Good morning, Good night, I love you

Every morning and every night, my mother and father, told me they loved me. It was mostly my father in the morning because he was up when I went to school, sometimes driving me there, and he came in for prayers at night with my mother. At each end of the day, one or both of them said those words. Whether he dropped me off at school or said goodbye to me before I rode my bike to school, he said those words.

Love is a funny word. We said it for how we feel about the pizza we're eating. We say it with our favorite baseball team, music, food. We say it to people so they think we care, when all we really want is to convince them we 'care' enough so they will give us their bodies. Its a word sometimes used to bait what we want to catch. Especially as the night grows later at the bar we're sitting in.

Or, its a word that means-love. Men say it a lot. They need to mean it more.

It should be said in the morning to start the day and said to those we would take the hit for. We say it in the morning because we don't know what the day will bring, if that person we think of will ever be seen again.

We should say it at night, because the dawn is a long ways off. They should be the first words we hear and the last words before we slumber. We just don't know. You know?

If we can do this.....

I just heard this piece of equipment, Explorer I, just left the solar system last week. I also heard the computer system used to launch and run this baby in 1971 had less computer power than my cell phone. Scientist who did this used slide rules. For those of you that don't know what that is, when you look it up, the first thought you could have is WTF??

Now, here's a question, If we can send something like this across our known space, using gravity from planets to slingshot its way until it hit the edge of the block and then keep going, why do we struggle, even after all these years, with some other issues, such as-

• Couldn't we find a way to keep us from losing socks in the dryer? We put in two, get back one.

• This satellite was build when D cell batteries were in. Its traveled a gazzilion miles and its still running yet we can't build a battery for that computer size phone that fits in our pocket to last past noon.

• Along those same lines, can't we build a car that can go from here to our rental in San Diego on one battery charge?

• We still have floods and weather that wipe out cities and towns in low areas---then we build them back up in the same low areas----to get washed away again.

• They still haven't made an ice cream cone that doesn't leak from the bottom.

• A weed killer for that weed in your yard that has the little burr on it, which won't kill the other grass. The burr gets in  your socks and the bare feet of your dog.

• A washing machine that will wash the burr out without getting it stuck to your under dainties and the next time you put them on, the dog's foot is not what the burr is stuck to.

• We've all but done away with monkey bars on play grounds, the steel ones that leave a mark on an Arizona summer day. We need to bring those back.

• Tuna fish in a can WITH mayonnaise all mixed in.

•  A good fifty cent beer.

There are a few things that have been discovered or overused since 1971 that we really could do without.

• The Point after Touchdown.

• Men's make up. We are suppose to look like we've been in a bar fight with the ugly stick.

• Anything from Carl's Jr. $6 menu.

• And my top of the list item-Country Rap songs.

If I was President

 

‘If I was President,’ is a term we hear a lot these days. Frankly, I’ve heard it a lot throughout my years. Everyone has an opinion about what they would do if they were in charge of these here United States. It kind of depends what kind of mood I was in that would dictate what or how I would act. Yesterday, when I got home from work, I cut the lawn and worked out a bunch of stuff on the world level. An hour before that, a pitcher of beer was involved and the end of a week from hell at work doing whatever I do there was the start of the thought process.  

This morning, after a good night sleep, walking the dogs, and two cups of coffee, things seem a little more peaceful. Sure, there are world events, domestic issues, foreign policies that need work, but not this morning.

If I was President, I would get up and walk my dogs in the backyard in my sweats, under which I still have on my jammies. Secret Service would welcome me, standing right outside the door. “Good morning Mr. President,” Paul would say, all bundled in his winter coat. Paul pulled the night shift since he has only been with the Service for two years. He got the short straw.

“Good morning Paul,” I would say back. Juggling my dogs on leashes, the plastic grocery bag for the poo, and my coffee cup. I’m not sure why I have them on the leash. It’s not like they’re going anywhere and I wouldn't have anyone else pick up my dogs poo. What, the 'President can't pick up his own poo?' What kind of Italian roast would I be.? We would wander to the back lawn area, Paul already notifying the rest of the early morning crew that ‘Single-Malt One’ was on the move, heading to the back yard to throw the balls for Buckethead and Doc, two female rescued mutts.

The Service wants me to stay behind the bushes, standing out in the open allows for an easy shot from the street. I keep telling them I can’t get a good throw from there and it forces me to stand in the tulip bed. But I try to comply. But they know I have to go out and get the poo the dogs planted. I told the National Park Service guy, Teddy I think his name was, to leave a shovel by the hedge so I could pick the stuff up and put it in the bag. He told me he would get it. "You ain't picking up my dogs crap unless I'm not home and then only if I'm gone for a few days. I'll get it when I come back." The Service goes 'Yellow' when Single-Malt One goes out from cover to get the steamers in the yard. Paul wants me to run in a serpentine pattern. He rolls his eyes and tries not to laugh when I tell him to 'cover me.' He notifies the boys on the roof and they really are covering me. I drop the bag in the trash can on the way back in and put the shovel back.

There is a protester who is always there on closed off Penn Avenue between the perimeter gate and Lafayette Park, almost always living in his cardboard box with protest slogans written all over the outside. His been there for the last three presidents so I don’t take him too personally. “How you doing this morning Buck,” I yell. “You sleep okay last night?”

He waves back. He never says much, just waves, That’s pretty good.

I don’t stay long, much to the relief of the Service. After about three throws, the balls are so dog saliva slippery, it’s miserable to try to throw them. I come back inside and pour another cup then walk down to the Oval Office. I haven’t changed and I’m carrying the newspaper. I like reading at the desk,  splaying it out, seeing what Garfield’s doing today. That darned cat!  

