Language itself is a barrier.
04/02/2004
Spring Cleaning
I've been moving files around like crazy on the Ashabot and it seems to have set a lot of people scrambling to find things. Sorry everybody. Spring house cleaning. Actually, it's the first big re-organization I've done since setting up this website five years ago. Bear with me. It's not over yet.
01/02/2004
Plopping calves and the Bag-Lady Party
Several big things to report today. Number one, baby calves are popping up around the valley. Well, not popping up, plopping out. This means the eagles will soon be arriving in Carson Valley. They love the tasty afterbirth and by February, when the majority of calves are born, the eagles will be here in great numbers to greet them and eat their placenta and eat them if they get the chance. Also this morning, I saw a small donkey contentedly scratching his ass on a tree. Being a vision of pure satisfaction, I thought it was worth passing along.
Now that the posters for the valentine's day reading are done, I'm on to the next pressing task of the weekend, preparing the Woman from Beaver Damn Wash for her trip to the surprise birthday party DB Pedlar is throwing for himself. Of course, the Woman from Beaver Damn Wash isn't personally attending. She likes Nevada and the party is in Pennsylvania. It's a bag-lady party and I have to prepare her avatar bag. It's too complicated to explain right now but suffice it to say that since the word got out, everyone around the Ashabot wants in. In fact, I have a near riot on my hands.
Now, I can understand why the Woman from Beaver Damn Wash is so excited. She used to live in the crotch of a old cottonwood tree in Beaver Damn Wash. That's such a remote and wild place, it's understandable she'd be in a tizzy about an invitation to a party. As for the rest of the crew, just mention the word "party" and you have trouble. The Dolls want to go. Pony wants to go. Queenie the Bee wants to go. So does the Lorax. The damn cockroaches have chimed in. I'm sure at this point, the dead shrimp would want to go, if they were still alive. The grumpy old Shipping Squirrel has showed an interest. Even the Swami has been asking about it and he carries a lot of weight around here, in his sweet and unassuming way. I had planned a quiet photo session today, just between me and the Woman from Beaver Damn Wash, but no. I'll at least have to do a couple of group shots to keep the peace. In fact, I don't know why I'm wasting valuable time writing this. The day's nearly over and I still have work to do. After all, they are the voices and I am but their humble servant.
Now that the posters for the valentine's day reading are done, I'm on to the next pressing task of the weekend, preparing the Woman from Beaver Damn Wash for her trip to the surprise birthday party DB Pedlar is throwing for himself. Of course, the Woman from Beaver Damn Wash isn't personally attending. She likes Nevada and the party is in Pennsylvania. It's a bag-lady party and I have to prepare her avatar bag. It's too complicated to explain right now but suffice it to say that since the word got out, everyone around the Ashabot wants in. In fact, I have a near riot on my hands.
Now, I can understand why the Woman from Beaver Damn Wash is so excited. She used to live in the crotch of a old cottonwood tree in Beaver Damn Wash. That's such a remote and wild place, it's understandable she'd be in a tizzy about an invitation to a party. As for the rest of the crew, just mention the word "party" and you have trouble. The Dolls want to go. Pony wants to go. Queenie the Bee wants to go. So does the Lorax. The damn cockroaches have chimed in. I'm sure at this point, the dead shrimp would want to go, if they were still alive. The grumpy old Shipping Squirrel has showed an interest. Even the Swami has been asking about it and he carries a lot of weight around here, in his sweet and unassuming way. I had planned a quiet photo session today, just between me and the Woman from Beaver Damn Wash, but no. I'll at least have to do a couple of group shots to keep the peace. In fact, I don't know why I'm wasting valuable time writing this. The day's nearly over and I still have work to do. After all, they are the voices and I am but their humble servant.
31/01/2004
Ash Canyon Poets reading
A few weeks ago Bill Cowee (Ash Canyon Poets), mentioned to me that Comma Coffee where we did the Readable Theatre last month, wanted a poetry reading there for Valentines Day so I volunteered to organize it. I spent the last couple of days designing the poster. I suppose most people would bang one out in about an hour, then get on to more important things, but not me. First I had to look at about a million pictures of cupid, psyche, valentine hearts, cakes and smoothies for just the right images. BTW, some interesting websites pop up when you do a search on the word "smoothies". Then I spent hours tweeking and re-tweeking everything. In the end, I couldn't decided which photo to use, either "Psyche entering Cupids Garden" or a nifty line drawing of Psyche binding Cupid so I made two posters. I put them on my website, if you're interested check them out. At the moment, I'm sick of both of them but I hope you like them.
As for other goings on around the Ashabot, the shrimp died. They were a Christmas gift but didn't live long enough to make it into the blog until now, although I mentioned them in the cockroach diary. Anyway, they're dead. Some "self-sustaining world" that was. I think maybe they didn't get enough light. The damn brochure was so emphatic about not exposing them to too much light, I put them in a room with dim light. Dead. It was kind of sad peering into their little globe and seeing they're decaying carcasses drifing on the bottom. Death Stalks the EcoSphere. Sounds like a cheezy sci-fi.
