Mike Sledge www.mikesledge.com

"Argumext"

2011-12-23T11:32:00.003-08:00

An argument conducted via text messages.

Pity the Poor Zombie Actor

2011-10-10T17:34:00.000-07:00

Next week The Walking Dead will open its new season. Now, for sure, I really thought the first season was pretty silly, pithy, full of bad lines and off-the-shelf stereotypes (even real rednecks aren't as rednecky as portrayed in this movie), and failing to rise to the level of a good B flick.

Having said that, I'll prolly watch as much as I can stand, most likely while spinning my bike on the trainer. (Hey, when your heart rate is high your brain can't be too heavily engaged!)

Also, I'll try to see what lows the show can reach in a genre that is already intrinsically hampered by an acting arena that is much more closely fenced in than other horror film types.

So, let's compare zombie, vampire, and werewolf films. Certainly, the dream horror flicks (Nightmare on Elm Street), the mutant flicks (The Hills Have Eyes), the sci-fi flicks (Alien), and others all horror films, but the three involving human transformation stand in a class of their own, and within them vampire/werewolf (henceforth, VW) stand on one side of a divider from zombie films, and actors who take on the role of the transformed also fall into clear divides: those you know and those you don't.

VW actors? Bela Lugosi-"Dracula", Kate Beckinsale-"Underworld", Wesley Snipes-"Blade", Michael J. Fox-in the laughable "Teen Wolf", David Naughton-"American Werewolf in London", Tom Cruise-yes, the considered-to-be miscast blonde vampire in "Interview With the Vampire". Hell, even Slim Pickens played a memorable role in "The Howling".

Zombie actors? ................ Anybody? Anybody?

And little wonder why there are no zombie actors. (Well, one could say that there ARE "zombie" actors whose names we know, but they weren't playing zombie roles!) Well, go figure. What can they do?

First of all, once the transformation takes places, that's it. There's no going back, no reverting to human form only to transform again as werewolves and vampires do. Thus, there's no waxing and waning of desire and regret. There's no pleas to help find a cure for the insatiable craving for blood or to chain the beast up until the full moon has passed through its phase. There's only mindless, soulless, and guiltless pursuit of raw human flesh. (Speaking of which, I've never figured this out: How can there be more than one or two zombies? Think about it. First, a person become a zombie and wants to eat someone. OK, so he starts eating. Then, what, he quits eating so the victim can become a zombie too? And then they go off in search of more victims. And, they find one and bite her, start to eat her. So, then what? Again, they quit eating so she can become zombie #3? Apparently, the zombies reach a tipping point where even a bite or two from each consumes the victim so there are no more zombies? Yeah, right?)

Second, zombie actors never really get to try out their dialogue skills. VW can plead, rationalize, express guilt and remorse, or describe the exquisite taste of blood or the thrill of the hunt and kill. Zombie can say only, "Brains! Brains!"

Third, zombies aren't loved, poor things. Even vampires and werewolves find lovers.

Fourth, zombies can't have sex. (Let's leave out the comments by some people that there partner is about as good as a zombie!) Lugosi feigned sex, admittedly, but he sure got to bite on a lot of beautiful necks. In "The Howling" there was a hot hot hot scene by the fireside in which a man and woman began to transform during foreplay and totally morphed into biting, clawing, scratching, and, of course, HOWLING! But zombies? Nope. So, even the last trick of bad actors--that of having sex on the screen--is denied to zombie actors.

By now, you get the picture, zombie roles are relegated to the stand-ins, the wanna-bees, the won't make its.

Having said that, herein lies an opportunity for a truly gifted screenplay writer, a brilliant actor, a visionary director, and a producer with some cojones. Do a truly ground-breaking film for zombies that will pull off a trick of making the zombie somehow more human, sympathetic, and appealing to watch for more than a few seconds. Have the zombie become a creature who has a life beyond walking the streets and looking for brains, brains, brains.

Mike Sledge

Vacuuming: Dirt Sensor vs. Judgment

2011-03-06T09:18:00.000-08:00

OK, here's the deal. Sometimes I end up vacuuming my girlfriend's house. Don't get me wrong, we'd both like a good housekeeper but we've been striking out in this regard for some time. So, especially since we have dogs that track in as much dirt and dead grass as Pig-Pen in the Peanuts cartoon, we have to clean ourselves. And, since harmony to me is important, I suck it up and do my part...kinda sorta. So, I figured that vacuuming is better than cleaning the bathroom, right? Wrong! My GF has a Kenmore vacuum with the dirt-sensor technology. What is this? A dirt-sensor? Well, it's a little series of lights that turn from red (dirty) to green (clean) as the dirt is picked up. Sounds simple? Sounds easy? Sounds like a good idea? Wrong again! You see, for a guy I'm pretty clean, pretty neat. For a guy, I said. And, being a guy, I like to rely on my judgment. While I'm the first to use maps and GPS and stuff instead of wandering around for hours, there are some things I like to do by sense, and cooking and cleaning are two of them. I cook by smell and touch. And by appearance. Making pancakes means more or less following the instructions, cause while putting "one egg" in is pretty definite, the cup of milk and mix is a matter of judgment. Just like barbeque, where I cook by sound, touch, and smell. The same applies to cleaning: "Well, that looks clean to me!" But, not so quick. The light hasn't turned green yet! It's still sitting on red! What? It looks clean. It feels clean. So it must be clean. But the light is still red. Here's how that freakin' dirt sensor works:

So man's ability to circumnavigate the vast oceans of the world using only a sense of wind direction and tides is tossed aside? His sense of direction in pitch black darkness is discounted?