I would go to the outer office where my secretary sits. She isn’t in yet. It’s too early. But I would start the coffee. They never figured out why the coffee was always made when the early office workers got there. They kept thinking it was each other. That is so funny.

I then would read something in the paper and want to make a phone call. Like this stuff going on in Kiev. I would call Vladimir. “Hey, Vladimir—Mark. I know you’re still pissed at the hockey outcome—what? Hey, ya hairless bastard, quit your crying, a bet is a bet. You kick our ass for years in that sport and we win one game and you go all French. Stop it. Hey, why don’t you call those protest leaders and tell them you want to talk? Because it’s the right thing to do, that’s why. Do you see the press you’re getting? Okay, yeah, I’m at my desk drinking coffee, so?” I would then call the North Korean kid and when he answered, hang up. That just cracks me up. Sometimes, I would call him just to say 'hi' and ask him how his meal the night before was. I would always make sure I mentioned what it was. Just as he was screaming into his phone at me asking me how I knew what he had, I would hang up again.

After the calls, I would see what was on sale at Target, but only if it was the Sunday paper. By then, it would be time for a little private time in the bathroom. I would use the one right off the Oval Office. I don’t want to walk all the way back to the apartment.

By the time I was done, the coffee would be done and I'd go get another cup for the walk back. It’s time to change for the day. I’m sure there is a bunch to do. My advisors keep wanting me to quit swearing so much. I tell them I am trying, but sometimes people groups just need to be told their stupid. They didn’t like it when the National Organization of Benevolency in Government said they were ‘personally appalled’ at what I said earlier in the year about something that escapes me now and my response was I was sorry their mothers had collectively dropped them too many times on their heads when they were young. My advisors wanted me to watch those kinds of comments. It made their jobs kind of messy.

Yeah, so, that’s kind of what I would do, at least in the early morning, if I was president. Now, for the morning and afternoon. Hmmm

 

A demand for equal rights!!!!

Tomorrow, I am having a ‘surgical procedure.’ I have found, in this society, we have political names for things, things we don’t want to call what they really are. For example, in the military, we call it an ‘insertion’ when we land ten divisions of heavily armed combat troops into someone’s back yard. An ‘extraction’ is when we take more than one, but less than everyone out. ‘Surgery’ is a term for a full blown ‘we are going inside with a plan. Not sure if the plan will work but it looks good on paper, hopefully while you stay in a twilight state of not caring.’ A ‘surgical procedure’ is somewhere between ‘hey, let me give you a shot for what’s wrong’ and ‘what the hell is that?’ I’m having one of those tomorrow morning.

Funny thing about these things, we will call it ‘SP’ since I don’t want to keep spelling it out, there is a lot more preparation before said procedure than other medical events. For example, if you needed a new knee, they would tell you to pack a bag and don’t eat before the schedule event. Boom! Easy peasy. But with these ‘SP's’ you need to start days before, getting your body ready for the event.

You have to drink stuff. You have to drink stuff at the same time you are not suppose to be eating and drinking other stuff. Of course, the stuff you have to consume is manufactured to elicit a certain result. If it doesn’t work you got to do it that hard way, which of course, no one wants to talk about, but it involves the doctor in hip boots and a full helmet complete with splash guard. So? Isn’t that what we are paying him for? Just because he doesn’t want to get a little splash on his Cole Haan’s doesn’t mean I should be drinking and doing stuff that really does not fit into any goodwill movie.  

And what’s with the name of these things? Sure, I understand seriousness. No one wants to really joke around when you are trying to link up two railroads like the Transcontinental Railroad at Promontory Summit, one from the east and one from the west if you get my metaphor. But come on, how about a little levity? Instead of something so pompous as ‘Sup-prep, notric preparation kit, 800mg sodiumtasteslikemyass, we could give the client the same head’s up as well as probably being more clear about the events to come. The label above gives you no indication of what this SP involves. But there are other names that really describe life yet to come,  a name like ‘My God, What’s happening to Me!, Colon Blo, Shipwreck Island, Turn Me Inside Out,’ or my favorite ‘Get Out of My Way’, something that mimics the taste and actions that occur twenty four hours in front of a very expensive nap. Sure, they tell you nothing about the taste, other than you might want to drink lots of water with the chemical put together by a group of scientists from MIT who were all diagnosed with Asperger’s. They avoid the description of it tasting like rancid bull urine.

Look, all I’m saying is have some equal time, okay? If you were having a bunion taken from the side of your big toe, the doctor isn’t going to tell you he is using a hammer and chisel and he wouldn’t make you bring your own Stanley claw hammer with rubberized Sur-Grip@ and, depending on your insurance, your own chisel. Nope, so why can’t we just show up and let things ‘fly?’

Now, if you wouldn’t mind getting out of my way, I need another cup of green jello.

 

 

I know this is long. I know some of you, if you see ‘cont’d’ you dump it, but hang in there. It’s the holidays. It’s not like you have anything else going on.

Christmas is a funny time of year. It is designed to be one of the two happiest seasons for ‘Christians.’ For the rest, it’s all about family, friends, shopping, singing, sweaters, and kisses under the mistletoe. It’s to never be alone and to have someone you care about, care about you, touch you, be with you, focus on, well, you.

