the interest of the greater republic, be beneficial to all concerned.

So it is in fact possible to derail an individuals life, and career with all the tact and decorum of a runaway train, and send them scurrying off to places unknown, and still get a good nights sleep. Tyrants rarely suffer from insomnia.

JOSE CLEMENTE OROZCO was as abstinent an individual as ever to make his journey in and around the Sierra Madre's of his birthplace, in the real estate we now know as Mexico.
As with his opponents, tact and decorum were not Orozco's forte either, and would later prove to be a thorn in the side of many an ambitious political.
While studying as an architect, Orozco lost his hand in accident. With his knowledge of design, and engineering, he switched his studies to art. Orozco would soon become one Mexico's pioneer muralists, and would one day mentor the now infamous Diego Rivera.
Twice in the almost yearly upheavals in the political landscape of the time, Orozco had to flee his homeland and take refuge in cities like New York and Los Angeles, where his genius as an artist was not lost on bureaucratic malfeasance.
His unapologetic,and realistic depictions of life in and around Mexico City were often more than the puritanical collaborators of chaos could tolerate. His murals of brothels were the bane of the societal muckedy mucks, and were regularly ordered destroyed.
On one occasion, and while in exile, any and all murals on and in government buildings were ordered to be whitewashed.
It was only luck and fate that preserved these masterpieces for then as well as now. Only when the government at the time decreed this atrocity against art and culture, in what can only be described as an assassination of spirit, did the gods of justice and passion intervene.
As it turns out that while the government conscripted contractors were mixing up their paint, and putting on their coveralls, there was at the time a group of foreign art dignitaries in the capitol. The audible collective gasp of the artisan elite, could quite possibly be heard as far away as Monterrey. It was certainly not lost on the high society lords, and ladies of the time, desperately trying to vie for recognition, and the much needed cash it would require from offshore accounts to keep the rapidly growing, ever militant masses in line.
During the revolution years in and around 1910, a more hospitable, albeit just as bloodthirsty, Mexican milestone was taking place.
Tierra E Libertad was all the rage , and the up and coming recipients of the new era wanted it documented. Enter one Jose Clemente Orozco with a fresh hostility to the old regime and an acerbic tongue to lead the fray and keep the folks at home apprised of all the triumphs of one Poncho Villa. Orozco got the gig as perhaps one of the first war correspondents of the time.
But the love affair would not last long . Orozco did what he had always done as an artist and writer. To use the baseball idiom...." He called em the way he saw em".
At times Orozco was so critical of Villas exploits that he sometimes feared for his own life. He would at times refer to Villas assaults on the the villages he rode into as not much more than an adolescent foray into the unassuming public populace, who quite often did not know what all the fuss was about. A debaucherous escapade with little plan and even smaller purpose.
Mexico finally had enough. They were aware that certain indiscretions had occurred, but this was after all the liberator. The man with the big white horse and the giant hat. This was the man who had successfully invaded the giant to the north.
Mexicans are for the most part deeply romantic, an attribute of innocence I hope they never lose, and heroes in their history are few and far between. Poncho Villa stands tall among them.
Orozco crossed the line. He was buried in Mexico with only a few of his most loyal artist friends and his direct family. Diego Rivera among them. No one from the government of any political persuasion dare attend. But he left his mark and we are all better for having had his presence here. He deeply loved his country, as much as all Mexican people do, and even when he was critical of them, only wanted what he felt they deserved, and were entirely capable of.
With all it's inherent problems, and seemingly insurmountable hurdles, and as I have recently found out through my Mexican partner to whom, when I become a little too critical of her country to suit her, and with hands on her hips, and a gentle stomp of her foot, always reminds me.