Oh, wait, I forgot! These damn cleaners were designed with women in mind. They need "proof" that they've done a good job.

Hmm. Or, there's another thought: these damn, infernal light things were put there for the women to check if their men did a good job!

Mike S.

Marijuana Kills...Redux

2011-01-09T08:30:00.000-08:00

I first published this post in 2009 and recent killings in Mexico make a case for me to post again.

LOL! Yeah, haven't we all seen the film Reefer Madness?

Lately, the anti-marijuana ads have gotten a little more, well, hip.

However, both of these films miss the point, because whether grass is a gateway drug or a harmless pasttime, and whether it should be illegal or treated just the same as alcohol are all academic exercises or merely simply excuses to continue current behavior because, save for medical purposes in a few places, marijuana is illegal and, as such, the use of it promotes criminal behavior. (Note: I said "criminal" behavior not "deviant" behavior and not "shiftless" behavior.)

With Sec. of State Clinton, now and for the first time I am aware of, shouldering part of the blame for the criminal insurgent activity in Mexico, one of our sister countries, we see that we are, indeed, our brother's keeper and our desire for illegal drugs has spawned a spree of killing on a scale that greatly exceeds even that of the days of Prohibition.

It is important to note that not all of the killings are "bad on bad." Honest policemen, journalists, judges, and politicians have been brutally murdered, sometimes in front of their families.

Illegal drugs are, in many ways, a commodity. They will be supplied at whatever cost the traffic will bear. Sadly, this cost comes not only in the loss of lives and law and order south of the border, it is increasingly clear that it will also carry a greater human cost in our own country. The last, that we will suffer the results of our demand for illegal drugs, does not supercede the first, the pain and misery to our neighbor.

I'm sure there are those who will say, "Hey! MY grass comes from California. I'M not contributing to the killing. However, again, it is clear that the drug cartels are also shouldering their way onto our native soil in areas of production, as well as distribution.

There are others who will say that there is no need for them to put down their favorite vehicle of escape because there are far worse drugs coming across the border and that we need to deal with those serious drugs first. They are absolutely right...in that there are far worse drugs. They are wrong in that there is no need for them to change. If they can justify their behavior with an illegal, non-addictive drug, how can they expect others who are actually addicted to more serious drugs to quit.

I'm no prude. I know, personally, the pleasurable effects of marijuana, having experimented with it many, many years ago. However, my break with it came because I work up one morning, way before the making of the movie Traffic and other films in which the world behind-the-scenes of drugs was illuminated, with an epiphany that my money spent for my fun fostered evilness.

Ultimately, especially during the moment of a relaxing, completely enjoyable, shared high, a look around the circle of close acquaintances tells you how happy you are for such company. At that same moment, in another place of the world not far away, there are those who look around their circle of teary-eyed friends and they are thankful for their support during the mourning for their dead son, father, brother, cousin who lost his life while trying to maintain some sense of law and order in a world gone crazy.

Push for all the legislation you wish to legalize marijuana, but in the meantime think of John Donne, whose message in MEDITATION XVII I shall rephrase to say...any man's loss is our loss.

Mike Sledge

On Same Sex Marriage, A New Thought

2010-12-31T16:27:00.000-08:00

Caveat: That the author has not seen this suggestion made certainly does not imply it hasn't been made; education about such a previous proposal is certainly welcome.

Any informed person has seen the arguments for and against same sex marriage. Recently, President Obama has publicly stated his "conflicted" position. That is to say, he completely believes that same sex couples should be accorded all the legal rights due those in opposite sex marriages, yet he is troubled with the idea of same sex partners committing themselves to a "marriage". Vice President Biden is on record stating that same sex marriages is "an inevitability."

Straights will say, "Why are you [homosexuals] pushing into our sanctified turf of marriage when you can have the same rights we do?"

Homosexuals will say, "We won't be fully accepted until we can marry."

I say there is a different approach.

My thought centers on the background for the institution of marriage.

Specifically, marriage is a social arrangment that is secularly sanctioned and temporally blessed. Clearly, a union of some sort has benefits to a society as a whole, but being married also entitles the man and woman to a kind of spiritual/religious moral entitlement while a civil union provides only parity that is codified in the pages of a dry and crusty legal text.

Now, for straights who are of a nature that does not ascribe to a particular religious point of view, they can be married by a justice of the peace or other legal person so appointed with said power. Thus, straights have the ability to take either track, religious or secular.

Homosexuals, without marriage, are entitled to only the secular route.

Conservatives, particulary those of a specially religious nature (they are often one and the same), will argue that our country is a secular society, governed by laws and not religious texts. (Herein lie the recent arguments about how our society should accomodate those whose moral viewpoint is shaped by religions: i.e., it is ok to beat one's wife because one's religions provides for it.)

However, what these supposedly secular proponents are really saying is, "We approve of secularism so long as it stems from the roots of a religious system to which we ascribe."

Therefore, I say let's completely separate marriage and civil unions. Churches can do marriages and the law can provide only legal civil unions. In this way, straights who oppose the religious schemata of marriage can have the civil union. Straights who wnat a marriage can have the church unite them in such but they must also have the civil union if they want legal rights associated with such a pairing. Homosexuals can have the civil union and, if their church approves, also have the marriage.

Instead of trying to force a square peg into a round hole (or vice versa as some say), let's separate the pegs and holes.

Mike Sledge

The "SPAM CRUISE"...Please Forgive Me!

2010-11-11T06:19:00.001-08:00

Or not!

