Last week, Dubya made a stop in Utah. With Jr's approval rating nearly as low as it should be, a day in the Reddest state in the Union must have seemed like a brilliant idea to the President and his handlers. Slap a few backs, photo op with Orrin Hatch, rah-rah a little with the Foreign Legion and fly back to DC a couple points ahead. However, the geniuses that promised to win the war in Iraq in six months didn't count on Salt Lake City Mayor, Rocky Anderson.
I wish I could have been there but I moved away from Utah over a year ago, so I had to settle for reading about it in the Utah papers. It seems that Rocky made his intentions known to protest the current regime so a couple of wealthy Republican benefactors took matters into their hands and financed full page ads in the local paper blasting the Mayor for his intentions. Attendance at the rally was estimated at 4,000 to 5,000 people and I'm sure the Republican ads had something to do with that.
Rocky didn't waste the opportunity. He blasted the President and his cronies for lying about WMD, for continuing the lies even after the evidence was out and for good measure, he chided the media for taking nearly four months to report those lies after they became known. I won't parrot Rocky's speech but suffice it to say he pulled no punches in telling the truth as he saw it. A politician who is willing to tell the truth without dancing around it is something we need a whole lot more of in this county. You can read a transcript of the speech here: http://www.sltrib.com/search/ci_4263654.
After the rally at Washington Square in downtown Salt Lake City, the crowd marched to the Federal Building a few blocks away. Utah takes a lot of heat for being pretty conservative and LDS dominated but 4 to 5,000 people assembling in the middle of a work day to protest this foolish war is proof positive that there is another side to the State where I was born. I've known that all along and maybe now a few more people know it too. I've never been prouder to be from the Reddest State in the Country than I was last week.
Thank you, Rocky, for telling the truth. Maybe you'll start a trend.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Twisting One
Labor Day is only a couple of weeks away and already I’m dreading the end of the riding season. I don’t remember the exact date that I officially called the season D.O.A. last year but I distinctly remember the day. I took off for a short ride on a Sunday, hoping for a little luck with the intermittent showers we’d been experiencing and I found just enough luck to get several miles from home before the skies dumped a steady stream of icy rain on me. I limped home half frozen and sent an email to a friend announcing the end of my first Northwest motorcycle season.
Even though it was hot and dry yesterday, that wet day last winter was in the back of my mind when I headed for the east side of Mt. St. Helens. I’ve done NF-25 several times this year, which is a good riding road south of the Windy Ridge turnoff but is in terrible shape between there and Randall with sporadic spine jarring drops where the road is trying to break away and slide down the hillside. So it was that I decided to do some breaking off myself onto some of the spur roads in the area.
I’d been told that one road leads to a great ride if you can endure a couple of miles of dirt roads. I’m not real sure what the name of this road is and I’d probably have had better luck finding it if I were but I knew I was on the wrong one when it took seven miles to again find pavement. A couple more miles down the road the pavement ended at a campground, confirming that this was not the road I was seeking.
I back tracked to the “Y” where the blacktop had first reappeared and took the other spur and soon found myself committed to 30 more miles of dirt riding. Now I cut my teeth on dirt biking but the CX650C is no dirt bike and my new Dunlop’s are great road tires but they are completely worthless on the dirt.
Nevertheless, I did survive the 30 white knuckled miles and managed to find some top-notch twisties for some low-level flying before the day was done. Fact is, if you can’t find a few top-notch twisties in Lewis County, Washington, you’re just not trying.
I don’t know if it was the specter of winter looming in the distance or the freedom at the end of a torturous work week but I was really on my game. So much so that I accomplished two firsts; I scraped the foot pegs for the very first time in three years of aggressive twisty runs on this bike.
I was forever dragging foot pegs on my old Virago 1100, until I looked like Hansel and Gretel leaving a trail of Independence Day sparklers instead of bread crumbs in winding steams through the San Bernardino mountains. In a way, I guess I was. But I’ve ridden the CX much more aggressively with never a trace of metal parts coming in contact with blacktop. Until yesterday, I had pretty much concluded it couldn’t be done.
The second first was hitting a curve so hot that both tires screamed at me. I like to think of myself as a 90 percenter, in that I try to ride at about 90 percent of the combined ability of myself and my bike. That other 10 percent is the part that keeps you alive.
At 90 percent, your tires definitely talk during in a hot turn. They sing, they whistle and they even whine a bit and those are the irresistible sounds that I live for while blazing through a snaky mountain road. When they stop singing and start screaming, I know I’m eating into my 10 percent and it’s time to crank up the concentration.
Despite 30 white-knuckled miles of floating traction-less atop dirt roads, all in all, it was a banner riding day. I ended the day by having dinner with some biker friends and then stopping in at the County Fair to see Herman’s Hermits, which I suppose was actually the third first of the day.
One of the first records I ever owned and really got into was “The Best of Herman’s Hermits.” Who ever would have guessed that 30+ years later I’d be in Chehalis, Washington listening to Herman’s Hermits and singing along to all 1 million verses of “Henry the Eighth” with my Gen-X wife?
So it was a great day to twist one, so to speak, at the end of which one thing was abundantly clear; Rumors of this season’s demise have been greatly exaggerated. Did I hear someone say “Icicle Run”?
Even though it was hot and dry yesterday, that wet day last winter was in the back of my mind when I headed for the east side of Mt. St. Helens. I’ve done NF-25 several times this year, which is a good riding road south of the Windy Ridge turnoff but is in terrible shape between there and Randall with sporadic spine jarring drops where the road is trying to break away and slide down the hillside. So it was that I decided to do some breaking off myself onto some of the spur roads in the area.
I’d been told that one road leads to a great ride if you can endure a couple of miles of dirt roads. I’m not real sure what the name of this road is and I’d probably have had better luck finding it if I were but I knew I was on the wrong one when it took seven miles to again find pavement. A couple more miles down the road the pavement ended at a campground, confirming that this was not the road I was seeking.
I back tracked to the “Y” where the blacktop had first reappeared and took the other spur and soon found myself committed to 30 more miles of dirt riding. Now I cut my teeth on dirt biking but the CX650C is no dirt bike and my new Dunlop’s are great road tires but they are completely worthless on the dirt.