"ESTOY MEXICANA
TO BE MEXICAN IS TO BE FREE"


"WHY MUST WE BE ETERNALLY ON OUR KNEES
BEFORE THE KANTS AND HUGOS
ALL PRAISE TO THE MASTERS INDEED
BUT WE TOO COULD WREST IRON
FROM THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH
AND FASHION IT INTO IT SHIPS AND MACHINES
WE TOO COULD RAISE PRODIGIOUS CITIES
AND CREATE NATIONS AND EXPLORE THE UNIVERSE
WAS IT NOT FROM A MIXTURE OF RACES
THAT THE TITANS SPRANG"

JOSE CLEMENTE OROZCO

GRAVATIONAL TRANSPARENCY

What the hell is happening?
A perplexing proposition parlayed into paradoxical perpetuity,presented as a pertinent peripheral, bordering on the paranormal.
Goddammit, it's good to back in the land of the English language. Latin may very well be the language of love, but when it comes to the flat out, misuse of verbiage, you just cannot beat this diatribal, banal, idiom. How well Shakespeare knew this.
And know I am not drawing any parallels.
Well I've been away for approximately six or seven months, and from what I can tell not much has changed in the never ending foray into the cultural abyss we call modern living. Only the cast.
We seem to have gone from an unhealthy obsession with Sara Palin's intellectual frailties, to an equally disturbing infatuation with the dirty laundry of professional sports figures. God help us.
Yeah, Yeah, I know, stop taking the lofty high road, but for the sake of all that's just, and reasonable in the world, when is this dumbing down process going to be over. Just when I think I'm getting a grip on reality....BAM....the minutial cloud of banality engulfs me like a duck on a junebug, and almost sucks the very marrow of life blood out of me.
God I hate the cultural transition period.
Well enough about my dementia, how the heck is everybody?
Survived the winter I trust?
O.K. back to me..
Here is the breakdown for those of you with absolutely nothing else to do.

Got published .....twice ... yeah, yeah, big deal
Fell in love.......twice....yeah, yeah, who cares
Hey but wait.......one of them took....yeah, yeah, who cares
Went broke ......three times....yeah, yeah, I know, so did you
Missed my kid......lots
Played in several different bands and laughed a lot (they go together)
Rode my hog all over the place
Got harassed by police for riding my hog all over the place
Rewrote an old project...yeah, yeah, I am going to bore you with it
Saved two street dogs from a life of ruin, and academic obscurity
(well at least Cowgirl might care about that one)
Learned how to fish at night in a small boat....I care
Decided Viagra is for amateurs
Learned how to not, desecrate a language as badly as I had in the past
Made lots of friends...or at least I think I did...always a crap shoot
Cried when I said goodbye to aforementioned heartthrob
Yeah, yeah, I cried.... get over it
Left paradise
Landed in different place
Wrote blog

That's it kids.
Yeah, yeah there's more, but at the risk of becoming self indulgent,(yeah, yeah me), I need to hear all about your journeys.
Plan to read your stuff soon.
Adios por ahora.

PERPETUAL POSSIBILLITIES

The very first time I started to wander into the rural abyss that is Mexico, a recurring observation kept creeping into my psyche. At first I couldn't put my finger on it, then like a hippo on a rampage, and after a somewhat extensive bout with an Afghani hooka, it hit me. Mexico seems to be stuck in the perpetual confines of the 1950's.
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I mind. Oh contrair, I beleive in many ways, this was a decade of untold possibilities, and in many ways, our finest hour. Dios Mio, we had the pop up toaster for goodnees sake. It was chrome and shiny, not unlike our very souls, fresh from a very sucessful global victory in the European and Pacific theatres. (I have always objected to this comparison...war... theatre...but what is life without tearing down a few personal barriers.)
The world was in fact, if not our oyster, it was, at the very least, a damn good scallop.

Racism was, if not being irraticated, it was at least being exposed.
Decency was a virtue.
Good seemed to be overcoming evil.
Men wore hats to church for Gods sake.