I'm sorry, but I can't help it. News of the Carnival Splendor becoming disabled have prodded the Imp of the Perverse in me.

If you've been too busy worrying/cheering about the most recent overhaul of Congress (less anyone think that the nation has reverted back to its supposedly conservative roots, keep in mind that Americans tend to move away from extremes and towards the middle time after time), then you may not be up on the news regarding the fire and subsequent disabling of a veritable "floating city" of 4,500.

The Splendor, a California-based cruise ship over three football fields long has floated listlessly, sans power, lights, and, gulp, toilets, off the coast of Mexico for something like three days.

The culprit is a fire in the engine room.

Thank God no one was hurt!

But, let's see...no power means no way to cook food. But, no worry...the U.S. Navy has come to the rescue...with SPAM and POP TARTS. Hmmm...and WHAT are cruises famous for! Yep! Food and people who over indulge, at times grossly so, in food!

Now that we know everyone is safe and sound, I can schadenfreude all I like. Imagine that! Cruise line passengers eating spam and pop tarts.

It's just too fucking funny.

Mike Sledge

PS
Oh, and the passengers say they are bored because ther is nothing to do and they just sit around. Duh! You're on a ship! If they were on a LifeStyle cruise at least they could find another way to occupy their time.

"Mom Died About a Week Ago"

2010-10-24T08:41:00.000-07:00

These were the words my sister said to me over the phone almost five years ago. She had prefaced them with, "I guess there's really no easy way to tell you this, but..."

My mother, born November 30, 1923, was one four children born to Joe Powalski and Lela Sanders. Two of her sisters, Agnes and Alice, predeceased her; her brother, Joe, was alive and well at the time of her succumbing to congestive heart failure.

"About a week ago." I was silent. Truth was, I really wasn't surprised--I had felt a disturbance of the force for "about a week" and had been trying to call my mother and sister to check in on them, only to reach an answering machine--but to hear it belatedly this way?

Mom didn't describe her childhood in pleasant terms. I don't know about her cousins, if she had any. I don't know where she went to grade school. In fact, my memory of her earliest days (I later figured out that she hoarded information, dealing it out parsimoniously.) came from the time when we were crossing the old Huey P. Long bridge into Baton Rouge. (If you ever made this trip back before the U.S. began to clean up its air and water, the stink from the noxious clouds pouring from the oil refining and aluminum smelting smokestacks comes quickly and easily from your memory, and you can still see the vaporous draping casting an umber pall over the plants and the surrounding communities. Hell, even then, I thought, "This can't be good for you.")

As we passed crossed the Mississippi, a river Styx into itself, into the miasma of toxins, Mom looked at the ALCOA plant and said, "I used to work there." I asked her about what she did; her answer was "Secretarial work."

"About a week ago I'm asking myself?" While I'm silent on the phone, my mind is yelling, "What the FUCK do you mean, about a week ago?" Such a contrast to the clinical terms and exact dates on a death certificate.

Mom was a very conflicted character. She could express love that came from an unfathomable source and she could flash into anger faster than potassium exposed to water. She spanked and slapped us. Once, she stood in a kitchen with a bread knife (I vividly recall the serrated edges) held toward me and said, "I just want to cut your stomach out with this." Yet, it was this same mother who first taught me how to unchain my imagination and then gave me freedom to express myself outside the first or second standard deviations for "normal behavior." She hosted fabulous sleep-overs for my friends, engaging us in all sorts of outrageous behavior, such as totally sudsing ourselves up and then combing our hair into the now in-style, hogsback peaks in the middle of the top of our heads. (My friends would, upon hearing that another had stayed over with me, ask them, "What did his mom do with you?")

And she was foresighted, perhaps even ahead of her time in many regards. She foresaw the need for healthy, nutritious meals, once cooking roast beef--complete with potatoes, carrots, and onions--for breakfast. She knew that we were responsible for our environment, encouraging us to consider our footprint on the earth. She could have started her own chain of nontraditional schools (consider, for example, Montessori), given her creative bent. (Lord, how she could cajole/lead kids into non-linear thinking and how she planned stimulating projects for them to do. Once, we had no money for Halloween, so we sat down and make our own decorations and costumes out of whatever we had on hand. Once particularly memorable creation was a white, oddly-shaped ghost fashioned from sheets, pillows, and twine that hung from the top of a door at just the right height that as you passed under its loose ends would brush over you in the way that a spectral visitor touches the back of your neck.

Mom had drilled a sense of gentlemanness toward women into me. I hold doors for women, help them off with their coat, and walk between my female companion and the curb. Thus, I only asked, "What did you do with her body? Was she buried?"

Mom worked hard to raise my sister and me. Money was always tight, although at that tender age I really couldn't have known how tight. I remember going with her to a job where, on her knees, she scrubbed floors and I, all of five years old, did the same with my own small spot, probably making more of a mess than being of assistance.

Over the years, Mom and I, scrubmates that we were, had drifted apart, especially after the death of her sister from whom she had inherited a small fortune of Piccadilly Cafeteria stock. After the stock entered a death spiral and was eventually worthless, Mom send me a fax asking me to pay her back for the money she spent raising me.

My sister's answer to my question about whether Mom was buried or not followed the vein of her informing me of her death: "She wanted to be cremated and I scattered her ashes in places that she was close to."

Mom must have had some kind of kink formed early in her way of relating to men. I know that her dealings with me underwent a dramatic transformation when I reached puberty. This change was clearly manifested when, I think I was about thirteen, Mom went to slap me and I caught her by the wrist and held her hand suspended midway between her and my face. Her eyes went savage and her lips tightened. In that one moment I had passed from being her little boy child she could control to becoming a member of her worst kind of enemy, a man.