Nevertheless, I did survive the 30 white knuckled miles and managed to find some top-notch twisties for some low-level flying before the day was done. Fact is, if you can’t find a few top-notch twisties in Lewis County, Washington, you’re just not trying.
I don’t know if it was the specter of winter looming in the distance or the freedom at the end of a torturous work week but I was really on my game. So much so that I accomplished two firsts; I scraped the foot pegs for the very first time in three years of aggressive twisty runs on this bike.
I was forever dragging foot pegs on my old Virago 1100, until I looked like Hansel and Gretel leaving a trail of Independence Day sparklers instead of bread crumbs in winding steams through the San Bernardino mountains. In a way, I guess I was. But I’ve ridden the CX much more aggressively with never a trace of metal parts coming in contact with blacktop. Until yesterday, I had pretty much concluded it couldn’t be done.
The second first was hitting a curve so hot that both tires screamed at me. I like to think of myself as a 90 percenter, in that I try to ride at about 90 percent of the combined ability of myself and my bike. That other 10 percent is the part that keeps you alive.
At 90 percent, your tires definitely talk during in a hot turn. They sing, they whistle and they even whine a bit and those are the irresistible sounds that I live for while blazing through a snaky mountain road. When they stop singing and start screaming, I know I’m eating into my 10 percent and it’s time to crank up the concentration.
Despite 30 white-knuckled miles of floating traction-less atop dirt roads, all in all, it was a banner riding day. I ended the day by having dinner with some biker friends and then stopping in at the County Fair to see Herman’s Hermits, which I suppose was actually the third first of the day.
One of the first records I ever owned and really got into was “The Best of Herman’s Hermits.” Who ever would have guessed that 30+ years later I’d be in Chehalis, Washington listening to Herman’s Hermits and singing along to all 1 million verses of “Henry the Eighth” with my Gen-X wife?
So it was a great day to twist one, so to speak, at the end of which one thing was abundantly clear; Rumors of this season’s demise have been greatly exaggerated. Did I hear someone say “Icicle Run”?
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Lemonade
It was that old Catch-22. He knew it was unwise to leave the Interstate on a blistering 110 degree day like this especially with the cord showing on the back tire of the smoke-trailing motorcycle. On the other hand, he was feeling the first effects of heat stroke; the shortness of breath, the light headedness and a racing heartbeat.
The water bottle that he kept wedged between the windscreen and the speedometer had long been empty from dousing himself for a few seconds of relief before the blistering desert wind dried him again. He knew if he didn't get out of the sun and find some cold liquid soon, he'd be buzzard bait.
When the little Diner came into view among the desert boulders, he’d been near panic. Feeling shaky, he stepped through the door and square into the air-conditioner blast. In a minute he was stretched out in the booth and wiping the sweaty grime from his forehead with his bandana.
A pleasant young waitress appeared and he ordered lemonade. Food was out of the question in this heat. It was fluid and air conditioning he needed and, in a primal way, nothing else mattered just now.
His pregnant 18 year old girlfriend didn’t matter, having no job and little money didn’t matter nor did his waiting cousin or the bald tire on his motorcycle. Extreme conditions have a way of putting things into perspective, he thought.
The cold liquid slid down his throat in a cool trail to his belly. His internal temperature felt like it dropped twenty degrees when the lemonade hit bottom. After downing it all in one motion he asked the waitress if refills were free.
“Of course” she said, picking up his glass, “always.”
They both knew better but she had read his desperation, though she couldn’t have known just how much this simple act of kindness meant to him right now. She returned with a glass dripping icy sweat and set it on the table. When it was gone a few seconds later she appeared with another.
They were alone in the joint which wasn’t surprising considering how the little oasis was hidden from the highway. His first impression was that it was a typical greasy spoon but now as he surveyed his surroundings the cool brick and terra cotta interior felt more like a sidewalk café.
He closed his eyes and imagined that they were in Paris. Not that he’d ever been there but he’d seen this place on a watercolor postcard.
The waitress sat down at his booth and asked how he’d wound up here, in the middle of the Arizona desert, in the middle of an August heat wave on a ratty old, oil-burning motorcycle. He told her about the pregnant girlfriend and the cousin in Phoenix who was going to get him on at the potash plant. He talked until he’d told his whole life story which, at the tender age of 19, didn’t amount to much.
It wasn’t like him to talk so much but she was a good listener with a kindly manner and the air conditioner felt so very nice. In fact, he was actually feeling a little chilly. Still, he was in no hurry to leave this place nor to face the heat outside.
The bell above the door jingled as a highway patrolman entered and she got up to take his order. She moved with uncommon grace and he found himself immensely attracted to her and immensely pleased when she returned with another frosty lemonade and sat with him again.
Her dark brown hair was parted in the middle, as was fashionable then, and the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose punctuated her honeyed complexion. Was it the kindness in her azure eyes that made her seem like an angel to him or was it was the awareness that she and this oasis had probably saved his young life?
The patrolman waved her over and while she was gone he passed the time in dreamy speculation. She probably grew up nearby and lived vicariously through her customers, he mused, waiting for a handsome stranger to walk through the door and whisk her away to a life of romance and adventure.
When she returned, he asked her if she ever thought about leaving everything behind and jumping on a motorcycle with a handsome stranger. He’d never been anyone’s handsome stranger but right now, he desperately wanted to be hers.
“Of course” she said, “always.”
That seemed like a peculiar answer but it seemed perfectly appropriate in the vague surrealness of this place. He felt like they were all inside that watercolor postcard.
The highway patrolman surveyed the scene, casting a long shadow on the dark-haired girl cradling the young biker’s face in her hands. She looked up at the patrolman with tears in her eyes.
“I saw that motorcycle with the flat tire a couple of miles back but there was no one around. I drove on and came upon him lying here in the sand. He’s been mumbling about lemonade and postcards.”
"Poor bastard," the patrolman said, “The heat must’a got him.”
“Am I your Handsome Stranger?” the young biker asked weakly.
“Of course,” the girl replied, looking kindly down at him, “always.”
His weather-cracked lips parted into a tiny smile as he drew his last breath.
The water bottle that he kept wedged between the windscreen and the speedometer had long been empty from dousing himself for a few seconds of relief before the blistering desert wind dried him again. He knew if he didn't get out of the sun and find some cold liquid soon, he'd be buzzard bait.