Was it all an illusion? Were we in fact becomming insulated from the realities of our own prejudices. Hard to say. I like to think that there was in fact an honest, and sincere element to this time in history,and yes a certain amount of innocence.
As with all things I suppose there is a time and place. And as with many things, what you try to hang onto the most, becomes the most fleeting of all.
Venice in the Renaisance must have seemed to be the cat's meow at the time, and I must admit to a degree of desire to have waxed poetic with the ever timeless, and relevent rhetoric of Socrates, and Plato during Greece's heydey. Forgive my vanity please.

Is man truly born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward, or can there be a moment in the omnipresent calidascope of consciouness, when we in fact, do get it right.
I think sometimes the best we can hope for, are those gaps in the cosmic arpegio that allow us the clarity and conviction of free will, to understand certain aspects of our own reality, humble ourselves, and appreciate just being among the non-horizontal, oxygen inhaling, thankful for what we do have, imperfect perfection that we all are. Either that or get a job. Frightful proposition I know.

I hope Mexico fares a little better with the rapid accelleration into their own destiny, and doesn't lose sight of all the things that make it a wonderful, and generous country.
Family first. Everything else is secondary. This is the glue that will bond this culture, and country together as it has always done in the past, and will be the very thing that they can always return to, no matter what.
This is their time now and they know it. The demographics alone confirm this. This is a very young country, with fifty percent of the population being twenty-five years of age or younger.
But it isn't the knowledge of demographics that they are interested in. They can feel a chance at prosperity and they don't want to be left behind.
They don't need a lesson from the north however, and I hope for their sake none is forthcoming.
Not that I think we totally mismanaged the afterburner blast into our own flambouyant, and voyeristic, kick at the destiny cat, or that we didn't have some pretty wacky, and wonderful adventures along the paths of our own history.
Walking on the moon, the hoola hoop, the sexual revolution,(almost),sock hops, and hip hops, mood rings and pop rocks.
I just think that unless asked, and like a good mother-in-law, we should observe the decorum, and tact, that only comes from an underlying feeling of hope and good will, that one should adorn upon all of their neighbors.
Enjoy the ride Kiddies.
My sincerest wishes for success.

Your most humble, and forever grateful to be here, observer.
BoBo JoJo

"WHY MUST WE BE ETERNALLY ON OUR KNEES BEFORE THE KANTS AND HUGOS?
ALL PRAISE TO THE MASTERS INDEED, BUT WE TOO COULD WREST IRON FROM THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH AND FASHION IT INTO SHIPS AND MACHINES
WE COULD RAISE PRODIGIOUS CITIES, AND CREATE NATIONS, AND EXPLORE THE UNIVERSE
WAS IT NOT FROM A MIXTURE OF TWO RACES THAT THE TITANS SPRANG"

JOSE CLEMENTE OROZCO

Aren't they great. These are my tres amigos in Jalisco. The little guy in the middle is Patcho. He steals the refresco out of my hands whenever I'm not paying attention, for a living. He also likes to pee in the street whenever the mood strikes him. They hang out on the street outside of the market, that the smallest girl's family owns. She dances in front of the mirror for a living. The other girls occupation seems to be whatever the others are involved in at the time. Freelance funhaver I suppose.
I am always content and happy when I see kids in Mexico playing the way I did in my own neighborhood, with my large family, and all the other kids from the hood. Back in the day when I was raising hell and peeing in the street. Mexican kids are allowed so much freedom, to just run about and explore their surroundings.
O.K. I know what your thinking and for the most part I am in agreement with you. Yes their are larger dangers around, moreso than when I was young.
O.K. I get this. But I think we lose something fundamental in our growth when we are supervised to the degree that children seem to be now. Some of the fondest memories I have are of me taking long ways home from school, and turning what was a twenty minute walk down the road, into a two hour hike through the forest. I never told my parents I was intending to do this, simply because I didn't know I was going to do it myself. I had no plan. And that's what I believe we lose. The ability to be spontaneous towards living. It seems the kids in our culture's lives are so planned out, and organized, that the joy of whatever activity or endeavour is being pursued, is diminished in some way because of the vigilance of scrutiny that is employed. I'm not sure what I'm suggesting, if any thing at all. It just seems to me that we ought to be able to allow our kids the same freedoms of thought, that are only learned at young ages, and often from just being allowed to wander aimlessly and daydream, that I had the privelage to embark on.
Albert Einstein was a great believer in the power of day dreaming, and thought that most breakthrough revelations in the formation of science, and ideologies, were the direct result of an uncluttered mind..... A.K.A. Daydreamers.