But, as I said earlier, she was confliced. One time, it must have been my senior year in high school, Mom and I were sitting around and talking and--even at the time I was taken with the girlishness lilt to her voice--she told me about her first marriage...the marraige BEFORE the one with my father. I was dumbstruck at this revelation, but not upset...I wanted to hear more. She almost whimsically told me more: He was a big man (she later gave me his red silk robe that she had saved over the years, and it hung loosely on my shoulders) and she had married him right after high school. I think she may have even met him at the ALCOA plant; perhaps he was a salesman. But, even though he may have been her ticket out of an unhappy home with her father (her mother had died shortly before I was born), I detected in her voice, still after almost four decades after their still-born marriage and subsequent divorce, a soft side toward men (or at least, toward a certain kind of man) that had rarely been expressed by her before.

"Where? What places?" I asked. My sister's answer was vague and nondescript. I guess "here and there was about as good as "about a week ago."

I was a small child in kindergarden, maybe even a daycare, four years old at most. We were making hand prints in a plaster of paris type mixture. I did mine three or four times because I wasn't happy with the way it looked. Finally, I had the impression I was satisfied with and anxiously waited for the next day for it to dry so I could paint it. I choose red, and when the paint, too, had dried, proudly gave it to my mother. Years later, I made her a man-size cast, painted it red, and gave it to her to match the first made over thirty years ago. Soon afterwards, she gave them both back to me, saying that she didn't need to keep them anymore.

I had a paper route. On 10th Street, a busy thoroughfare. No other boys wanted it. Sometimes it was dark when I finished throwing folded up newspapers into driveways and onto porches. I always passed a gift shop on the way back, and there, spotlighted on the glass shelves, stood a lion, flowing mane and all, carved out of stone. I saved and saved and bought it for Mom. Years later, I glued its broken leg back together. Years after that, Mom gave it back to me, too.

The lion fell beside the wayside somewhere. I still have the little hand. And I think that, when it's all said and done, there's a little boy in me somewhere who sorrows over the loss of his mom.

Mike Sledge

I'm Thinking...WTF?

2010-05-08T17:08:00.000-07:00

My woman and I were leaving for a Harley ride south of Dallas (Texas is so big you can circumnavigate the world southward and still never leave the state) and I'm at a stop light and this guy rides by in front of us!

And so I'm thinking he got the mattress for a sunhat? I mean, take a look at the shadow that thing casts...it could shelter a wedding party!!!

Then I think...nope...not a hat.

So, then I'm thinking he's moving? Hell, the Clampetts would have nothing on this guy. And, what would he be riding by with next if I waited long enough? A sofa?

Then I think...nope...not moving.

So, then I'm thinking he picked up the mattress from out in front of a house where the occupants had thrown it away? But everybody already has a mattress, right?

Then I think...nope...not scavenging.

So, then I'm thinking maybe he stole the bike? And, to distract attention he picked up the mattress?

But, no, I can't think that because I'll be branded as stereotyping.

Ok, then so, I'm thinking...and thinking...

All the while, I'm puttering along behind him because I love a puzzle to think about, and this guy is moving along...really pedaling quickly.

So, think I'm thinking he had a long way to ride and wanted to use the mattress as a sail. (He really WAS flying along.) And I'm wondering just how hard it was for him to keep his balance. And, I'm wondering how long before he got hit because cars were honking and maneuvering like heck to avoid hitting him. (He really couldn't see well from under that double.)

But, then I think...nope...can't be a sail...too much trouble when he could just let the tailwind push him along just find without the weight of the mattress.

Finally, I think the first thing I thought when I saw him cross in front of me:

WHAT A GREAT PICTURE!

No more thinking necessary.

Mike S.

When Found and Called to Love, There is a Price

2010-02-01T19:43:00.000-08:00

This week, on one of my first nights in a new town and on a new job, I got a call from my girlfriend back home and I instantly knew something was wrong. In a choking voice, she managed to tell me that Lucky had been hit by a car. I know from the sounds in the background she is by the side of the road.

Lucky was a chocolate lab/pit bull mix I picked up off the street a little over a year ago. On the way home in the car from where I found him, he lay down in the passenger seat, put his chin over my arm that rested on the console, let out a big breath, and went to sleep. He had me from that sigh of contentment. Linda suggested I name him "Lucky" because it was I who found him. But really, it was the other way round.

He was 34 lb. and in reasonably good shape. Something less than a year old. Lucky must have lived with a pack of dogs because he loved piling on...in play, but especially in sleep. That was the one thing that particularly endeared him to Linda and me over time...his wedging himself down between us in bed so that he was snuggled up like a hot dog in a bun. I think even Max, my 95 lb. shepherd/great dane mix who is the gentle giant of our pack, looked up when Lucky lay down alongside him for a nap and lay his litle square head on his back and said, "Humph! Oh, well, if it makes him feel ok it's fine with me."

Linda's voice came through the dark almost two hundred miles away. "He was hit twice. And, Michael, I, I don't think he's going to make it."

At that moment, I wanted Lucky dead so he wouldn't suffer. I wanted him alive so I wouldn't lose him. What I didn't want, though, was for him to suffer unduly.

When Lucky found me (I believe that, at times, "things find us." I don't know the reason why this is--whether it be fate, luck, or synchronicity--but I do know that when we are thus found we are called to give our love; and, we when we love, we sign a chit that can be called at any moment.) I had a dog. Or two, or three, depending upon how you figure. I really wasn't looking for another one. But, as I said, I was found and called to love.