As for other goings on around the Ashabot, the shrimp died. They were a Christmas gift but didn't live long enough to make it into the blog until now, although I mentioned them in the cockroach diary. Anyway, they're dead. Some "self-sustaining world" that was. I think maybe they didn't get enough light. The damn brochure was so emphatic about not exposing them to too much light, I put them in a room with dim light. Dead. It was kind of sad peering into their little globe and seeing they're decaying carcasses drifing on the bottom. Death Stalks the EcoSphere. Sounds like a cheezy sci-fi.
27/01/2004
Bush and the Shit Catapult
We're back, and only a day late this time! Here's a few things that occurred to me as the miles churned by. Don't trust anyone who claims they've lived a meditative life style if they can't sleep sitting up. The desert is not for people who only see the surface of things. Fuck George Bush and the shit catapult that put him in the White House.
22/01/2004
Nevada Journal
I've finally reorganized the Nevada Journal. It was a project I've put off for months. The layout hasn't changed but now the files will be a lot easier to manage. Also, I added several new photos. Once I finish deleting the remaining inactive files, I'll be ready to add new pages, something I haven't done for a long time.
21/01/2004
18/01/2004
The Story of Plonk
The fence in back is lined with crows but Plonk and his girlfriend haven't been around for the last few days. They were here a few days ago but she wasn't doing to well. But before I go any further, I'd better tell you who Plonk is.
I first saw him staggering around in circles in Carson City in the middle of one of it's busiest intersections where Hwy 50 comes into Hwy 395. Now, Hwy 50 in itself can be very dangerous. In its early days, people sometimes had to disassemble their vehicles in order to carry them over difficult parts of the road, or kill and eat their dogs, drink water from the stomachs of dead buffalo or blood from the ears of their mules just to survive the journey. The day Plonk ended up there wasn't so lucky either. Sure the road is paved now but hardly tamed. It's swarming with vulture politicians. The state capitol buildings are only a few blocks away. But the day I first saw Plonk, no one seemed interested in eating him. On the other hand, they didn't seem too concerned about running over him either. It was about noon and cars were bumper to bumper. I stopped. No one honked. I waved at the cars behind me, ran out and grabbed the pigeon and carried him to shelter at the base of a roadside tree. On my way home, I decided to check if the bird was still there. He was and he was still spinning, this time in the parking lot behind a building. I put him in my car and took him home. In the backyard, he continued spinning but more slowly and showed no interest food and water I set out for him.
Lee warned me Plonk would probably be dead by morning but I cut some air vents in a big box, put it over him, weighted the flaps down with rocks so the neighbor cat, Clarence, wouldn't make a mid-night snack out of him and called it night. In the morning I peaked in and Plonk was standing there. Not spinning and not dead. I took the box off and after a minute or two he flew onto the fence and sat. When I got home later that morning, he was gone. He's been coming back ever since. It's been a year and a half. In the spring, he often dropped by with a girlfriend, always the same one.
Earlier this week she came by several times on her own and hung around in the backyard for hours, hardly eating. At first I thought it was just because she felt safe there, or because maybe she was pregnant but then the neighbor found her nesting in his cat's drinking bowl and she let him pick her up. She flew away after he put her out of reach of his cat and I've only seen them once since then so I'm hoping she's okay.
I first saw him staggering around in circles in Carson City in the middle of one of it's busiest intersections where Hwy 50 comes into Hwy 395. Now, Hwy 50 in itself can be very dangerous. In its early days, people sometimes had to disassemble their vehicles in order to carry them over difficult parts of the road, or kill and eat their dogs, drink water from the stomachs of dead buffalo or blood from the ears of their mules just to survive the journey. The day Plonk ended up there wasn't so lucky either. Sure the road is paved now but hardly tamed. It's swarming with vulture politicians. The state capitol buildings are only a few blocks away. But the day I first saw Plonk, no one seemed interested in eating him. On the other hand, they didn't seem too concerned about running over him either. It was about noon and cars were bumper to bumper. I stopped. No one honked. I waved at the cars behind me, ran out and grabbed the pigeon and carried him to shelter at the base of a roadside tree. On my way home, I decided to check if the bird was still there. He was and he was still spinning, this time in the parking lot behind a building. I put him in my car and took him home. In the backyard, he continued spinning but more slowly and showed no interest food and water I set out for him.
Lee warned me Plonk would probably be dead by morning but I cut some air vents in a big box, put it over him, weighted the flaps down with rocks so the neighbor cat, Clarence, wouldn't make a mid-night snack out of him and called it night. In the morning I peaked in and Plonk was standing there. Not spinning and not dead. I took the box off and after a minute or two he flew onto the fence and sat. When I got home later that morning, he was gone. He's been coming back ever since. It's been a year and a half. In the spring, he often dropped by with a girlfriend, always the same one.