Christmas is also one of the highest time for suicides because all that stuff listed doesn’t happen, not the way we think and we blame each other, god, or worse—ourselves for it. People’s reality do not live up to their expectations. When you think about it, it never really does.  If we just had a better upbringing, one more break, straighter teeth, we would have made our dreams come true. Then, we can’t carry that flaw in the plan ourselves so we look around and say ‘see? its that IRA you made me invest in, that truck we bought, mother's death, or that god you made me believe in and pray chants to as a kid and he had all these expectations of me and I so lost it.' The god that punished us, had us wear tight shoes, recite versus’ to make us holy, and was always----always, disappointed in us. At least that’s what our ministers, parents, friends always told us. ‘God is so disappointed in you. He is shaking his big white wigged head. You make him so sad.’

No wonder people flee religion. They should when it teaches that.

There are just a couple of things, so stay with me. First, have a nice Christmas. Understand it will not go according to your plan. Be fluid. Be flexible. Find someone worse off and reach out and help them-but do it coolly---don’t let them know it was you when you pay their gas bill, buy them groceries, or fix something broken! This will give you a feeling like what my friend Cyrano said “…I have the heart of ten men….”

Second, when you get sad or melancholy, which I do—a lot, wait on it. Take a walk, go for a run, bike ride, talk to someone. Dogs are perfect for this. They have the perfect heart to hear all your stuff and love it when you share. They will listen to every word and even answer. Don’t go smoke a crack pipe and peyote with a gin shooter. All that does is make you throw up. Christmas is not about buying crap. The stores want us to think so, but it’s really about looking around and seeing what is there. There was a sunrise two days ago that was the most beautiful sunrise I had ever seen—ever. Of course that means there is likely xylene or benzene or something in the air that will shorten your life span or at least your height, but don’t think about that. At that moment, I was glad the toxins were there. It was pretty.

Third, and hear this carefully. I believe in God. Those of you that know me, know this. You also know I don’t beat you up with it. But I want you to hear this with the image of me holding you by your shirt and looking in to your sad, depressed eyes from six inches away. Don’t worry, I Tic-Taced.

There is a God. But here is what you might not believe-he loves you just the way you are, period (insert image of me softly shaking your shirt with both hands). He knows you are screwed up, messed up, and have been so for decades, and will be for decades more—until you die. Get in line with the rest of us. You will fight to the end, that thing you have in the back of your dark closet in your mind. That issue—those issues that have dogged you, He has known since before he spun the planet.

He will wait on you.

If you want or need, he will hold you in His lap for the rest of your life, doing nothing but whispering in your ear “I have you child, I am so in love with you! Stay right here and I will rock you gently in my arms—forever.” You will dare to believe the whisper and begin to sit up, then want to stand—then want to try that bike again, forgetting about Dad and wanting to try it alone.

We run. Sometimes fully knowing we are running from whatever image we have been taught about God. Here’s the problem, He is right at our shoulder, never leaving our side. “So, where are we running to?” He says with a smile as you are trying to run your life, you’re in charge, can’t trust anyone with me, they will screw it up and only I can love me, or something like that. He doesn’t have a ‘making fun of you smile’, just a smile that alone says everything. “How is this sprint going for ya? You tired of carrying this piece of Samsonite on your back while you try to run? I gotta tell ya, that load has to be, well I don’t know if you know it but its full of bricks. Not even nice looking bricks, odd shaped ones, not much good for anything except to, well, maybe fill a hole. How’s that hole fillin’ coming? Wanna run some more? Don’t worry about me, I’m not winded yet. You look a little, well, blue. Actually, it’s kind of a purple hue you got going there. Especially right around the lips. And did you notice you peed your pants a little? Is that ringing in your ears still there? Legs, now they gotta be tired. Want to sit down? No? Okay, you say ‘when.’”

Then you run some more.

It is He who will run next to you and make sure when you do fall, oh and we all fall-=a lot, it isn’t going to destroy you. Day in, day out.

Dare to believe the God of the Universe, the one prophets and historians and theologians have written about more than any other thing in history, is actually true. Dare to believe that God is in love with you, right now, right where you are, in your dirty clothes and runny nose. In all your grossness, He sees only his child, with total, unimaginable love and perfect form.

Yeah, I know, I can’t believe it either at times.    

Merry Christmas

Really? Do I really need one?

I am sitting at a stop light, in the fifth largest city in the United States (we passed Philadelphia last year), when I looked to my left and there, on the street corner, was the free enterprise system at work. A man was selling ‘cat trees’ out of the back of his truck. These were not your ordinary cat trees-no way. They were the Sequoia of trees, the red wood of cat climbing, well, things. Covered in fine carpet ruminants and containing perches and tunnels two to three meters off the ground to simulate the feline’s prior life as a huntress in the great forests, Serengeti’s,  and apparent living rooms of millenniums past.

Here’s a question, why do we want to promote such behavior with an animal?

Now don’t write hate-o-grams to me about cats being like people and they make great pets. Yes, I admit, I am not a cat lover. But I will defend your rights to own one. But do we really want to allow a cat, who apparently once hunted living things, and apparently lived high enough that when they are on a well, let’s say a book case ‘two to three meters’ high, they apparently can’t be seen by the animal they are hunting and will jump down and smite the passing victim? Do we really want to have this animal get in touch with its ‘roots’ and have that son of a bitch jump out of a used carpet/cardboard thing and have some PTSD thing on our skulls?

If we’re going to do that, we run the risk of being mistaken for some passing water buffalo and Tom thinking it’s a friggin Bengal tiger, not to mention that damn tower falling over when you always least expect it and render us unconscious, thereby allowing Tom to come up and eat our eye balls out, then go lay down and clean himself.