Lucky was quite the pimply adolescent: all play, all fun, all smiles, and had only one fault, that being that at times he could and would instantly slip away from you and run free. His free-running could last only a monent or two, or it could last for an hour or more. All during the time he would be loose, the Wheel of Fate would turn. In some regards, his name had been eponymous for more than just us coming together. Until that night, that is.

I hear people talking, I hear Linda, her voice strong, caring, telling Lucky, "Mama's here, Baby. Mama's here." Much as I knew how easy it would be to panic and lose control, she managed to calm Lucky. That's the kind of woman she is. And then there was the high-pitched yelps of pain and fear. Then there was Linda's voice again. Again, I wanted Lucky dead and I wanted him alive.

Lucky brought extra life to Max, who dropped five pounds and toughened up with all the play. Lucky and Mika, Linda's husky mix (another stray that had, strangely enough, "found me" and who Linda had adopted), became swim buddies, working together to retrieve sticks in lakes, ponds, and even the Red River. (Well, actually, Mika would retrieve the stick and Lucky would take it from her as they got close to the bank.) When the three dogs played, Lucky would go back and forth from Max to Mika and back again, playing with each until they were tired out. Finally, all three would collapse in a heap and slip off to doggie dream land where their feet would twitchg and they would let out little barks of dream-pleasure.

Street noise was the background behind the soft whimpering, crying, and tight, unknown voices coming from the small phone speaker. One of these unknowns was a young woman who had stopped to help. She had the Animal Emergency Clinic in her phone...what are the chances of that?...and helped Linda get Lucky there before, like an angel, disappearing. All I can do is to let my chair hold me off my knees that have lost strength and fight off a swirling mass of blackness that surrounds me. My stomach is turning and I feel like I may vomit. I don't want to lose that little boy. He's alive. He's still alive. Maybe only his leg is broken. This I tell myself.

When he first found me, Lucky had proportions that were a little odd: big head and neck and short back. But in a year as he put on 8 pounds, his legs grew under him and he lenghtened and strenghtened to a beautiful build of all muscle, sinew, and bone.

He also grew emotionally so that instead of avoiding our gaze, he would look right at us. In bed, he became the biggest snuggle bunny we had ever seen, tickliing us with the walrus-like whiskers set into a wide muzzle. And when we had coffee in bed before getting up, he would jump off, play, but always ended up springing back up and setlling down as we talked.

The phone goes dead. I know they are on the way to the emergency clinic. I know Lucky is in the car with Linda, and I envision her talking to him and reaching back and stroking him while she drives as quickly and carefully as she can. My heart aches for her, having to balance care for driving and care for our little boy.

Lucky loved touching us. when we ate, he settled down at our feet and lay a paw, if not his head, over our feet. He loved watching us. He would sit on the back of the couch and cross his front legs and watch us in the kitchen. Or he would lie on the edge of the bed--again, front legs crossed--and watch us. He wanted to be in the same room we were in. When we had coffee in the morning, he lay stretched out across us both.

Linda needs help. She'll be at the clinic alone. I call Cathy, my ex-wife. We are close in the way that some people can be without sharing house and home, as we had for almost twenty years. She meets Linda at the pet clinic. That's the kind of woman she is.

Lucky didn't make it. This time when he broke loose from Linda, Fortune's Wheel stopped on a bad number. There was no sleep for me that night. Little the next.

It will be easy to Monday-morning quarterback what could/should have done, why the cars didn't see Lucky, why they didn't stop. But as Cathy said, "Shakespeare talked about this in King Lear; he said, "O, that way madness lies."

But, of course, we wonder "what if"? I, for one, am convinced Linda had no good choices and was in the terrible position of having to try to make the best worst decision possible. I love her for her composure. I only wish I could erase the image from her of the final moment. You see, Lucky was hit the first time in the far lane of the road, and we think it only broke his front leg because he instantly regained his feet. Linda said he looked like, "Oh, no, I'm in trouble. I'd better get back to Mama." And he started back across the road to her. Sadly, Fate threw down a black joker because a pickup truck hit him square on. He was merely feet away.

A year with Lucky just isn't long enough. Would ten years have been enough? When it is ever long enough?

We do have Max and Mika, and, at times, Taylor. They seem to be doing well. We aren't. Not yet.

Linda and I look down when we eat and there's no little brown body at our feet. We walk around the kitchen and there's no pair of brown eyes set into a squarish head looking at us from the top of the couch over a pair of crossed paws. In the morning, there's no little warm body nudging itself down between us and stretching out.

We see his toys scattered around, and at times, when we're not thinking about him, feel we get a glimpse of him running through the house on his way to something fun. But now and then we do trade a memory and laugh. I feel assured that Lucky, wherever he has gone, has started a party and is spreading joy. That's the kind of dog he was.

Mike Sledge

Time to Slip HIM a Mickey?

2009-09-15T07:12:00.001-07:00

The age-old complaint women give about their male partner is that he, "Won't commit," "Doesn't cuddle enough," "Likes to spend time alone." You can add your own variation to this.

Now, a study of voles, provides new information and, yes, guidance, as how to handle your man.

Basically, he may need more vasopressin.

Tom Insel, a neuroscientist, has studied prairie and montane voles, and found that the two are 99% identical, but it is the 1% difference that, well, makes all the difference.

The montane vole is a sailor, coming into port to mate only to disappear into the swells of the mountain meadows. He may be a great lover, but he's an absent father and is, apparently, emotionally unavailable.