When the little Diner came into view among the desert boulders, he’d been near panic. Feeling shaky, he stepped through the door and square into the air-conditioner blast. In a minute he was stretched out in the booth and wiping the sweaty grime from his forehead with his bandana.
A pleasant young waitress appeared and he ordered lemonade. Food was out of the question in this heat. It was fluid and air conditioning he needed and, in a primal way, nothing else mattered just now.
His pregnant 18 year old girlfriend didn’t matter, having no job and little money didn’t matter nor did his waiting cousin or the bald tire on his motorcycle. Extreme conditions have a way of putting things into perspective, he thought.
The cold liquid slid down his throat in a cool trail to his belly. His internal temperature felt like it dropped twenty degrees when the lemonade hit bottom. After downing it all in one motion he asked the waitress if refills were free.
“Of course” she said, picking up his glass, “always.”
They both knew better but she had read his desperation, though she couldn’t have known just how much this simple act of kindness meant to him right now. She returned with a glass dripping icy sweat and set it on the table. When it was gone a few seconds later she appeared with another.
They were alone in the joint which wasn’t surprising considering how the little oasis was hidden from the highway. His first impression was that it was a typical greasy spoon but now as he surveyed his surroundings the cool brick and terra cotta interior felt more like a sidewalk café.
He closed his eyes and imagined that they were in Paris. Not that he’d ever been there but he’d seen this place on a watercolor postcard.
The waitress sat down at his booth and asked how he’d wound up here, in the middle of the Arizona desert, in the middle of an August heat wave on a ratty old, oil-burning motorcycle. He told her about the pregnant girlfriend and the cousin in Phoenix who was going to get him on at the potash plant. He talked until he’d told his whole life story which, at the tender age of 19, didn’t amount to much.
It wasn’t like him to talk so much but she was a good listener with a kindly manner and the air conditioner felt so very nice. In fact, he was actually feeling a little chilly. Still, he was in no hurry to leave this place nor to face the heat outside.
The bell above the door jingled as a highway patrolman entered and she got up to take his order. She moved with uncommon grace and he found himself immensely attracted to her and immensely pleased when she returned with another frosty lemonade and sat with him again.
Her dark brown hair was parted in the middle, as was fashionable then, and the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose punctuated her honeyed complexion. Was it the kindness in her azure eyes that made her seem like an angel to him or was it was the awareness that she and this oasis had probably saved his young life?
The patrolman waved her over and while she was gone he passed the time in dreamy speculation. She probably grew up nearby and lived vicariously through her customers, he mused, waiting for a handsome stranger to walk through the door and whisk her away to a life of romance and adventure.
When she returned, he asked her if she ever thought about leaving everything behind and jumping on a motorcycle with a handsome stranger. He’d never been anyone’s handsome stranger but right now, he desperately wanted to be hers.
“Of course” she said, “always.”
That seemed like a peculiar answer but it seemed perfectly appropriate in the vague surrealness of this place. He felt like they were all inside that watercolor postcard.
The highway patrolman surveyed the scene, casting a long shadow on the dark-haired girl cradling the young biker’s face in her hands. She looked up at the patrolman with tears in her eyes.
“I saw that motorcycle with the flat tire a couple of miles back but there was no one around. I drove on and came upon him lying here in the sand. He’s been mumbling about lemonade and postcards.”
"Poor bastard," the patrolman said, “The heat must’a got him.”
“Am I your Handsome Stranger?” the young biker asked weakly.
“Of course,” the girl replied, looking kindly down at him, “always.”
His weather-cracked lips parted into a tiny smile as he drew his last breath.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Elder Sea Nettle
From QuiXand Ranch
OK folks, by popular demand, here it is. The good news is that the first draft of my first bestseller is done. The bad news is that there is still a lot of work to do on it. At any rate, here is a sneak peek. May I present:
Chapter Seven
Elder Sea Nettle
His fourth night in Hawaii, Rudy had a bizarre dream that was disturbing in the way that it felt real, though it couldn’t possibly be.
He was swimming in the ocean but not like a person swims, more like a fish, in blue water deep below the surface, fast and graceful and effortless. He was surrounded by rock formations, colorful living coral and hundreds of smaller fish of every description and color, their beautiful scales catching the sunlight that filtered down from the surface.
He was powerful and agile and swift and he squirted through the water with ease and did gleeful underwater acrobatics and huge leaps into the air like a dolphin at Sea World. He was thoroughly enjoying his new found abilities.
“Alright, that’s enough. Knock it off.” He heard a voice in his head. Instinctively he knew that it belonged to a Jelly Fish and he looked around for the source.
There were no Jelly Fish in sight but he did spot the source and it was... well... it looked like a Mormon Missionary. He was dressed in black dress slacks, a white shirt with dark tie and sensible black dress shoes. He wore a nametag that said “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints” and below that “Elder ....” He couldn’t make out the name after Elder for some reason.
“Was that you?” Rudy asked.
“Who else would it be, moron?’ came the telekinetic reply.
“But you’re a Missionary, or a jelly fish or something.”
“I’m a Sea Nettle, actually, and I shouldn’t even be here. I live in the Atlantic so listen up so I can go home.”
“Why do you look like a Missionary?”
“Why do you ask so many dumb questions?”
“OK, screw you.” Rudy said and darted away but when he looked up he was face to face with the Elder/Jelly Fish.
“OK, I look like a Missionary because I get to choose a persona in which to appear to each of my clients. I thought it would be a fun little ironic twist to do a Missionary for you, Mr. Agnostic.”
“So you’re here to tell me that I’m wrong and the Mormon Church is true?” Rudy asked.
“No, no. How would I know about things like that? I’m a Sea Nettle, for God’s sake. Gospels are a whole other department and every one of those pricks thinks he’s God’s gift to the world, pun fully intended.”
“So what department do you work for? The department of assholes?” Rudy asked, suddenly aware of how utterly ridiculous it was to be trading insults with a Sea Nettle Jellyfish Missionary.
“You wouldn’t understand. I’m just here to give you a little encouragement since I know you’re a bit down about how things have gone the past few days. You’re feeling like this was all a big mistake and you’re ready to head back to Utah. Am I about right so far?”
“Yeah, that’s about right.” Rudy replied warily.