Richard Branson has told a story of being five years old when his mother was walking him home from school one day, and she stopped at the top of a hill about two miles from their home. She pointed to the house and asked the young boy if he could see their house. When Richard replied that he could, she told him that she had to go back into town and that she knew that if he believed in himself he could find his way home. A brave undertaking for a mother as well as a five year old. He found his way home through wheatfields and pastures, and the event changed his life. He understood he could.
So let your kids play, let them stare at bugs for an hour or so, let them dance in front of mirrors, hell, even let them pee in the street from time to time.
Who knows, maybe we'll get some more Einsteins and Bransons, and whatever else daydreaming might conjur up, in the bargain.

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

I'm off again amigo's. Hopefully I can accomplish what I set out to do, and things will find a groove all of their own. If I've learned anything at all in my short appearance on the often veneered stage of life, it's that sometimes the way you thought the world would spin for you, in reality can turn on a dime. This is the way the cosmic dice tumble. Good, bad, or indifferent, with all it's ups and downs, it would seem that the more we try to force the square peg into the round hole, the more we commit ourselves to an upstream journey. I seem to do better when I just allow the events of destiny play out from their own, unknown to me, agenda.
What's important is that we remember why were here, and not try to over think the unknowable. At least that's what a good friend told me once.
So it's take a deep breath, point the compass south, keep the virgin of Guadalupe in the windshield, and jump in the water. So keep your stick on the ice, and we shall talk later when I get settled.
Adios Por Ahora Compadres.

"KICKED BY THE WIND
DRIVEN BY THE SNOW
DRUNK AND DIRTY
AND DON'T YOU KNOW
I'M STILL
WILLIN"

LOWEL GEORGE

FRIJOLES

I just love beans. I l like the way the look in the pot, I like the way they smell when they're cooking, I even at times marvel at the their ability to turn themselves into an entire orchestra after their digestion. Decorum and personal discretion must always be observed during these legumic symphony's however, and may often be best enjoyed in a solo environment. A certain degree of apre's frijole planning may be necessary.
The history of the lowly frijole is a diverse one, and can be traced to Egyptian kings.
Some were even buried with their stash of the unassuming legume. Imagine that...waking up in the afterlife and the first thing you want is a big bowl of beans. Damn the torpedos, bring me my beans.
For me however the most admirable quality the bean has, is it's compassionate touch. Beans have been easing the pangs of hunger worldwide for centurys. From the single mom in urban areas, to the backwaters of peasant life that unfortunately plague our world, the bean always delivered it's goodness without having lofty ambitions so often found in other basic sustenance food products. You know who I'm talking about Mr. Mais. Limelight stealing, overrated food product that you are. No the frijole isn't in it for the glory. The bean merely delivers nutrient, protein, vitamins and minerals without all the hoopala that the headline grabbing corn and flour are after. How often have we seen on CNN, the sacks of corn and flour being unloaded in some war torn region of the globe, or being spooned out in some famine struck area of a hopeless country.
And where was the bean in all the chaos and camera work? Quietly And without fanfare, the bean would set out upon the business at hand. Feeding the masses.
So take a bow Senor Frijole. On behalf of the downtrodden, the hungry, the food aficionado's, and from the Hobos that ride the rails in search of better times, to homeless persons everywhere, we salute you.
Long live the the bean, the frijole, the magical fruit. If ever a food group deserved sainthood it would surely be thee.