By god my dogs don't do that! You won’t see them jumping out of a bookshelf. No way, they have the recliner or the pillow on the couch next to master. And they don’t clean anything unless 1) it tastes good 2) it feels good and 3) why would they clean it off? They will just have to roll in it again tomorrow?

I was playing golf this morning, early morning and quite badly I might add. I hadn’t killed anyone and was able to keep the ball near the fairway. Here, about one hundred yards out, in the middle of the fifth largest city in the Americas, loped a coyote. At least it looked like a coyote at one hundred yards. When we got closer, it looked like a dog with some coyote in him, a product of some West Virginia/Appalachian relationship. A well fed coyote. Apparently, the coyote found a food supply. He wasn’t jumping out of trees. Nope, he found himself some morning sun and laid in it while watching me slap a little white ball passed him. I think he laughed, while he licked himself and then fell asleep in the warm sun.

There wasn’t a cat tree around.

Sacred Time before Dawn and two Sleepy Dogs

We are coming up on a sacred time and place in the next two weeks.

Its the morning of Thanksgiving, along about a half hour before the sun comes up. That's about 5:30 Phoenix time to be exact. The house is quiet, the dogs get me up, we all go out to get the paper, pee in the front yard, and come back in for our coffee. The dogs like theirs with cream and Spenda, much like me. They have no thumbs so they share from my cup. We do a quick walk and ball throw, breakfast for them, then they go back to bed.

I have work to do.

About 6, after a quick second cup, I begin the assembly of Thanksgiving. As tradition has it for the Williams men, we start our prep time with a wee dram of some fine scotch. Its not much of a tradition, actually, I kind of just modified one of my older brother's lead where he drinks some of the cooking sherry he uses when he makes the stuffing. A hit for the celery and carrots, a hit for the cook. Easy peasy. The only time he ever drinks it is Thanksgiving so the bottle is about half empty and about seven years open on the shelf. Me-well, if you're going to drink in the morning and its not under the 7th Avenue bridge with two guys named 'Moby' and "Hot Fork" sharing a bottle of Thunderbird, you should be drinking some good stuff.

Problem is with all the kids grown and the actual celebration now over at someone else's house, custom has it the home team makes the turkey. That would leave me with mashed potatoes, about twenty pounds worth. That means standing at the sink skinning and cutting them up for the big pot. Clearly that is not something you need to get up at the butt crack of dawn for. Furthermore, if I sleep in and then start the aforementioned program, that just seems wrong, like I AM either Moby or Hot Fork.

And there is a decorum to marry what you drink to what you are building. For example, turkey or ham and their preparation are always married to the whiskeys-American, Scotch, or those bastards on their own island-the Irish. You also are allowed to mix these whiskeys since they are all, well, whiskeys, especially at O-Dark-Thirty. Drinking glasses are of course optional. Vegetables and their associates, cranberries, may be prepared with either red or white wines. Dessert pies are assembled with coffee and Kahlua, pastries are created and made with anything an Italian general would drink after they surrender. The heavy carbohydrates like rolls and potatoes (yams or russet) take on Southern Comfort, bloody Mary's, and if your Russian or from anywhere in the Ukraine or the island Baltics you have your vodkas and ouzos. Beers are reserved for our friends with South American cultures and anyone in a union.

So, it could just be me, the paper, a couple of drowsy dogs, and a bottle of seventeen year old scotch I stole from a dear friends wake. Its okay, he would have been proud I did so.

I wonder how it would go in my coffee?

Crap, Will, what do we do now?

The new movie, Gravity, is out. It takes us to one of those 'Oh, shit' days in a person's life. I don't really like to swear when I blog or write. I think it can cheapen what you are writing. But there are, sometimes, just the right combination of blue words that are short, sync, and to the point like no other. Sometimes, one or two of these bad boys says it all.

They are usually understated, these statements of exclamation, sometimes carried along with words you hear long shoremen use. Your space ship blows up and you simply say "Crap, Will, what do we do now?"  or "Houston, we have a problem," In reality, there are a many of them we have all heard.

Tom Hanks has a couple-" I will see you on the beach." from Saving Private Ryan, or the movie Silverado where the bad sheriff answers the man's question of 'What's goin' to happen now, sheriff?" with the line 'Hide and watch.' Or my favorite line, which happens to be from a book, where the hero is dying and he looks up at the bat crap crazy female mass murderer and says "Come here and fight like a man, you bitch."

We each have our own special words. My former supervisor could use the F-bomb in every part of the sentence, including the direct and indirect object. At gift I just proudly used in Looking for Indianola.

So, as we enter this holiday season, remember your coupons, don't park in a handicapped slot unless  you have a sticker, I don't care if you will only be a minute, and watch our mouths around everyone.

Actually, its all good if you just say it with a smile.

The Other Bucket List

There is this whole ‘bucket list’ thing people do, things they want to do before they "kick the bucket." Fun things, accomplishments, facing fears and smiling at those fears, those kind of things.

What about a bucket list of things we absolutely never want to even touch before we die? A bucket list of things that we want to avoid-at all cost. Yeah, you gotta think about that one, huh? And you can’t pick things like stomach cancers or some slow debilitating disease. We don’t have choices on those. They just show up. I’m talking about things we can or can not chose.

Like going to a hookah bar and smoke something. This was some new trend my son’s generation came up with and I hope it dies with the baggy pants. Why would I want to go put my lips on a pipe that someone else had their cankered covered lips on? And what exactly are we smoking that can beat a good $5 cigar from Tony's on Central?