“Well, hang in there. The people in charge of such things want you to stick around. Someone higher up has taken an interest in you, don’t ask me why, and they want you to know that it will work out.”
“Uh, Okay.” Rudy was very confused.
“Remember that half-season you spent playing in the Italian League and you drove that BMW 2002 all over Europe?” Elder Sea Nettle asked.
“Yeah, that was a sweet car.”
“Well maybe you should give the apartment hunting a rest and concentrate on finding yourself some wheels. I hear there’s a sweet 2002 Tii for sale in tomorrow’s newspaper.”
“A Tii? The fuel injected version?”
“That’s the one, baby. Check it out.” With that Elder Sea Nettle turned and disappeared into the blue water.
Suddenly Rudy felt a desperate need for air and he swam frantically toward the surface but he no longer moved with the ease of a giant Tuna. He broke the surface of the water and gasped desperately for air and woke up, still panting for air.
He lay in bed, catching his breath and thinking about the bizarre dream. He was soaking wet, the sheets were drenched and the mattress was soaked. He’d have had to have lost 10 pounds to sweat that much.
Elder Sea Nettle was right, too. He had been nearly ready to admit his mistake and head back to Utah and he still probably would, but he knew he would be checking tomorrow’s newspaper first and he felt silly when he realized that.
Right now, he’d trade palm trees for spring skiing with Pete in a heartbeat. He thought about his best friend and all they’d been through together and he resolved to give him a call soon, if only to tell him that he was on his way back.
OK folks, by popular demand, here it is. The good news is that the first draft of my first bestseller is done. The bad news is that there is still a lot of work to do on it. At any rate, here is a sneak peek. May I present:
Chapter Seven
Elder Sea Nettle
His fourth night in Hawaii, Rudy had a bizarre dream that was disturbing in the way that it felt real, though it couldn’t possibly be.
He was swimming in the ocean but not like a person swims, more like a fish, in blue water deep below the surface, fast and graceful and effortless. He was surrounded by rock formations, colorful living coral and hundreds of smaller fish of every description and color, their beautiful scales catching the sunlight that filtered down from the surface.
He was powerful and agile and swift and he squirted through the water with ease and did gleeful underwater acrobatics and huge leaps into the air like a dolphin at Sea World. He was thoroughly enjoying his new found abilities.
“Alright, that’s enough. Knock it off.” He heard a voice in his head. Instinctively he knew that it belonged to a Jelly Fish and he looked around for the source.
There were no Jelly Fish in sight but he did spot the source and it was... well... it looked like a Mormon Missionary. He was dressed in black dress slacks, a white shirt with dark tie and sensible black dress shoes. He wore a nametag that said “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints” and below that “Elder ....” He couldn’t make out the name after Elder for some reason.
“Was that you?” Rudy asked.
“Who else would it be, moron?’ came the telekinetic reply.
“But you’re a Missionary, or a jelly fish or something.”
“I’m a Sea Nettle, actually, and I shouldn’t even be here. I live in the Atlantic so listen up so I can go home.”
“Why do you look like a Missionary?”
“Why do you ask so many dumb questions?”
“OK, screw you.” Rudy said and darted away but when he looked up he was face to face with the Elder/Jelly Fish.
“OK, I look like a Missionary because I get to choose a persona in which to appear to each of my clients. I thought it would be a fun little ironic twist to do a Missionary for you, Mr. Agnostic.”
“So you’re here to tell me that I’m wrong and the Mormon Church is true?” Rudy asked.
“No, no. How would I know about things like that? I’m a Sea Nettle, for God’s sake. Gospels are a whole other department and every one of those pricks thinks he’s God’s gift to the world, pun fully intended.”
“So what department do you work for? The department of assholes?” Rudy asked, suddenly aware of how utterly ridiculous it was to be trading insults with a Sea Nettle Jellyfish Missionary.
“You wouldn’t understand. I’m just here to give you a little encouragement since I know you’re a bit down about how things have gone the past few days. You’re feeling like this was all a big mistake and you’re ready to head back to Utah. Am I about right so far?”
“Yeah, that’s about right.” Rudy replied warily.
“Well, hang in there. The people in charge of such things want you to stick around. Someone higher up has taken an interest in you, don’t ask me why, and they want you to know that it will work out.”
“Uh, Okay.” Rudy was very confused.
“Remember that half-season you spent playing in the Italian League and you drove that BMW 2002 all over Europe?” Elder Sea Nettle asked.
“Yeah, that was a sweet car.”
“Well maybe you should give the apartment hunting a rest and concentrate on finding yourself some wheels. I hear there’s a sweet 2002 Tii for sale in tomorrow’s newspaper.”
“A Tii? The fuel injected version?”
“That’s the one, baby. Check it out.” With that Elder Sea Nettle turned and disappeared into the blue water.
Suddenly Rudy felt a desperate need for air and he swam frantically toward the surface but he no longer moved with the ease of a giant Tuna. He broke the surface of the water and gasped desperately for air and woke up, still panting for air.
He lay in bed, catching his breath and thinking about the bizarre dream. He was soaking wet, the sheets were drenched and the mattress was soaked. He’d have had to have lost 10 pounds to sweat that much.
Elder Sea Nettle was right, too. He had been nearly ready to admit his mistake and head back to Utah and he still probably would, but he knew he would be checking tomorrow’s newspaper first and he felt silly when he realized that.
Right now, he’d trade palm trees for spring skiing with Pete in a heartbeat. He thought about his best friend and all they’d been through together and he resolved to give him a call soon, if only to tell him that he was on his way back.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
QuiXand Ranch Special Investigation
From QuiXand Ranch
QuiXand Investigators Uncover Savage Bloodsport
Right here in River City!
Folks, I’ve seen a lot of savagery in my day. As a seasoned journalist, I’ve witnessed man’s violence toward other men but at least we, as a society, have the decency to be appalled when our violent tendencies are directed at our own. After witnessing what I’ve seen, I want to know; who’s looking after the little bunnies?
I’ve edited this story to take out the most graphic sections but be advised, this is not for the faint of heart. Proceed at your own risk.
I recently met a gentleman; we’ll call him “David”. “David” is in his late forties now but he struggles to live with these memories from his youth in rural Utah.