St. Frijole of the Blessed Impoverished

NICKNAMES

This majestic fellow is called a Kara Kara. Or at least that's the most common response to my inquiry as to what the big bird answers to. Mexicans can often be innocently ignorant of the proper names of things, and me being raised in the eat or be food competitiveness of our school system, find it necessary to gather as much useless information as entirely possible. You never know when the knowledge of every known bird of prey will allow you climb over the back of some unsuspecting fool, on the upward, fast as you can, ladder to nowhere.
Knowledge is power.....arrrgh... Use it as weapon.
I have long stopped asking Mexicans the names of certain trees, when for the most part, the most common answer is... arbol.. Spanish for tree. This response is generally followed by a somewhat condescending leer, as if perhaps I would be better served inquiring as to the whereabouts of the nearest insane asylum. Anyone can see it's a tree Tonto.
It would seem that unless one is planning on a career in Botany, any knowledge of trees, other than the most rudimentary, is best left to the people who need to know.
It was not my intent to offend however, and my sole purpose for the inquiry was so that I may gather more ammunition in my never ending quest for banal fodder, and superiority, whether real or imagined. I'm guessing it's the latter.
In all fairness, I'm sure that my somewhat limited grasp of the language may be playing a part in the confusion. Or on the other hand perhaps I may have crossed over some cultural nuance of which I'm unaware.

Possibly.... Possibly... I should not know the names of trees.
Possibly.....Possibly... Simply knowing would be cause for unease.
The trees cannot talk.
The trees cannot see.
If it weren't for the trees
Then where would we be

Two can play at this game Suess..... "Doctor" seems extremely suspicious.
But I seem to have digressed somewhat.
I guess I can now add a resentment to children's authors to my ever growing list of fanatical neurosis.
I would like to point out at this juncture that I, in no way had anything at all to do with the late, Good Doctors...AHEM... demise, and if asked I'm sure I could render a reasonable alibi.

Now to the topic at hand folks.... Nicknames
I know, I know, I forgot what it was too.
It would seem Mexicans, not unlike peoples from anywhere else on the planet, when unknowing , or simply unhappy with an assigned label for something , simply give it a different one.
There is evidence of this wherever we wander, or even right in our own families.
My own youngest sister,Margaret, when brought home from the hospital, had enormous ears, and when my father,whom had probably had a few too many gin and tonics, and was still trying to come up with a plan as to how he was going to feed number six on the Catholic, populate the planet hit parade, called her Pixie. As in the elf....Ahhh...Gin. The poor mans L.S.D.

There are other reasons for using nicknames, that I have just recently noticed, and these seem to apply to ex-patriots, whom have become, to me, a plethora of untapped sources of minutia, and nonsensical, ideologies. A wannabe writers, nirvanic abyss of the surreal.
God bless the sixties.
The Ex-Pat's reason is deliciously simple.
Foreign and domestic governments wish to monitor their every move.
In short.....Anonymity
So in order to bring you, the reader of this diatribe, along for the ride, I have compiled a list with some of my favorite attempts at eluding big brother by proxy of manufactured aliases.
Enjoy............

Ding Dong Don........Something to do with a past career in the porn game

Michigan Mike ..... A bit revealing, but I don't think the onset of paranoia has took hold yet

Perfect Peter...... At least that's what the ladies say

Gestapo Bill......A migratory fellow just up from Brazil...
Nice Guy....Runs a lab

Immaculate Lynda.... No I didn't forget the girls........Refuses to elaborate

Ordeal......A.K.A..... Ardell.....Because she is one

One Eyed Mike........ Odd in so much as he has two eyes

One Ball Paul.....Do not know the status, and or, actual ball count here, and none will be forthcoming in a future publication

Well there is just a sampling of some of the people of whom I have had the great pleasure in knowing over the years..Look them up if your ever in the neighborhood. Oh and by the way, they are" NOT" in the book.