I don’t want to ever be in a bar fight. At my age, I would have to cheat. I would have to do something early in the fight, some shock and awe thing, or I would die. If I missed, if I wasn't fast enough, I can’t call time out and hope they honor it. Besides, what is there to get so ramped up about that a good scotch couldn't settle?

I don’t want to ever go to a rap concert, although rap is dying out and being replaced with something else. I can tell it would be too loud and they wouldn’t have single malt scotch. They would have blended which is just wrong and everyone there would be wearing their baseball caps sideways. That just bugs me.

I don’t want to go to watch the Olympic Games, at least not pay for the tickets. If someone gave me tickets, I would probably go. The best seats are always my couch. “But it’s the Olympics,” I can hear the pleas. If I went, I would want to go to one of the minor competitions, like something between the country of Georgia and Guam. I would want to try to make them feel good about being from there.

Along those same lines, I don’t want to ever go to a Super Bowl. Still the best seats are in my house, but also no one really watches the Super Bowl except for the commercials and they don’t have those at the game. Just really expensive hot dogs.

I don’t want to go elk or deer hunting. I don’t mind others who like that, that’s fine. But I’m in this whole fairness season of my life and just think sniping an elk at three hundred yards with a bullet that makes no noise before impact is cheating. Now, I would go and even orchestrate a trip to hunt elk under the rules that you have to sneak up on them and slap a “I 

 NY” bumper sticker on its rump before it could tear me in half with his rack of antlers.  Or even paint balling one with bright orange paint.  It would be even more of a challenge if we did all this to a momma grizzly and her cub. There could be some good times there.

I don’t think I will ever vote for the State Mine Inspector. Not unless I know the person. I will always leave that box unchecked.  

Body waxing-really? Who came up with the idea of slathering on medicinal grade wax on a hairy part of your body, imbed some gauze in it, and then ripping it off once it hardens? Now, I know some men are right out of the Planet of the Apes series, but that's why they made safety razors.

This is just some ideas. You probably have your own. I am sure they will change like the wind but this isn't a bad start.

Some things just don't change.

Decades ago, when it rained, boys in their black Converse would take their Forestall class carriers to the flooded gutter, the wood island, holding eight penny nails for radar and communication antennas. Boys would ease the two feet of two by four pine from their father's last project and in the midst of the downpour and occasional lightening strikes, and while the shoes filled with warm dirty water, the boys would play until the keel of their ship hung up on the shallow sea.

Fast forward thirty years and the boy has grand children. His shoes are Asics instead of Converse, instead of tube socks he wears, well, tube socks, and his carrier has graduated a foot to a Reagan class complete with rusted nails along its gunnel's for Phalanx anti-missile defense, causing the depth of her keel to sit a little lower than her predecessor. But rain in the gutter and a simple board has become the imagination of thousands of boys-no matter their age.

Storms are rare in Phoenix. Deep gutters are even rarer, especially deep seas that move a ship to just before being swallowed by the city's underground. Only thing missing is a Wienerschnitzel Coke.

Oh boy, here we go!

I think there are several things that rise to the top of the creamy soup heading in to this time of year, this time of year being the Christmas season. Yes, you heard me, the Christmas season. Look, as soon as Walgreens and Costco put out the Nativity and Santas’ that look like gnomes, it’s time to break out the sweat shirts, wool socks, and we can all stop shaving our legs. I don’t care if it is still so hot outside you get butt chaffing, ‘tis the damn season and we need to be ready for it, like it or not!!!

Like I was saying, a couple of important things this time of year. First, set a budget you can easily break without losing sleep. Every year, sometime around 2:24 and 2:37am, I start waking up in a cold sweat worrying about whether I paid the power bill or overlooked them when I bought the “Johnny Rockets, Ghetto Commander Action Troll Dolls—‘as seen on TV’.” If you have a budget that you have room to bend a little like day old pasta, you should be fine.

Another item is boundaries. Somewhere around Thanksgiving, people start bugging us like left over cereal milk left in the front seat of your car. Once you break that thin seal of slime on top, the odor of the true contents waft over you and you are smelling it for a week. Set boundaries. Just say no, to anyone who wants to visit for anything over a forty-eight hour window, especially if they smell like stagnant milk left in a car. If they’re nice, then play it by ear, but don’t force it. Find them a nice Motel 6 nearby and arrange a visitation schedule. Allow them to bring food to the dinner. Better yet, just have them give money.

Pet your dog.

Practice singing Christmas carols with the wrong words. Then, when you’re standing in line at Starbucks, you crank out the wrong lyrics. You have, in just those few seconds, set a course for those around you for the rest of the day. They will have that tune you created in their head for the rest of the day, maybe even changing your lyrics into their own. Sometime late in the afternoon, they will look up the real lyrics on this here computer because they forgot them. Now that is seasonal fun!!

Remember, songs, dog, boundaries, and breakable budget. If you do, you should be fine.  

God is a playful God

God is a playful god. He really is. God LOVES to play.

He loves Rascal Flats' version of Life is a Highway and to drive fast on the freeway to it with the top down. He loves pasta with a cream sauce. He invented Mexican food, the chimichanga, the margarita, the mild salsa. God loves fresh air and to run sales on air compressors and purses on the same weekend, causing couples to discuss which store they go to first for Saturday shopping. He loves it when I pretend I'm a pirate, or when we drink scotch together-he loves that.

So, when there is a concern about a reservation blowing up on this trip I'm on, He knows it taps red buttons all over my control room board. He decides to, well, play. The picture above is the view from the place we are staying in on the island of St. Lucia. We will spend another week at this place we were here two years ago. The small cove a thousand feet below is the actual resort. That was suppose to be where we stayed. Until Dad decided to turn down the new George Strait song He was listening to and play with his little boy.

