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.

Off to Oregon in the morning. I hope this trip doesn't turn into a three week stay, like the last two weekenders have been.

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.

Plonk's back

Plonk and his girlfriend dropped by with some crows today. She seems to be just fine.

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.

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.