YO YO BO BO JOJO'S

I'm unsure as to why this photo appeals to me. Is it the flagrant lack of concern for appearances that I find admirable, or is it that this brand of laziness somehow makes my life seem very ambitious. Whatever it is, be sure that this particular form of personal hygiene is not for the faint of smell.
Well to recap my existence on the big blue ball....... (however insignificant)
I've managed to make it back to the cool blue north just in time to partake of the flue festival that has swept the region by storm. This years headliner is none other than the as yet unknown, headpounding, body aching variety. All of this combined with the adjustment period I go through every time I return from a place where anything goes, to the anal retentive hyperbole, that constitutes a self proclaimed civilized society, has given me the blues.
If I weren't so damn white I'd probably write a song. I guess that's why we have Merle Haggard.
Oh well this to shall pass. I believe I shall turn my compass southward again after I have sorted out some details, and continue my love, hate relationship with my tropical home.
BoBo Jo Jo's may get off the ground yet.
Con Dios E Suerte

I LIVE ON A BIG BLUE BALL
I NEVER DO DREAM I MAY FALL

JIMMY BUFFET

AMPHETEMINES, ACID, AND LOGANBERRY WINE

Well it´s been a while, I know, but this is what happens when you decide, at fifty, to revisit your hippie days.

After leaving the already blissfully hot West Kootenays I, decided to ride the Hog down to Jalisco. I know, I know, I left the heat and headed south. I never was much for convention. All was well until I reached the desert in Las Vegas. Tires do not like one hundred and twenty degrees of ambient temperature. Repairs were made and I left for the hopefully cooler temps of Phoenix and Tuscon. No luck, but I´m sure you already knew this.

Long and short of it......... made it to Mexico where, although humid it has been a tolerable ninety-five degrees every day.

After accomplishing all that was needed for my fact finding concerning working in a foreign country, and numerous trips to government agencies in Manzanillo, I decided to do nothing for a spell. As it turns out, I happen to be good at this, and with very little coaching took to it with relative ease.

It would seem, however, that this is not a new phenomenon, and as my new friends from the sixties have told me, has been going on for at least fifty some odd years or so. Give or take a decade or two. Time seems to be irrelevant to the professional ex- patriot hunkered down in the bosom of the surreal, in the attempt to avoid whatever conspiracy theory that happens to be pertinent at the time. My, My, My, how the mind goes on walkabout left to it´s own devices, and or, vices.

Does God exist or was he merely a manifestation of a Government plot whose true agenda has yet to be revealed?

This and more in the next edition of.........Acid & Accolades.......or is it happy hour yet¿

Hasta pronto cabrones

OPERA ON THE BUS

There is a certain serenity one feels from time to time when the universe opens itself up to you and shows you all of it's possibilities. There are minute cracks in the seemingly perfect order of things. God and the universe are perpetual and harmonious bodies in motion, and occasionally they pause ever so briefly and allow us a glimpse into the stillness and vast, endless realms of opportunities to accomplish and construct nothing.

All that is required, is to sit quietly, and permit the cascade to envelope us.
Small fragments and momentary exposures to our own souls is all we can absorb at any given time. The complete inability to accept all that is fortuitous, and eternal, is more than we can spiritually deal with. If we should be so bold and egotistical as to add intellect into the fray, I'm sure the threads of our limited capacities would suffer irreparable harm. God understands this, and still sees fit to love us without condition or judgement. These brief interludes serve to remind us that we should, and must allow peace and humor into our lives. It is not necessary to analyze it, nor find anything other than the willingness to accept the imperfections of all things and persons as perfection.
Our input is neither solicited, nor needed. I believe God smiles and laughs as broadly as the smile of a clown's bordering of white on red face make-up, whenever we accept our own limitations, and understand that our purpose here is one of fundamental selflessness, and an awareness of all that is good in the world. I believe this is joy.
Recently I experienced my own divine revelation on a bus in an impoverished area in central Mexico, and if with your indulgence I would humbly relish the opportunity to share it.
It is not uncommon for street artists to ride public transits, in the hopes of earning some pesos to put food on the table, so when a woman dressed as a clown got on at a stop, I wasn't overly surprised. At the onset of our trip our beautiful and talented mirth maker was entertaining children, with balloon making and facial gestures only kids and the simple minded,(myself) find amusing. It wasn't until a couple of miles had passed that we would be fortunate enough to experience the hidden behind the make-up, true talents of our performer.
Seemingly without provocation from anyone on our bus, our clown, our muse , our angel, burst into an aria Pavorotti would have been hard pressed to follow. All of the passengers on the bus, including our driver, and the small children, sat as quietly as church mice during a mid morning mass. Not an easy task for such a normally over enthusiastic, and overt people as Mexicans.
As we listened without a sound the bus driver still continued to make his stops, and as people came on they passed through their world and into ours, and were also overcome and became quiet themselves. When the bus reached its stop, our clown departed and collected whatever money poor people could spare, and walked down the street as if she were on her way to visit the mayor. No one on the bus seemed to find this unusual, or out of the ordinary in any way, and they all left to go about whatever business they needed to deal with. It was only myself that was taken by surprise, and I felt envious of their ability to experience this joy without muddying up the water by over thinking what was just another moment in the day.
The universe opened, And I was there.