Earlier this week she came by several times on her own and hung around in the backyard for hours, hardly eating. At first I thought it was just because she felt safe there, or because maybe she was pregnant but then the neighbor found her nesting in his cat's drinking bowl and she let him pick her up. She flew away after he put her out of reach of his cat and I've only seen them once since then so I'm hoping she's okay.
My mother's death
Yesterday was the anniversary of my mother's death. My sister Cc'd my brother and me a reminder, accompanied with an old family photo. I lit a candle. But all day it lingered in the back of my mind just how different I look from the rest of my family. It's certainly occurred to me before but the photo reminded me. I look more like an Iranian exchange student with a cryptic smirk than a cheery American suburbanite. My brother provides a bit of balance with his pork chop sideburns, but I definitely look like an outsider. Since I woke up this morning, I've been speculating on who my father might have been. If it wasn't dear old dad, it probably was Pat Deeny, the swarthy, loud mouthed, comic reading drunk who lived up the hill from where mom and dad were living when I was born. Or maybe it was the soldier with the pet monkey my mom used to tell me about. She'd laugh about how much the monkey liked me and would jump on my shoulder when ever it saw me. I wonder what dear old mom and the soldier were doing after they let the monkey loose on me. It's taken me a long time to learn to like monkeys.
14/01/2004
Crow's breakfast
The crows had a nice breakfast of quiche this morning. They have a way of chirping and whistling that I interpret as meaning something like, "Hey... lookie here now!" The closest I came in a quick search to finding anything resembling this delightful chatter is called Crow: 72K wav file. If you want to give it a listen, it's near the top of the page . It comes at the end of a recording. Anyway, this particular conversation tells me they've found something in the Bird Park that's especially tasty. They really liked the quiche with it's greasy pie crust. I put it out this morning and it hadn't frozen by the time they arrived, so pickin was easy. They gobbled it in about a half an hour even though they looked up and scaned the sky in between bites. Death from above. They're experts on it. By the time the magpies showed up only crumbs were left. Too bad. I really like the magpies too. I first heard about them in stories my mother read to me, and ever since carried the impression they were magical but I never saw a live magpie until I moved to Nevada. Funny. I'd never thought of magpies as a desert bird but there's plenty of them around here. They are lovely, striking in fact in those black and white feathers. Real lookers.
You might be thinking that feeding quiche to crows is vulgar, a tasteless act of insolent wealth. I assure you, it's merely a matter of circumstantial good fortune on both our parts, the birds and mine. A shake of the glass and we change places with people and birds that are eyeing one another as breakfast instead of sharing a quiche. The whole bare dirt area outside the window is my Bird Park. There are two feeders about 50 feet apart hanging from the fence filled with black sunflower seeds. These are for the mid-sized birds. Then I scatter the ground with a variety of seeds on the ground for the rest. The little show out there that revolves through the day is great, low key entertainment.
I have to lean forward over the key board and look out the window to the left to see the area where this morning's feast took place. I keep a pair of binoculars near by for these special occasions. They are a pain in the ass to use but it's worth the effort just to see a crow's wonderful claws up close as they clutch a catch. I swear some of these fellows have a spread that's nearly equal to the reach of my hand. Then there's the beaks themselves... long as a finger, pointed and accurate, good for pecking out anything from eyes to bits of hamburger bun caught in mustard smeared crinkles of abandon wrappers. I have to stand, lean over the printer which sits in front of the window then twist to the left to get in position for the binoculars to work. Then I have to tilt them up a bit so that the magnified image floats into view. You'd think these glasses were complete crap if you didn't know the technique. But I've seen plenty through them, rattlesnakes, wild horses, unsuspecting people picking their nose while waiting at a San Francisco traffic light.
You might be thinking that feeding quiche to crows is vulgar, a tasteless act of insolent wealth. I assure you, it's merely a matter of circumstantial good fortune on both our parts, the birds and mine. A shake of the glass and we change places with people and birds that are eyeing one another as breakfast instead of sharing a quiche. The whole bare dirt area outside the window is my Bird Park. There are two feeders about 50 feet apart hanging from the fence filled with black sunflower seeds. These are for the mid-sized birds. Then I scatter the ground with a variety of seeds on the ground for the rest. The little show out there that revolves through the day is great, low key entertainment.
I have to lean forward over the key board and look out the window to the left to see the area where this morning's feast took place. I keep a pair of binoculars near by for these special occasions. They are a pain in the ass to use but it's worth the effort just to see a crow's wonderful claws up close as they clutch a catch. I swear some of these fellows have a spread that's nearly equal to the reach of my hand. Then there's the beaks themselves... long as a finger, pointed and accurate, good for pecking out anything from eyes to bits of hamburger bun caught in mustard smeared crinkles of abandon wrappers. I have to stand, lean over the printer which sits in front of the window then twist to the left to get in position for the binoculars to work. Then I have to tilt them up a bit so that the magnified image floats into view. You'd think these glasses were complete crap if you didn't know the technique. But I've seen plenty through them, rattlesnakes, wild horses, unsuspecting people picking their nose while waiting at a San Francisco traffic light.
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