“Well, I lived in Cinder City* in Southern Utah but our extended family lived in Tule*, about 230 miles away. The best route between the two cities is a lonely highway through high desert brush, inhabited by thousands of rabbits.”
Did you catch that folks? Thousands of rabbits. Appalling!
“David” continues. “There were so many rabbits, in fact, that the mascot for the local high school in a small town about halfway between Cinder City* and Tule* was actually ‘The Rabbits’. “
Again folks, do you hear what he’s saying? Innocent rabbits forced to endure mascot-ship!!
“Well, we used to get out on those empty back roads and fly at, like 80 and 90 miles per hour. There were so many jacks (editors note: jacks is a codeword for rabbits amongst those who practice this brutal sport.) it was pretty much impossible to make that drive without running over several jacks on each trip. You’d hear a big thud and that was it for the Easter Bunny. It was really kinda gross.”
There you have it folks, in “David’s” own words: kinda gross!!
The name of this brutal bloodsport? Driving!! Believe it or not, it’s happening right here in our own state. You may find this hard to believe but this vicious sport is legal in every state of the union and in virtually every country on earth.
All is not lost however. There is a movement in many urban areas to create automobile free zones called promenades, where only pedestrian traffic is allowed. Promenades currently comprise only a very small section of the landscape but it’s an idea whose time has come.
What can you do? Write you congressman and tell him that you want all the world to be a rabbit-safe promenade.
For more information log on to: www.kneejerkmorons.com. Let’s send a message to the “David’s” of the world that this slaughter must end.
*Not the actual name, for obvious reasons.
QuiXand Investigators Uncover Savage Bloodsport
Right here in River City!
Folks, I’ve seen a lot of savagery in my day. As a seasoned journalist, I’ve witnessed man’s violence toward other men but at least we, as a society, have the decency to be appalled when our violent tendencies are directed at our own. After witnessing what I’ve seen, I want to know; who’s looking after the little bunnies?
I’ve edited this story to take out the most graphic sections but be advised, this is not for the faint of heart. Proceed at your own risk.
I recently met a gentleman; we’ll call him “David”. “David” is in his late forties now but he struggles to live with these memories from his youth in rural Utah.
“Well, I lived in Cinder City* in Southern Utah but our extended family lived in Tule*, about 230 miles away. The best route between the two cities is a lonely highway through high desert brush, inhabited by thousands of rabbits.”
Did you catch that folks? Thousands of rabbits. Appalling!
“David” continues. “There were so many rabbits, in fact, that the mascot for the local high school in a small town about halfway between Cinder City* and Tule* was actually ‘The Rabbits’. “
Again folks, do you hear what he’s saying? Innocent rabbits forced to endure mascot-ship!!
“Well, we used to get out on those empty back roads and fly at, like 80 and 90 miles per hour. There were so many jacks (editors note: jacks is a codeword for rabbits amongst those who practice this brutal sport.) it was pretty much impossible to make that drive without running over several jacks on each trip. You’d hear a big thud and that was it for the Easter Bunny. It was really kinda gross.”
There you have it folks, in “David’s” own words: kinda gross!!
The name of this brutal bloodsport? Driving!! Believe it or not, it’s happening right here in our own state. You may find this hard to believe but this vicious sport is legal in every state of the union and in virtually every country on earth.
All is not lost however. There is a movement in many urban areas to create automobile free zones called promenades, where only pedestrian traffic is allowed. Promenades currently comprise only a very small section of the landscape but it’s an idea whose time has come.
What can you do? Write you congressman and tell him that you want all the world to be a rabbit-safe promenade.
For more information log on to: www.kneejerkmorons.com. Let’s send a message to the “David’s” of the world that this slaughter must end.
*Not the actual name, for obvious reasons.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Lowest Form of Sensationalism
Here at the QuiXand Ranch, we breed race dogs. Whippets actually, and I probably shouldn’t say “we” because it’s really my better half that does all that. I mostly just keep the fields mowed and complain about the mess while she continues doing what we do here. My wife hates it when I brag her up but suffice it to say that some of he fastest Whippets in North America carry the QuiXand kennel name.
Dog breeding and dog racing are her passions and she has become very good at both. The racing consists of chasing a lure over a 200 yard sprint course or running around an oval track of about 300 yards, give or take. The dogs don’t much care, they just love to run. I’ll never forget the first time I saw her Whippets run; I was blown away by their Cheetah-like speed and grace. To be honest, I had no idea that dogs could do that.
There is a third sport that our dogs compete in called open field coursing and that sport involves chasing and yes, sometimes killing, jackrabbits. Recently KGO-TV in the San Francisco Bay area ran a story under the heading:
I-Team Uncovers Blood Sport In Bay Area Exclusive Investigation
By Dan Noyes
The story can be seen in its entirety at:
http://abclocal.go.com/kgo/story?section=i_team&id=3874872
Now I wasn’t born yesterday and this certainly isn’t my first experience with the sensationalistic garbage that passes for journalism these days but this piece is really over the top. They make some of the most caring animal people I’ve ever met look like a bunch of blood-thirsty lunatics. Check out the inane banter leading into the story.
I don’t want to get off on a rant here about how Enquirer-like the mainstream press has become or what a bunch of hypocritical idiots comprise the PETA leadership but suffice it to say that this is not an accurate representation of the people I know who participate in the sport. To be fair, I don’t think PETA had much to do with this story buy why pass up a chance to take a stab at those paint-throwing morons?
When I was a teenager, farmers in Idaho used to get a bunch of people together and drive all the jackrabbits they could find into a field and then form a line and walk the field clubbing them to death. Why? Because there was an overpopulation of rabbits that were destroying their livelihoods.
Now that was a barbaric practice that needed to stop and it did, though the reasons behind it were valid. But let’s not get so overly sensitive that we can’t tell the difference between animals doing what they do and clubbing baby seals in the arctic. There are things in-between, really.
The net result has been that the Grand Course, which was to be held in a couple of weeks, has been cancelled and the sport is virtually dead, at least for now. The Grand course is the culmination of an entire season of hunting by at least 175 dogs that participate in the sport. They compete all season long for the right to contend in the Grand Course and earn the title of being the best at what they were born to do.