He and I have an agreement. I will fight to listen and trust him if he promises to never stop teaching, holding, standing with, and never--ever leaving me. We are doing pretty good. But this one is just a smile producer. I would like to think if I was a dad and could do this, I would have thought of it. Being God, He has that advantage. Instead of the really really nice villa we were thinking blew up and the reservation got so messed up we were going to be in a tent on the beach selling my underwear for canned rations, He found this shack of a view--a little higher on the hill. It consists of two buildings, terraces, its own pool, and that crap of a view.

Yep, you need to be careful when God decides to play. The smile it could produce sometimes causing cramping around the cheeks.

"I mean to take you in Ned, dead or alive. What'll it be?"

It’s funny when you put an old man on a horse. When you put an old man who use to ride, who could ride a horse, saddle a horse, and you take him down to a tropical island and give him--a horse. Today, Shan (without a w) finally came through with the horses we were supposed to ride Monday. Shan turned it over to Nick, who turned it over to Joseph who turned it over to---------------. A Rastafarian shrouded, barefoot man with at least six ‘I’s and two ‘Y’s in his name. I called him ‘Boss.’

There were five of us, two Americans, two from England, and Boss. Boss rode with his hair in a rasti head knitted cap of green and black and red stripes, a pair of Miami Heat shorts and barefoot.  The horses were not large, except one, a quarter horse named G-Man. The woman from England got him. The two from England were concerned about their rides, the man never wanting to do anything other than walk. He had never ridden a horse before today. He was a nice fellow. Quite content to walk the ninety minutes and talk about the Olympic Games. The Americans, well, we watch movies like True Grit, A Fist Full of Dollars, Silverado, Broken Trail, and a handful of others. The Americans were not east coasters either, nope. We were from the southwest where deer and antelope roam. Where you ride your pony around barrels or dare them to buck you off, or-and I say this with all seriousness, like you’re in front of the Light Brigade! Sure, I picked a British regiment and sure, all but two of the six hundred in that famous poem during the Boar War died. It’s a damn metaphor. Stay with me here.

My pony was named—Silver.

Yep. You can see it coming, can't you?

Boss takes us out and down two beaches, devoid of all life. No one on these beaches except us. You could land a plane and take off again on these things. The idea was to allow us to run. First, he turned to the proper Brit who was sitting properly with her arms out and back straight. Just like she would have on a fox hunt. Boss looked at the man who waived off the run and then he turned to the woman who properly began to cantor—just like a fox hunt, riding up and down in the saddle—arms out---proper.

Then it was my turn.

Every American boy I grew up with wanted to be a cowboy. Some did. Some pretended. Some adopted parts of that role, wove it into their lives and memory and tucked it away for, well­-days like today.

The reins were too short to tuck into my teeth-I tried, allowing me to reach for my pretend six-shooter in one hand and shotgun in the other as I rode towards the fictional bandits headed by Robert Duvall and his cronies. When Boss looked at me and waved his arm for me to go, I could feel Silver, aware of someone on his back who maybe had some brass and wanted to run. I am also sure my new friend thought he might get lucky and toss his rider. somewhere on this abandoned beach. Sorry, that is the dream of every trail horse.

With some heeled encouragement and a light spur of the reins and my best, guttural ‘Yeeaah’ Silver shot like a rocket out of the gate at Del Monte. The last words Boss said that I could hear before the two hundred yard, on the beach, in the surf run was finished was a weak ‘not so fast’.

He never heard my “High-O Silver, away!!!” Yep, you know I had to.

We got to the old fort, passed the houses on the beach, the burned out bar, and the apartment complex with no power. We looked out from the ramparts over the throat of the harbor of St. Johns and then turned the horses for home. You could take your hands off the reins and they would find their way back. Two hours of an hour and a half scheduled ride.  Island Time again. We dismounted and took some pictures, thanked and tipped Boss and then headed back to our prospective lodgings.  Before I left, I walked back to Silver, who was eating grass along the curb. He lifted his head and I scratched the bridge of his nose. Our brown eyes looked at each other, still measuring each. I thought for just a minute the horse, if he could, might have said.

“You, you still have some brass.” It made me smile.

I whispered in his ear, so no one but my horse could hear, “High-O Silver, away.”

St. Johns and Island Time

We went into the capital city of St. Johns yesterday. Not to be mistaken for the island of St. John, this one is where they park the cruise ships. Our taxi, spelled on the island- ROGER, took us there. He told us that’s how we are to spell the word while here and I am not a person to argue.

St. Johns is just like a port town. It lives for the tourist. No tourist, shops are shut and boarded up. Not a lot of natives on the island need a Rolex watch or a $28 bottle of fifteen year old Glenlivet. 

It was sad, really because our ROGER dropped us off right at the throat of the dock where the cruise ship was disgorging its load of passengers. We didn’t want to be associated with the ship, we didn’t want to be one of them, but in fact, we were. We moved away and into the streets as soon as we could, finding a small area of crooked doors, curry smells, some water-like substance running in the gutters, and mangoes spread out on dirty towels on the sidewalk hoping a passing tourist would offer a few cents for one.

Bob Marley was blaring everywhere. I was thinking the locals figured that’s what the tourists wanted to hear, when in fact, most of the tourists couldn’t tell you who Bob was.