The prairie male vole, though, forms a very close pair bond with his mate, is a great dad (I guess this would mean protecting the little tykes from snakes, taking them with him as he goes to forage), and prefers the company of his mate to others (I guess you could take that to mean he'd rather hang around the nest than scamper through the tall grasses with his buds). He might be more like, well, an accountant.

So what do you do if you think your man tilts toward the montane and is less sedate and dependable than the accountant/meadow mole?

Easy! On a regular basis, offer to make him a drink and slip in some vasopressin. It's not hard to come by. Only a few drops on a regular basis should do the trick.

Surely this is easier than wearing uncomfortable underwear from Victoria Secrets!

Of course, you might wonder what HE is reading if he offers to make YOU a drink!

Mike Sledge

Op-Ed for the Shreveport Times, August 9 "Bone and Spirit"

2009-08-11T19:52:00.001-07:00

August 9, 2009

Bone and Spirit

Editor's note: The Times asked Shreveporter Mike Sledge, author of a book on fallen servicemen and women, to offer his thoughts on the recovery of the remains of Navy Capt. Michael Scott Speicher.

The recent discovery of the remains of Capt. Michael Scott Speicher, the Navy pilot shot down in the Gulf War, brings again to mind the significant and poignant body-as-mind-soul-person association that is so commonly expressed, albeit in a manner that often eludes easy observation.

Indeed, President Barack Obama illustrated this conflation of body and person when he recently said, "I am grateful to the Marines who pursued the information that led to Capt. Speicher's recovery so that he can now come home [italics added]." If you didn't know the rest of the story, you wouldn't know the president was speaking about someone who had died.

We know, in our heads, that whatever mind or soul that constituted Capt. Speicher is separate and apart from the frail human vessel that contained his essence — his spirit, if you will — and that the same is true for the ones we love. Yet, despite any ontological argument tucked away behind our foreheads, we have difficulty fully accepting the distinction between the body and the soul of those close to us, and long after we receive definitive proof of death, our hearts still ache for the resolution that a final disposition of remains so frequently offers.

The seemingly insensible joining of body and soul by the survivors of those who have died is most apparent in cases when a body is not available for final disposition, as has often been the case of military deaths. In past wars, the return of the remains of our Soldier Dead ("Soldier Dead" is a phrase that originated during the Civil War given, in toto, to those who died in service of our country) was not a guaranteed event. Mexico City still hosts a cemetery containing the remains of 750 unknown dead from our war with that country.

During the Spanish-American War, the United States built upon its Civil War experience and strove to better improve the accounting and handling for the dead, but it was World War I that brought about an organization specifically dedicated to the recovery, identification and overseas burial of our dead. But, then there was the question: Do we leave our Soldier Dead overseas or bring them back?

Arguments for both alternatives were fierce, with former President Theodore Roosevelt deciding to leave his son, Quentin, buried in France. Interestingly, some argued for the return of the dead not because of patriotism, but because burying the dead would provide needed jobs. However, and again to illustrate the body-person association, a mother wrote to Secretary of State Robert Lansing, saying, "You took my son from me and sent him to war ... my son sacrificed his life to America's call, and now you must as a duty of yours bring my son back to me." (The mother insisted that her son be returned to her, not her son's body.)

This mother's letter settled all arguments, and afterwards (and after WWII), the next of kin made the final determination of burial site, with approximately two-thirds electing to bring the remains of their loved ones home while the rest were buried overseas in cemeteries such as the Normandy burial site so beautifully portrayed in "Saving Private Ryan."

During the Korean War, the United States began a concurrent return of Soldier Dead, which provided family members with much quicker final resolution than was available after WWI and WWII when the dead were not repatriated until nearly two years had passed after the cessation of hostilities. Now, members of our Armed Forces who give their lives are home in days.

However, there are still those missing from WWI, WWII, Korea and Vietnam — nearly 88,000 all total. We still mount missions to recover, identify and repatriate the remains of these missing, and those searching have, at times, paid a heavy price themselves, even the ultimate price.

Why? Why do we search so hard and so long for those we know surely to be dead?

And so we circle back to the beginning of this article, that of the association between body and soul, even when we know that the "remains" that are found are little more than bones. These bones are the ones we loved, and, like the Athenians who provided a public ceremony and burial for the remains of its fallen, we know we will find rest when those bones do.

Mike Sledge is a freelance author who resides in Shreveport. His book, "Soldier Dead: How We Recover, Identify, Bury, and Honor Our Military Fallen" was released in 2005. His Web site is www.mikesledge.com.

Why I Like Dark!

2009-07-28T16:51:00.000-07:00

Recently, I was asked why I like "dark." As in dark humor, dark movies. I thought about how to articulate an answer, and realized that this was a feeling thing, not a thinking thing.

I've always liked dark. Robert Mitchum (Night of the Hunter, Cape Fear). More recently, Tarantino (Pulp Fiction).

The thing about dark is that it stands in such startling contrast to light. Well, duh! But, seriously, in light discernment comes with ease, while the dark holds more than is readily visible; you have to feel around, and touch things/thoughts without seeing them beforehand. Sometimes, you never know what you will come up with.

Dark has no easy answers, no platitudes, no gimmicky endings. Dark is thoughtful, dark is dangerous. Dark has a bottom that you can't see and try to feel with your feet, like swimming in a lake. And, like in a lake, you'll likely encounter hidden slimy things with your legs, and sometimes live moving things brush by with a cold touch and disappear.

In dark, good men are bad, and bad men are even badder; women can't be trusted, motives are suspect, and truth is variable.