Meanwhile, I’m amazed at the morons who jump on the outcry bandwagon. No wonder we have such a bunch of crooks running this country when American are so easily led by the nose. It seems that “outcry” is what we Americans do best.
Wouldn’t it be refreshing if “outcry” could be replaced in this country by rational debate and thoughtful discourse? Maybe we could look into things a little, ask a few questions and do a little research before we jump on the “outcry” bandwagon. Just start with a few baby steps like logging onto Wikipedia once in a while. I know, you may say I’m a dreamer...
Who knows what that could lead to? Maybe one day we could have an opinion about the actions of our Government without being singled out as disloyal and un-American. Maybe we’d find our collective conscience instead of the knee-jerk crying-out that currently passes for a conscience.
Would I like to be a Jackrabbit being pursued by a Whippet? Not on your life. But I wouldn’t much want to be a deer in a hunter’s crosshairs or a cow or a pig on your dinner plate either.
Dog breeding and dog racing are her passions and she has become very good at both. The racing consists of chasing a lure over a 200 yard sprint course or running around an oval track of about 300 yards, give or take. The dogs don’t much care, they just love to run. I’ll never forget the first time I saw her Whippets run; I was blown away by their Cheetah-like speed and grace. To be honest, I had no idea that dogs could do that.
There is a third sport that our dogs compete in called open field coursing and that sport involves chasing and yes, sometimes killing, jackrabbits. Recently KGO-TV in the San Francisco Bay area ran a story under the heading:
I-Team Uncovers Blood Sport In Bay Area Exclusive Investigation
By Dan Noyes
The story can be seen in its entirety at:
http://abclocal.go.com/kgo/story?section=i_team&id=3874872
Now I wasn’t born yesterday and this certainly isn’t my first experience with the sensationalistic garbage that passes for journalism these days but this piece is really over the top. They make some of the most caring animal people I’ve ever met look like a bunch of blood-thirsty lunatics. Check out the inane banter leading into the story.
I don’t want to get off on a rant here about how Enquirer-like the mainstream press has become or what a bunch of hypocritical idiots comprise the PETA leadership but suffice it to say that this is not an accurate representation of the people I know who participate in the sport. To be fair, I don’t think PETA had much to do with this story buy why pass up a chance to take a stab at those paint-throwing morons?
When I was a teenager, farmers in Idaho used to get a bunch of people together and drive all the jackrabbits they could find into a field and then form a line and walk the field clubbing them to death. Why? Because there was an overpopulation of rabbits that were destroying their livelihoods.
Now that was a barbaric practice that needed to stop and it did, though the reasons behind it were valid. But let’s not get so overly sensitive that we can’t tell the difference between animals doing what they do and clubbing baby seals in the arctic. There are things in-between, really.
The net result has been that the Grand Course, which was to be held in a couple of weeks, has been cancelled and the sport is virtually dead, at least for now. The Grand course is the culmination of an entire season of hunting by at least 175 dogs that participate in the sport. They compete all season long for the right to contend in the Grand Course and earn the title of being the best at what they were born to do.
Meanwhile, I’m amazed at the morons who jump on the outcry bandwagon. No wonder we have such a bunch of crooks running this country when American are so easily led by the nose. It seems that “outcry” is what we Americans do best.
Wouldn’t it be refreshing if “outcry” could be replaced in this country by rational debate and thoughtful discourse? Maybe we could look into things a little, ask a few questions and do a little research before we jump on the “outcry” bandwagon. Just start with a few baby steps like logging onto Wikipedia once in a while. I know, you may say I’m a dreamer...
Who knows what that could lead to? Maybe one day we could have an opinion about the actions of our Government without being singled out as disloyal and un-American. Maybe we’d find our collective conscience instead of the knee-jerk crying-out that currently passes for a conscience.
Would I like to be a Jackrabbit being pursued by a Whippet? Not on your life. But I wouldn’t much want to be a deer in a hunter’s crosshairs or a cow or a pig on your dinner plate either.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Happy or Not?
I’ve got writers block. Having recently found myself with some extra time on my hands, I’ve decided to concentrate on finishing the book that I’ve been half-heartedly working on for more years than I want consider. It feels good to be back at it and its moving along nicely, thank you. I’m getting pretty excited at the prospect of actually finishing a first draft. Those poor characters deserved better than to have their lives left hanging in limbo all this time.
No, my writers bock doesn’t have to do with the book, I’m glad to say, but with this little exercise in self expression, this blog thing. Every time I sit down to write a post I draw a total blank. Like I said in my first post, I’m very opinionated, so you’d think it wouldn’t be so hard. But it is.
I suspect that I may have reached that pinnacle of cynicism where, despite my strong beliefs in my correct opinions, I’m quite certain that no one really cares. Moreover, it is beyond impossible to change someone else’s opinion because they, like me, are married to them. And the things I’m so passionate about are the same things that people dig in the most about: politics and religion.
It seems that those are subjects where reason and rational thought get squeezed out of the picture by a real determination to hang on to your beliefs no matter what. And facts? They’re always in dispute in those arenas because no matter what you believe, there is someone spouting some pseudo-fact that will back up pretty much any ridiculous idea.
A friend once tried to convince me that it’s okay to believe anything you want, whether it’s true or not. I understand her point in that it really doesn’t matter that much what is or isn’t true because the world will just keep on spinning and people will do what they do and nothing really matters and what if it did. (Thanks to John Mellencamp for that line.)
“Do you want to be happy or do you want to be right?” she kept asking, since apparently those two concepts are well known to be mutually exclusive?
But back to my original point. Before this silly oil war started, I forwarded some information to pretty much everyone in my address book as to what I thought was an intelligent and worthwhile way to peacefully tell our government that we didn’t want to die to make Exxon (who just posted the largest quarterly profit in the entire history of the friggin’ world!) or Halliburton richer.
The shit storm that followed blew my mind! My friends and family are all nice, reasonable, rational people. They wouldn’t be my friends if they weren’t and my family is made up of some of the nicest people you’d ever want to meet. So how could they not see the truth of what I was telling them?
A friend started a message board where he posted all the message traffic and responses from the people I’d originally messaged plus a bunch of people that they forwarded to. I heatedly defended my absolutely correct position for a while until the futility of it all really began to sink in.
The war went forward and nobody’s mind was changed. If anything, people just entrenched themselves deeper in their positions and a lot of hard feelings pointing a lot of different directions resulted.