Hemingway's Grill, one would hope, somehow would beg the question that the great writer spent time on this island and I think he did. Just not at this restaurant since it was founded in 1986 according to the sign. But it offered a great overview of the intersection where the two worlds-island and everyone else, met. A grilled cheese and tomato sandwich and a view of the street with all its sounds, smells, Marley, and of course the Kino Palace Casino were on full display.

The Kino Palace is not a palace. Not sure it was even a casino. I realize if it was airlifted and placed in downtown Phoenix, it would be entered only with a tactical team in Kevlar and safeties off.  Here, its where you go to play Kino, drink some rum, smoke something and enjoy the day.

In the Caribbean, there is definitely island time. For example, as I write this, I am sitting on our second floor patio. Across from me is another building with its second floor stairwell, a circular stucco structure, facing me. I can see it from the bottom to the landing on the second floor-solid stucco. The man started two days ago to paint it. He started on one side and worked his way around from the bottom to as high as he could reach. It wasn’t high enough and, with about two feet to go on the bottom, he ran out of paint in the tray.

That was two days ago.

Island time---no problem.

Rain

Today's message will be a little short. Apparently, while I was first mating the Zorro yesterday, I got SUNBURNED ON THE BOTTOM OF MY FEET!! Hmm Should make walking fun today!

It rains during the night here. Convenient for the tourist industry, unless you have tourists from Arizona who, with the threat of rain or a down pour like to skip through the water puddles naked. Just before dawn, it came in and washed the grounds free of the sins of the day before.

I'm not a bird fan unless you count a bird that can carry away small dogs or loud obnoxious children, but the birds here are on the edge of coolness. Small guys with flaming red feathers, yellow breasts, feathers that stick up straight out of the top of their heads. Birds that say 'CAW'. Birds that can say that are birds from the movies that you hear as you cut your path through the jungle on the way to the lost palace.

If you want to come to the Caribbean, I can recommend this place. You have to be ready to relax. A lot of us say we can do that, but it is not our nature. Drinking rum punches helps. Walking on the beach helps. Writing from a quiet patio with a cup of joe helps. But it is a focused effort.

Maybe skipping in a water puddle......

Sailing with Cap'n!

There is only one way to see a Caribbean island, in particular, Antigua. That is with Cap'n Nash aboard is twenty-two foot boat-Zorro.


Open sea, the boat bending to the wind so you are sitting in your seat actually standing on the seat across from you due the list of the boat. Wind, spray, chop of the waves, all added up to wanting to scream out something with the word 'arg' in the middle of the sentence. This was the only way to do this land justice.

As we cruised the coast, large catamarans passed us with loud music and people dancing on their deck. Like it was a mission to go from here to there, where ever there was. Ours, well, after the first cove, I could feel myself relax and after some snorkeling and more coves, I could feel myself composing a letter in my head to my boss, telling him I fell and broke my back in three places and would not be back to work---ever.

Cap'n Nash, or 'Cap'n' to his new close friends, even allowed me to steer. The man had to set anchor and this little boy got to take the helm. "Aye aye Cap'n," I said with a very good English accent and a tip o' me cap with just the index and thumb fingers. I even had a twitch developing in one eye like it needed to be covered with a patch.  I did so well, he let me moor it coming back. Standing at the tiller, mist and spray in my eyes, my hat turned backwards, awaiting orders from Cap'n standing on the bow, fearful of doing something that would put him in the water and absolutely no ability to turn and get him. Fearful images of the boat sailing off until it hit something solid to stop it, like the gulf coast of Texas.

It was a grand day. Sailing like I'm sure some ancient ancestor of mine did when they went across  Saguaro Lake. 

The tranquility of rum

 

There is something about rum that causes religion to make sense. A rum punch for example, is or should be the drink one gets before they enter the Christian heaven. Christians can drink, so that applies. Rum is the base, the foundation-the catalyst of what is all that is holy and just. If there is a way to get the world leaders, who piss each other off, to sit on a beach chair under a cabana shade, with a fresh rum punch from the Coconut Grove in Antigua, within fifteen minutes there would be hand-shakes. Within thirty minutes, there would be back slapping and laughter. After forty five minutes, the two parties would be singing songs from each other’s country and making fun of their own country’s policy on endangered species.

 But…..

If you were to drink rum straight, without the flavor of a ‘punch’ whatever the hell that includes, what would that look like?  I talked about Kenny Chesney’s song yesterday. I didn’t talk a lot because I still needed to do some critical research about rum, of course. What would the difference be between rum punch and it being served neat? I set about doing the research and discovered that world peace could be obtained via this liquor.

While sitting on my beach chair, trying to write/edit two books, I came to the conclusion that life without this drink is life without, well-peace, tranquility, freedom, did I say peace? The trick is the little spice crap they sprinkle on it. It could be black tar heroin- this spice, a combination of nutmeg, cinnamon and something else,  but if black tar heroin tastes like this, they need to legalize it!

Now, about the horses.

You might remember I mentioned Shan, my new found friend, we met on the beach wearing a used red t-shirt and a flotation device, was going to bring horses today. I met him on the beach and gave him $50 for a deposit for the $120 horseback ride—today. Sure, I met him on the beach and sure, he looked like someone holding a cardboard sign on the corner of the freeway and the Camelback off ramp, but there was something.

Okay, so those of you making bets the horses weren’t going to show up, might still not be able to collect. Shan’s boss, Nick, showed and said they had the wrong date. We rescheduled for Thursday. So, we have to postpone the collection on bets until later this week, unless you had pretty tight bets holding to tight accounts of who shows or doesn’t show.