OUT OF OZ

The wind was scraping the prairie dry. It was from the east, menacing, devoid of compassion, determined, willful, sly.
This was Kansas at the end of June, and some of us were prepared to die.















This was the land of Dorothy, Auntie Em, Toto, the Scarecrow, and Tinman. A harsh landscape where the threat of tornadoes and bad politics are never far from the horizon.
Kansas seems to have never been able to establish a sound footing on the terra firma of these United States.
Like the cousin no one wants to play with at the family reunion because of an abscess permeating from their lower lip. And just like the inflicted family member from those bygone days, Kansas withdrew into itself, put some salve on it's lip, and sat in it's complacent, geopolitical corner of the park and cried.
Even it's closest relatives , Uncle Colorado, Grampa Oklahoma, and Auntie Nebraska weren't able to console the pubescent youngster out of his self indulgent pouty funk. Nor could the older cousin Missouri, freshly returned from the peace corp, manage to pry the tear soaked hot dog bun from the hands of the young Kansas.
Kansas rode home that day in the back seat of his country alone. His father, the colonel from Texas, apologizing to the rest of the states, for his son's introverted behavior, promised Grampa Washington that Kansas would be enrolled at the nearest military academy in Texas. The Colonel, drunk from Lone Star beer and Cousin Kentucky's bourbon, and while guiding the family station wagon out of the park and down the dusty road of history, raised his can of Coors to his wife, the beautiful Utah, and remarked...........
Hell of a reunion this year wasn't it mother.
Kansas cried.

"I HEAR YOU SINGING IN THE WIRES
I CAN HEAR YOU IN THE WHINE
AND THE WICHITA LINEMAN IS STILL ON THE LINE"

JIMMY WEBB

The Waiting is The Hardest Part

Howdy again compadres.
The accumulated ass time I've been experiencing here is becoming old very quick.
Even from someone as genetically and predisposed to a life of Riley as myself. Who the hell was Riley, and why am I so envious of "The Life of Said Vagabond"?
Were we in fact related, or is this just wishful thinking on my part? I did have an uncle with whom my aunts claimed suffered from an extreme case of lazyassinitis, more often than not brought on by an acute form of hungoverassinitis. Damn the medical community and all their fancy terminology.
I don't recall however, my uncle ever complaining about his flareups with said affliction, as much as they seemed to annoy my aunts. Brave soul that he was I'm sure he preferred to suffer in silence. It is the way of our people.

Anyway back to Alva, OK. and my situation. God knows I'm sure you're all on the edge of your collective seats to garner any, and all things newsworthy from the continental bible belt. So here is what I have been able to ascertain thus far.

Firstly: God is still,if not alive, well and seems to enjoy the company of the Alvanians, (their word not mine) of Oklahoma. So much so that the town has dedicated an entire stretch of asphalt, (about six blocks worth), to the mutual adoration enjoyed by both parties. This stretch is appropriately refered to as Church Street, with the largest, and most prestigious real estate belonging to the Catholics. WOO...HOO...way to go team. This is not an easy task I'm sure given we are in a Baptist, Methodronian, (my word not theirs) landscape. I'm sure we just have a better booster club.