In dark, creatures move about, looking for something to eat. Early hominids must have been terrified of the dark, knowing that the black veil beyond their campfires was filled with large teeth, sharp claws, and, worse, suckers of souls.

Yet, to venture into the carbon black is to embrace your fears, to know that even thought justice is relative, there is such a thing as right and wrong, and even the good-with-parts-of-bad man or woman will try to swim up to the light one more time...sometimes for personal salvation, sometimes to save others, but always for redemption.

I guess I like dark because I believe in the devil (though certainly not the fallen angel of traditional biblical schools), and the devil lives in the blackness that is always pulled away in a dark story or movie, if only for a little, and we see bad for what it is, and good for what it tries to be.

Mike S.

Help! I Live In a Neighborhood of Flags!

2009-07-25T12:24:00.000-07:00

Flags have been used for centuries to send signals. Those signals can be quite literal, such as the handheld semaphore signal system, the nautical flag system, or the various pennants used to make an ostentatious announcement to the world of your favorite LOSER sports team.

A quick research of nautical flags, turns up some very interesting signaling messages, with each flag standing for a specific letter of the alphabet and carrying a specific meaning. For instance, This flag,

stands for "W - Whiskey" and means, "I need medical assistance." (Gotta love that pairing of letter and meaning.)

Now, THIS flag,

stands for "Z - Zulu" and means, "I need a tug." (One would guess that a person hiring an in-house masseuse from Craig's List displays this one on the front of his house.)

Which brings me to the point of this post: Many of my neighbors have flags flying near their front door. There's this one:

OK, I get it. Ants! Watermelon. Hey, whaddya know, it's summer!

Then, this one,

Ah, how cute! Ladybugs are ALWAYS cute. I think the guy that owns this house must be cute, too.

Then, there is the flag I HATE TO SEE, whether it be from a car, motorcycle, or flapping and yapping by the front eaves!

But, my neighborhood is an older, well-established neighborhood. Most of its inhabitants are members of long-term marriages, and many are retired couples. There's nary an untended lawn, and very few empty BudLight cans thrown about at night. And, then, there's ME! I'm single. I have dogs that bark. My flowerbed needs work. I ride a Harley. Here's MY flag!

Mike Sledge

In the Beginning, God May Have Created Man, BUT

2009-07-13T19:32:00.000-07:00

Home Depot and Lowe's created woman to increase their sales...especially paint products. And, they gave her the ability to withhold her favors so that Man would paint!

But, knowing that a man might consider no sex preferable to spending a weekend day with a brush in hand, they also created the roller and the sprayer!

Mike Sledge

Sneaking a Peek at His/Her Kindle!

2009-07-12T07:43:00.000-07:00

When first considering spending time with another person in a dating situation, we all have ways of making an initial assessment of future possibilities. For instance, when I lived in Boulder, CO, many women would put something like this in their on-line profiles: "If you even THOUGHT about voting Republican (Bush, especially), don't even THINK about contacting me."

But, once over the initial meeting or two and we've ascertained that we won't be arguing over the Stimulus Package and a real date ensues, what other clues are there to use?

For me, when I pick the lady up at her house, my eyes can't help but search her bookcases. If they are full of Nora Roberts or Clancy, then she'd better be really sexy and have a great body. If they have some Camus, Saramago, Updike, McCarthy, or other notable writers, then my mind is definitely involved.

But, now, with Kindle becoming every more popular (I love my Kindle DX), what's a single, avid reader to do? I can't just say, "Hey, honey, I'd like to see your Kindle!" Or, "I'll show you my Kindle if you show me yours!" Or, "Would you like to synch our Kindles?"

Now, I really can't give the woman's perspective on judging a date ahead of time. I mean, I've heard women say, "If he has a job and isn't in jail, he's a good prospect," and I wouldn't be able to comment if a woman cared what a man's Kindle looked like, but I would imagine a full Kindle might be a good sign, maybe especially the newer and bigger model.

Perhaps Amazon (the seller of Kindle), can offer its OWN date site, where you can search for possibilities by books downloaded? Oh, yeah, then I know I'll have a lot of luck. Some of my recent downloads are: Sex, Time, and Power, Beowulf, The Epic of Gilgamesh, books sure to really bring 'em in. (Ironically, there is ONE woman I know who would LOVE my choices: my EX-WIFE!)

Mike Sledge

ENZYTE: I'm in the WRONG Business!

2009-07-06T05:28:00.001-07:00

When I first saw the ENZYTE ads on TV, I thought it was a spoof; surely something making such a blatant and transparent attempt to appeal to a man's self-picture of sexual prowess was a joke, right? But, then again, we all know ads, some much more subtle than others, directed toward a man's "tool" and have always worked.

But, seriously, have you seen the Smiling Bob on the ads? He looks like a total nerd and his smile is more fake than those superglued to the faces of Miss America pageant participants. He looks like a total loser!!

Smiling Bob zooms by his friends, who take notice of his blowing by them with downcast faces that have a shadow of envy. Hell, even his WIFE has a big smile on her face! (The Enzyte website says: "Women may not say it to your face, but they all want a larger, harder man.")

I guess "Jenny" would agree. (Jenny is the girlfriend of "Mike," who is 36, and who "didn't want to feel like he was 'past his prime.'" Jenny says that "She's glad he uses Enzyte, and she wouldn't want it any other way.")

But Enzyte's performance kick isn't relegated just to white sheets in the bedroom, because Smiling Bob is shown standing before a board of directors with a big chart showing a big "up tick" in...sales?; his tumunescence?