So, you tell me, dear reader, would you rather be happy or would you rather be right?
No, my writers bock doesn’t have to do with the book, I’m glad to say, but with this little exercise in self expression, this blog thing. Every time I sit down to write a post I draw a total blank. Like I said in my first post, I’m very opinionated, so you’d think it wouldn’t be so hard. But it is.
I suspect that I may have reached that pinnacle of cynicism where, despite my strong beliefs in my correct opinions, I’m quite certain that no one really cares. Moreover, it is beyond impossible to change someone else’s opinion because they, like me, are married to them. And the things I’m so passionate about are the same things that people dig in the most about: politics and religion.
It seems that those are subjects where reason and rational thought get squeezed out of the picture by a real determination to hang on to your beliefs no matter what. And facts? They’re always in dispute in those arenas because no matter what you believe, there is someone spouting some pseudo-fact that will back up pretty much any ridiculous idea.
A friend once tried to convince me that it’s okay to believe anything you want, whether it’s true or not. I understand her point in that it really doesn’t matter that much what is or isn’t true because the world will just keep on spinning and people will do what they do and nothing really matters and what if it did. (Thanks to John Mellencamp for that line.)
“Do you want to be happy or do you want to be right?” she kept asking, since apparently those two concepts are well known to be mutually exclusive?
But back to my original point. Before this silly oil war started, I forwarded some information to pretty much everyone in my address book as to what I thought was an intelligent and worthwhile way to peacefully tell our government that we didn’t want to die to make Exxon (who just posted the largest quarterly profit in the entire history of the friggin’ world!) or Halliburton richer.
The shit storm that followed blew my mind! My friends and family are all nice, reasonable, rational people. They wouldn’t be my friends if they weren’t and my family is made up of some of the nicest people you’d ever want to meet. So how could they not see the truth of what I was telling them?
A friend started a message board where he posted all the message traffic and responses from the people I’d originally messaged plus a bunch of people that they forwarded to. I heatedly defended my absolutely correct position for a while until the futility of it all really began to sink in.
The war went forward and nobody’s mind was changed. If anything, people just entrenched themselves deeper in their positions and a lot of hard feelings pointing a lot of different directions resulted.
So, you tell me, dear reader, would you rather be happy or would you rather be right?
Monday, January 30, 2006
In The Closet
Since I don’t really know where to go with the blog thing I’ll do the obvious and post some stuff I’ve already written. That way I get some content without really trying too hard. Pretty clever, huh?
Of course, I could always come up with some earth-shattering, life changing observations but I’m fresh out. There is a theory that says that if I just keep writing, I may inadvertently stumble into something earth-shattering, or at least not embarrassingly awful, so bear that in mind, dear reader, when the drivel gets too inane. In fact, you can take heart in the knowledge that you are playing a part in the creative process. See? You’re already wading through drivel.
Those of you who have already seen my one half-decent essay, bear with me, Its all I got! I like to call this little piece:
In The Closet
I read what Stephen Hawking had to say on the subject. Something about a Ping-Pong ball in a moving train and the earth’s speed relative to the sun and how, if my twin spent his life in space, he’d come back younger than me. Of course, I don’t have a twin and even if I did, it’s still a bit much to wrap my mind around. For me, it begins first thing every morning, this obsession with time.
It starts with my wife telling me to get up before I’m late for work and the kids to get up before they’re late for school. I guess it’s not really an obsession with time but rather an obsession with beating time, as if it were something to be conquered. My 16 year old son is eager to be 21 so he’ll be a grown up. My 15-year-old daughter can’t wait to be 16 so she can drive. Even I fall for it sometimes; I can’t wait until I have 30 years on the job so I can retire. We’re wishing our lives away, as my mother would say, and why? Out of some foolish notion that time is something we can beat?
I love to cook. My wife, on the other hand, well… cooking isn’t her thing. She hates it for the same reason I love it: because it can’t be rushed. It’s pure artistry to mix this ingredient and that, in just the right ways and in just the right amounts and then applies heat in just the right way and in just the right amount to create something new and wonderful. She doesn’t like to wait for that magical reaction so she turns the heat up thinking she can speed it along, but it doesn’t work that way. Instead of cooking faster it just singes the edges and leaves the middle raw, fringe on the eggs and raw yokes. Is there anything more American than that?
It seems to me that the things that can’t be rushed are the best things in life. Take this hardwood floor I’m sitting on right now. It’s been here, in this house for nearly a hundred years. And how long did it grow before it was chopped down, milled and yes, aged just right before it was turned into this floor, maybe another hundred years? This floor might have been an acorn during the Revolutionary War.
The truth is, nothing can really be rushed. It takes what it takes to do everything we do, even if we hurry. I can make love a little faster and I can make love a little slower (my wife’s preference) but it still takes what it takes. I can’t tell you what any of this has to do with that Ping-Pong ball or the age of my imaginary twin. I can only tell you that the leaves fall from the tree in autumn, which is a long way from April and there’s just nothing we can really do about that. When basketball season ends, we must suffer through endless baseball games, some relief finally coming with the start of football season before Stockton can yo-yo the belt high dribble one more season. Then we find out that time has expired on the yo-yo dribble too.
So here I sit, with the door closed and the voices of my family throughout the house sounding dim and distant. No one really knows where I am and to be honest, I don’t think anyone has even wondered. I’m glad that there is a light in here, not because I’m afraid of the dark, but so that I can admire the beauty of the wood on the floor.
Ice Cream is another thing that can’t be rushed. I don’t know how long it takes Ben and Jerry to pull this stuff together but I do know a thing or two about eating it. It comes out of the freezer hard as a rock, steaming cold. My spoon can’t penetrate so I must wait. I wait and watch and sometimes it seems to me that the edges get colder before they warm up, as if the coldness from the center must work it’s way up and out. I wait and watch and the more I watch, the longer it takes, the proverbial watched pot. Could this phenomenon have something to do with that Ping-Pong ball? Something about melting at a rate mathematically relative to how much it’s watched? Ouch, my brain!