Second: Rodeo is the king of sports here. I'm not sure of the logistics of rodeoing,as it pertains to the getting to and from the rodeoing venues, having never tried to stuff a horse in my hockey bag, but I'm sure they have it figured out.

Thirdly: As with all farming communities, the pace of life is dictated almost solely by mother nature with her regards to the weather. When it rains we sit, and when we can work we run. All things being equal it is not a bad way to live. It is however somewhat troublesome to a self proclaimed, (and others I'm sure) control freak. Perseveer I must. There is light ahead, and I am drawn to my goals like a duck on a junebug. Unless of course I am come over by a sudden attack of lazyassinitis.

"TO MAKE AN APPLE PIE FROM SCRATCH
YOU MUST FIRST INVENT THE UNIVERSE"

CARL SAGAN

En Route to Alva, OK.

Howdy Ya'all
The great plains of the midwest are nothing if not for the people.
Genuine meat and taters kinda folk. I almost forgot how large the sky seems here.
As big as the heart of Texas, so it is said.

I did what I usually do when I get to a new place I've never been before, and that is to go directly to the pool rooms and pawn shops, to get a feel for the place.















You can tell so much about your surroundings just by seeing what the inhabitants of the place are willing to live without out.
Or at the very least be willing to sacrifice to the pawn gods in order to indulge other pleasures, vices, and or, necessities. It is also a prudent strategy for seeking out select items that may be of interest to you, and the general correlation between the pawned items and they're geographical, and economic biosphere. Allow to me elaborate.
Simply put , if your needs are musical in nature, then you visit the pawn shops of the states of Nevada, or New Jersey. Musicians are notorious for their inability to drive off their demons of choice. Whatever the vice or desire, the insatiable thirst will be quenched. Sadly, in the case of musicians it is the very thing that allows them to earn a living.. (I.E. their instruments) ... that are the first to go.
With this small tidbit of knowledge, the availability of bargain basement merchandise is endless. Simply match your needs to the environment were there may be an abundance of said products, and Voilla, Presto, Abbara Cadda Dabbara, the world becomes your second hand oyster. But I'm sure you already knew this.
Sad as it may seem though amigos,I have no use for a tractor.

Anywho ..... my time has come to an end, and the Oklahoma night life is calling my name, and i hear these Okies are wicked wild.
So to all my amigos in the U.S.of A...... keep the rubber on the road
And to my friends in my motherland...the cool blue north.....keep your stick on the ice.
E tu me amigos en Mexico... chingero le carretera....Luego cabrones

Adios Por Ahora Hijo

Said gooodbye to the boy for a couple of months.
Tough stuff, but getting easier as he gets older.
We indulged in a bit of theatrics at lunch, and tried my new camera. I'm taking away his Godfather trilogy fliks.
Thank God for the kid's ability to breeze through technology, and show me in a couple of minutes what would have taken me two hours and a complete manual. I can think of no greater waste of time than the reading of manuals. Unless of course your adrift at sea and the proper inflation of a life raft is required. Paramount procedural knowledge I suppose. Beyond these obvious applications, I'm sure that the instruction manuals only function is to systematically, and with diabolical consequences, serve only to denigrate, demoralize, and degrade the population to the point of submission. The purpose to which I will leave to the individual, but I for one am convinced they are after our souls with the express purpose of either devouring them or selling them on the black market. Quite possibly in places like Drumheller, Alberta. Do not go gentle into that good night friends.

The Road to BoBoJoJo's

I'm on way to Texas with the final destination being one Barra De Navidad, Jalisco, Mexico, and open my bar.
I'll need a bankroll,so it's off to the grainfields of the southwest for a spell. (I love cowboy talk).
Hope to see ya all soon. It appears I may have some stowaways