Popcorn party

I threw a popcorn party in the bird park today.


News spred fast. Crows love to party. Pigeons too.

Spring and molting

I hate beginning with "I" but that's where I am at tonight, in my head, mulling things over. I've been getting rid of more clutter; books, furniture, clothes, points of view, expectations, resistance. Everything is under review, not just because it's spring, although spring always drives me out of my mind, but because it's time. Everybody knows when it's time.

It took me a long time to get one thing straight. I can't put into words exactly what that was but since then I compare everything to it and that's what I'm going on now. The latest things to go were the poems on my website. They were among the least viewed pages anyway so I doubt they'll be missed. I'm going to start submitting them, like everyone else does, to those obscure poetry mags no one has ever heard of, including me. If one gets published, I'll re-post it but not until then. It's a good day. I am making peace with a certain irrevocable sense of loss that is bitter as it is sweet.

Here's to you, Bubba.

However sentimental people may be about Muffy, proud of Rex, or vindicated rooting for the underdog, the idea of animal rights for the masses is generally considered weird or silly. On matters of life and death and what's for dinner, the minister, rabbi, priest or mullah have final say. That means the members of other species are generally shit out of luck.

Rest in Peace, old boy.

Bubba the Leviathan Lobster, as he was called, died today before making it to an aquarium at a Ripley's Believe It or Not museum. His size generated enough interest and support that he escaped the grim fate of lobsters that fall into human hands. PETA (People for the Eating of Tasty Animals) battled PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) and kindness won the day. But Bubba died anyway. They don't know why. My guess...fear. I suppose that's better than being boiled alive Here's to you Bubba and all the others.

Keep US courts democratic

This week the Senate is debating the judicial nomination of William Myers III. He's a career cattle and mining industry lobbyist who is now up for a lifetime appointment to the 4th District Appeals Court. He's just one of Bush's 20 judicial nominees that Democrats rejected last term, compared to over 200 that were approved.

These 20 judges were singled out because they consistently picked corporate interests over basic rights, and want to roll back decades of progress on anti-discrimination, women's rights, worker's rights, and the environment. If we don't act now to support a real opposition, these corporate lapdogs will be given lifetime appointments to lock in Republican ultra conservative ideology for decades.

Plus, the Bush administration has threatened to use this fight to take away Senate Democrat's ability to resists any future judges, including Supreme Court nominees.

MoveOn has started a petition calling on our Senators to stand firm against Myers and all 20 of these rejected corporate nominees, and to fight any manipulation of the rules to force them through. Please sign it.

Peanutbutter fun

Goldie loves peanut butter.

and whenever she visits heads straight to the kitchen for a spoonful.



It's the treat that keeps on giving. She also likes cat poop, but has to rustle that up on her own.



Besides feeding peanut butter to the dog, I worked on the layout for "After Hours" about an hour and a half and quit before I drove myself completely nuts. All in all, not a bad day. Hope yours was as fine.

Dread and desire

I'm doing everything possible to avoid working on the layout for the poetry journal, both of them. The other day I decided it would be a good idea to do my own publication in PageMaker before I tackle Ash Canyon Review. That way I can work the kinks out under less pressure but here I sit blogging about it rather than doing anything. Okay, here's the deal. One half hour. If I do one half hour of layout today, it's progress. Otherwise, nothing. I wonder if I should do it before or after I get Goldie? Probably after. Otherwise she won't be able to be here very long today. Plus a little walk will do me good. Get the blood up. Clear up my aspirin-soaked mind. Okay then. Thanks for helping me sort that out. Come back later for another exciting chapter of Befuddled.

Raven's return

The ravens are back! I'm delighted to see them. If I were smaller, or they bigger, I'd love to hop on one's back and go for a ride. I suppose it would be better if I were smaller. If a raven were my size, we'd be a spectacle. Some idiot would probably shoot us down. Ravens are the most savvy and hard to photograph of all the birds that visit the Bird Park. This is the only photo I could get before my movements scared her off.