Back to the subject at hand. Cherry Garcia if you must know, and yes; I intend to eat the whole pint. The edges finally soften and become creamy and it’s time to start working the spoon. Just peel off the soft creamy parts and wait for the rest to be ready. If the cherries are still frozen they don’t have as much flavor and everyone knows a flavor not tasted is lost forever. Now that would be a true tragedy. Maybe not as much of a tragedy as my daughter turning 16 and not getting her drivers license or my son turning 21 and not getting to gamble, but a tragedy nonetheless.
No, ice cream cannot be rushed. It is my job to see that tragedy is averted and that is why I sit here, alone, happy that I don’t have a twin.
Of course, I could always come up with some earth-shattering, life changing observations but I’m fresh out. There is a theory that says that if I just keep writing, I may inadvertently stumble into something earth-shattering, or at least not embarrassingly awful, so bear that in mind, dear reader, when the drivel gets too inane. In fact, you can take heart in the knowledge that you are playing a part in the creative process. See? You’re already wading through drivel.
Those of you who have already seen my one half-decent essay, bear with me, Its all I got! I like to call this little piece:
In The Closet
I read what Stephen Hawking had to say on the subject. Something about a Ping-Pong ball in a moving train and the earth’s speed relative to the sun and how, if my twin spent his life in space, he’d come back younger than me. Of course, I don’t have a twin and even if I did, it’s still a bit much to wrap my mind around. For me, it begins first thing every morning, this obsession with time.
It starts with my wife telling me to get up before I’m late for work and the kids to get up before they’re late for school. I guess it’s not really an obsession with time but rather an obsession with beating time, as if it were something to be conquered. My 16 year old son is eager to be 21 so he’ll be a grown up. My 15-year-old daughter can’t wait to be 16 so she can drive. Even I fall for it sometimes; I can’t wait until I have 30 years on the job so I can retire. We’re wishing our lives away, as my mother would say, and why? Out of some foolish notion that time is something we can beat?
I love to cook. My wife, on the other hand, well… cooking isn’t her thing. She hates it for the same reason I love it: because it can’t be rushed. It’s pure artistry to mix this ingredient and that, in just the right ways and in just the right amounts and then applies heat in just the right way and in just the right amount to create something new and wonderful. She doesn’t like to wait for that magical reaction so she turns the heat up thinking she can speed it along, but it doesn’t work that way. Instead of cooking faster it just singes the edges and leaves the middle raw, fringe on the eggs and raw yokes. Is there anything more American than that?
It seems to me that the things that can’t be rushed are the best things in life. Take this hardwood floor I’m sitting on right now. It’s been here, in this house for nearly a hundred years. And how long did it grow before it was chopped down, milled and yes, aged just right before it was turned into this floor, maybe another hundred years? This floor might have been an acorn during the Revolutionary War.
The truth is, nothing can really be rushed. It takes what it takes to do everything we do, even if we hurry. I can make love a little faster and I can make love a little slower (my wife’s preference) but it still takes what it takes. I can’t tell you what any of this has to do with that Ping-Pong ball or the age of my imaginary twin. I can only tell you that the leaves fall from the tree in autumn, which is a long way from April and there’s just nothing we can really do about that. When basketball season ends, we must suffer through endless baseball games, some relief finally coming with the start of football season before Stockton can yo-yo the belt high dribble one more season. Then we find out that time has expired on the yo-yo dribble too.
So here I sit, with the door closed and the voices of my family throughout the house sounding dim and distant. No one really knows where I am and to be honest, I don’t think anyone has even wondered. I’m glad that there is a light in here, not because I’m afraid of the dark, but so that I can admire the beauty of the wood on the floor.
Ice Cream is another thing that can’t be rushed. I don’t know how long it takes Ben and Jerry to pull this stuff together but I do know a thing or two about eating it. It comes out of the freezer hard as a rock, steaming cold. My spoon can’t penetrate so I must wait. I wait and watch and sometimes it seems to me that the edges get colder before they warm up, as if the coldness from the center must work it’s way up and out. I wait and watch and the more I watch, the longer it takes, the proverbial watched pot. Could this phenomenon have something to do with that Ping-Pong ball? Something about melting at a rate mathematically relative to how much it’s watched? Ouch, my brain!
Back to the subject at hand. Cherry Garcia if you must know, and yes; I intend to eat the whole pint. The edges finally soften and become creamy and it’s time to start working the spoon. Just peel off the soft creamy parts and wait for the rest to be ready. If the cherries are still frozen they don’t have as much flavor and everyone knows a flavor not tasted is lost forever. Now that would be a true tragedy. Maybe not as much of a tragedy as my daughter turning 16 and not getting her drivers license or my son turning 21 and not getting to gamble, but a tragedy nonetheless.
No, ice cream cannot be rushed. It is my job to see that tragedy is averted and that is why I sit here, alone, happy that I don’t have a twin.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Live From QuiXand Ranch
There's a line from a Don Henley song that says, "Like every young man, I had some things that I wanted to say. Ere I could begin, you know the world got in the way."
I used to think that line applied to me but these days I'm not so sure because I can't remember what it is that I thought I would say. Not that I'm not opinionated. And not that I don't feel pretty strongly that my opinion is the opinion. There are some pretty smart people, past and present, with other views and I just cannot understand why they don't see what I see, if they're so Godawful smart.
That's not really it either, though. I think it might be that none of it really matters in the big scheme of things. No matter what I say, or you say, or what virtually anyone else says, this war goes on, along with countless others that we've chosen not to care about. Earthquakes happen, cars crash, people lose their jobs or beat their children or jump off cliffs and nothing that I or anyone else has to say will change any of that.
Come to think of it, maybe that line does apply to me. Maybe it applies to all of us.
I used to think that line applied to me but these days I'm not so sure because I can't remember what it is that I thought I would say. Not that I'm not opinionated. And not that I don't feel pretty strongly that my opinion is the opinion. There are some pretty smart people, past and present, with other views and I just cannot understand why they don't see what I see, if they're so Godawful smart.
That's not really it either, though. I think it might be that none of it really matters in the big scheme of things. No matter what I say, or you say, or what virtually anyone else says, this war goes on, along with countless others that we've chosen not to care about. Earthquakes happen, cars crash, people lose their jobs or beat their children or jump off cliffs and nothing that I or anyone else has to say will change any of that.
Come to think of it, maybe that line does apply to me. Maybe it applies to all of us.
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