Okay, so tomorrow’s mission is to sail with Cap’n Nash and see the world from under. I’m banking this white boy will have first and second degree burns on his white body, totally justifying medicinal island recipes.

That just means more rum. I’m working not only its political benefits but medicinal benefits as well!!!

 Gosh I love sacrificing myself for God and Country!!! 

Kenny Chesney may be right

We left Miami with a send off by the Russian cab driver. As least I thought he was Russian, or maybe from Georgia, or Slovenia or someplace that sounded, well, Russian. Actually, he was from Brazil. I was close. As we dodged in an out of traffic, my hand firmly gripping the overhead hand rail and noticing the turn signal, a unique instrument often used for signaling lane changes to warn other drivers you are thinking about moving into their occupied space, had cobwebs on it, he talked about his migration to the United States and about his dead father, which he started to get choked up over. I have no problem with that and would love to have spent time at a bar talking about Dad-dom but at the present time, I really wanted him to focus on the fact he was twenty-five miles over the speed limit, looking at me in the rear view mirror while talking, and answering the phone, of course speaking in Russian.

Sunday, yesterday, was a walk to the store. It was about a half mile away and in a building that made Costco embarrassed. Walking there, and then starting the walk back, carrying bags of groceries like we just hit the UNICEF station at the Syrian border. We would have made it back too even if it wasn't for Cap'n Nash pulling up next to us and wanting to take us back to our compound. Cap'n Nash might be his real name. It might be the name he goes by here so he can entice customers to go sailing with him. It might be his alias he is using because he speaks English with almost no accent and I am sure he is on a witness protection program out of Chicago. Nice man, fresh start, who cares if he worked for the mob as "Johnny Two-fingers Milligan."

Today the sun is out. That picture above, that is one beach of many beaches in Antigua, a poor country based almost exclusively on tourism. Too bad. Someone, could come down here and make a killing shipping 'organically grown tropical fruit' to restaurants in the US. The stuff is falling from the trees here.

I met Evelyn yesterday and Jenny today. Evelyn is about fifty, maybe a hundred and fifty. Its hard to tell. She has one semi-functioning tooth in front on the bottom. She was walking the beach with her jewelry. I will buy something from her. She needs me to buy something from her. A five dollar anything could feed her for a while. Jenny is a grandmother of eight. She was set up with a rope line outside of the Coconut Grove Bar (more about that religious place later) with colorful shirts and dresses hanging from it, along with the same jewelry Evelyn was selling. She is a grandmother of eight and when I told her I had four with two more on the way and we haven't unleashed our son and daughter in law yet in to the baby making world, her eyebrows went up. She was impressed. Family is huge down here.

This afternoon we wait for Shan (proper spelling of the name in the islands). Shan is the guy we gave $50 cash to and are banking on him showing up with horses for an hour and a half trail ride this afternoon. Even if he doesn't show, all I can say is "Well done Shan, well done."

So it begins

In the summertime, people travel. Unless you're coming from a cold climate, like London, when you travel in the winter time and you migrate your very white body to the Caribbean, once owned and operated by your monarch and now, they just kinda pay homage to them. If you're an American, you travel in the summer because that's when you have the coupon for.

If you want, you can read along for the next two weeks as I walk you through our migration to the islands once owned by the Caribs, who were a delightful people who fancied cannibalism.

I will tell you about such characters as Shawn, the guy who can sell ice to Eskimos who lined up horse back riding---after he gets his $50 cash up front. Did I tell you his office is the beach? Sure, take bets as to whether the horses show up or not.

Then there is Cap'n Nash. You would swear by his non-accent, he was a pediatrician from Detroit. He runs a sailboat and lined up a 'three hour tour.' Did I say his office was on the beach as well. Its okay, he had a business card.

Then there is the Russian.

Or the Haitian.

Both cab drivers in Miami who make the trip from the airport to the hotel on South Beach every bit as much of a pucker factor as Thunder Mountain Railroad ride at Disneyland.

So, hang in there if you are truly bored, grab a diet beverage, sit back and I will walk through the trip as best as I can tell it.

Not Just another Day

Memorial Day is the advertised weekend before the kick off of the summer. Its ads in the newspaper includes anything from pork ribs to mattress sales and include trips by families to the beaches of this great country, its lakes, grandmother's house, or the neighboring watering hole.

It has nothing to do with any of these things.

It is the day of the dead.

It is day we have chosen to stop and remember those who swore an oath to protect and defend the United States, its constitution, and the people within the borders and our interest outside our own borders.

This week, in Phoenix, we lost a fireman and a police officer within twelve hours of each other and unrelated events. I could easily make fit the idea that Memorial Day was for those two as well.

They swore the same oath.

I think I've said this before, but the ones who have written the ultimate check on our behalf want us to go to the lake, the beach, and grandmother's house. They want us to celebrate what they bought. Kinda like that present under the tree/menorah we bought and can't actually wait until the person we bought it for, opens it. We want their approval. We want them to look at us and beam with joy at the gift. It cost us three extra shifts at the saw mill, we sold our stamp collection, we downsized our living expenses-

we turned to the night sky and raised our open hands and simply said 'Send Me Lord.'

So, we each got a package to open this weekend. It is a swell present. We each will love it because it is what we want to make of it. The price? Fugitaboutit! You can't take it back or exchange it. Its priceless. The greatest gift, in the greatest country, by its humble servants who just want to see us smile when we open it, and maybe, between the burnt hot dogs, the zinc oxide on our noses, and the dog Frisbees, we can find a minute to look into the night sky and simply say-

'Thanks.'