A special guest

However, as much as I love big birds, too many can make things more complicated. Sometimes the cawing and cooing even gets to me. And then there's the Lee Factor. There's already a delicate truce in the house over this . . . issue. I cut back to feeders and peanuts the first sign things start getting out of hand. The birds those attract are relatively quiet. But, for the moment, I'm simply celebrating the return of the ravens. Their disappearance last fall coincided with an article I read about Nevada being invaded by the West Nile Virus. It claimed that crows and ravens were especially vulnerable to the disease. Later I read that wasn't true but this is the first I've seen of them since but calving season. Undoubtedly they've come for that. It's a big deal here in the valley. Besides hawks, eagles, and ravens dropping by to feast on tasty placenta, bus loads of people stop along the highway to photograph the event.

Nice she dropped by. I like to think she remembered me.

It's a wrap

I did it! I winnowed my books down, got rid of the book case, filled a box for the thrift store, tossed a lot of junk, and put my office back together all in one day. I especially like the books on the shelf above the desk.

The best part is that I did it all in one day, thus avoiding Slacker Catholic Purgatory. The nuns used to tell us that the only difference between purgatory and hell is that hell is eternal and purgatory lasts one second less. Obviously they didn't know about nanoseconds or they would have happily shortened the gap.

My office has much better feng shui now.  Also I got the results back from my surgery. Benign. So yes. Today was a good day.

Confession of the Day 2.22.05

Perhaps no one will read this post for days. After all, only an occasional visitor happens by this outpost. Perhaps it will lie unread forever in the dustless bin of the blogosphere. Nevertheless I need to tell you, my hypothetical future honored guest, that today I am cleaning my office.

World to world

I admit that blogging is part of my deeply rooted pattern of work avoidance but, don't worry. I am exploiting that weakness. Being a recovering Catholic, by divulging my plans, even to a stranger, I'm intentionally triggering my Confession Reflex. The way it works is that once I confess something, I am emotionally obliged to mend my ways.

Hypothetical future honored guest

Otherwise, I torture myself. Naturally, every time I use this technique I run the risk of a tedious and draining round of the dreaded Catholic Guilt so I always weight the worthiness of my goal against the ever-pending backlash of failure. In this case, it's worth it. My tiny office is bulging with stuff, junk, litter and clutter.

True north

I've made progress against it but now I'm taking on the Wall of Final Resistance. From here on, I'm fist to fist with my personal demons. I will spare you the details. Today I get rid of some of the books. I know. Shocking! After all, isn't a writer supposed to be surrounded by books? Aren't books the true north of the writing life? But they're going. Some of them. Ash Canyon has a poetry library so I'm "loaning" some of my poetry books to it, though I have a feeling I'll  never get them back.

Goldie

 And I'll give them the book shelf.

H.S.T. / R.I.P.

Hunter S. Thompson wrote to provoke, shock, protest, and in general, piss people off. I loved him for that, even though his shotgun approach sometimes did more to obliterate than clarify what he chose to discuss. He did his job, his way. As a writer, he wasn't a watchdog. He was a watch wolf, flushing out the absurdity and rage that strangles us from the inside. I didn't read him for the facts. I read him for the truth.

Excerpt from "Kingdom of Fear" 2003...

"We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole world--a nation of bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully. We are not just Whores for power and oil, but killer whores with hate and fear in our hearts. We are human scum, and that is how history will judge us...No redeeming social value. Just whores. Get out of our way, or we'll kill you...

Who does vote for these dishonest shitheads? Who among us can be happy and proud of having this innocent blood on our hands? Who are these swine? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid rich kids like George Bush?

They are the same ones who wanted to have Muhammad Ali locked up for refusing to kill gooks. They speak for all that is cruel and stupid and vicious in the American character. They are the racists and hate mongers among us--they are the Ku Klux Klan. I piss down the throats of these Nazis.

And I am too old to worry about whether they like it or not. Fuck them."

-- Hunter S. Thompson

There's a comment about his suicide circulating tonight that "he died most fittingly, in a gun fight with his most vicious enemy". If that's the case, without glorifying his end, I'd like to think he won— not by taking his own life, but living it as a transparent voice rising from his own, inimitable dark. And I love that his 3 million dollar funeral included his ashes being fired from a cannon.