Indeed, the Enzyte website says, "The proprietary formula of Enzyte can help maximize a man's erection potential. While there is no known ingestible proven to alter the natural size or shape of the penis, Enzyte can help your body achieve the fullest, strongest erections it is physically capable of achieving."

Ultimately, though, you have to recognize that, like romance novels, this ad works. Heck, who DOESN'T want a fuller, harder, more sustainable erection? And, how can it fail? After all, it does contain Horny Goat weed!

Mike Sledge

Can a Bikini Wax Kill You? A Man?

2009-06-29T15:45:00.000-07:00

I just ran across this article about whether or not a bikini wax can kill you. While the audience for this story has to be women, I would contend it could apply to men.

How? Why?

Well, consider this. If you have a wife and kids and have an affair with a South American woman who likely has a bikini wax, you could get killed.

Mike Sledge

(Photo license site)

Where John Wayne Rode...Monument Valley

2009-06-18T20:37:00.000-07:00

June 18, 2009

This morning I walked down the street to get coffee while Jes slept in and stumbled into a fantastic café. I booted up my little netbook and sipped from a cup of tasteful and aromatic coffee while sitting amidst a desert garden, listening to the miniature waterfall in a little Japanese pond that three big multicolored goldfish called home.

Our plan was to drive south on Hwy 191 to Blanding, and then cut west on 95 and then south on 261. We bucked a headwind all the way south to Blanding, which is located on a kind of mesa, right at 6,100 feet. We still wore jackets and gloves, but no rain gear needed, thank god.

When we turned onto 95, I knew it was a good choice, because we saw nobody on the road that swooped through the canyons like a hawk. The road required constant shifting, but that was just fine because it was so nice. Along the way, we stopped at some Anasazi ruins. Jes and I both commented how so very exciting it was to gaze upon a place that was bustling with activity 800 years ago.

We turned south and the first thing we saw was a sign that said, “Narrow gravel road 23 miles ahead.” I’m thinking, “Huh? WTF? Two years ago I had driven this same route the other direction, and I just didn’t seem to recall anything special. Oh, well.

But, 23 miles later it all came back to me…we would be driving right down the side of a mesa bluff into the area just north of Monument Valley. Two years ago I had driven toward this wall of red stone thinking, “Where’s the road up?” I think the pictures will show exactly what it was like.

This picture was taken looking over the back...this is the rock wall we had just driven down!

Once down, we stopped in Mexican Hat, shared a burger, and saddled up again, looking forward to Monument Valley, the site of filming for many John Wayne movies.

What is amazing about the buttes of Monument Valley is that the whole valley floor used to be the same height as the top of the monuments. Wind and water subsequently worn down and carried away all the softer rock, leaving the harder stone behind, standing in tall spires.

A traffic accident put us on a detour in Kayenta, a town in the Navajo Nation, and we were stop and go…mostly stop. At one point, when I let the clutch out, a hammer of wind hit us…so hard that it ACTUALLY PUSHED US BACKWARDS ON THE HARLEY. I swear to god we rolled backwards a few feet while I fought for balance. I didn’t want to gas it and go because I wasn’t sure if I could stay upright, so I just locked the front brake and braced my feet on the ground. Then, suddenly as it came, it was gone. I said to Jes, “Shit! That was as strong or stronger than the wind burst we hit yesterday.” (The day before, after the final gas stop while on the way to Moab, we had just gotten back on I-40 when we were hit by a gust of wind that felt solid as a fist.) Later, Jes told me, “Yeah, I was filming and saw the dust storm coming.” I’m like, What? Why the F didn’t you tell me!”

Later, when we reviewed her video recording, it was clear what had happened: a very big dust devil had blown our way and passed over us. Fortunately, we were stopped when it hit, because a Harley is fine when moving right along, fine when stopped, but there is a moment of transition when beginning to roll when balance is a little iffy.

At Kayenta, after we checked in, a group of Harley riders pulled into the Holiday Inn. Turns out they were Italians who owned Harleys back in Italy and who had rented them in Las Vegas and were doing a tour. They even had Italian Harley leather jackets on! One of them said,"Everything is bigger here...even the Cokes." And, yes, ALL of them, men and women, young and middle-aged, were NOT carrying pounds and pounds of extra weight. Go figure.

As usual, supper, download pictures, discuss tomorrow…which, in this case, will our last day on the Harley.

Mike Sledge

Moab, Biblical Burial Site of Moses

2009-06-18T15:49:00.000-07:00

June 17, 2009

Once again, I got up and got coffee and checked my computer for email and stock market trends. Then, of course, take coffee to Jes to jump start her. Our plan was to make it an easy 180-190 miles to Moab. Moab is named after the biblical burial land of Moses, who, as you know, did not make it to the Promised Land.

We left Richfield and motored east on I-70. I knew the San Rafael Swell was ahead of us and was looking forward to it. (I had heard much about this geologic formation while living in Boulder but hadn’t had the chance to view it.) The wind/air temp was just about perfect, but we pulled over to don rain gear just in case.

We did a lot of climbing going up the west side of the swell, and reached a great viewing point. The Native Americans were there with large spreads of jewelry. (I wonder if that stuff is really made in Thailand or somewhere.)

Then, we rode the down into the San Rafael Desert. Going up, over, and down the swell presented us with fantabulous sights, and these pictures really don’t do justice to the geography. The scale of mountains, plains, mesas, and other western geography dwarfs what you see in Arkansas, the Hill Country of Texas, and even the Appalachians. You really feel as though you are just a mote when you ride down a cut made through huge stone walls and find yourself staring out at mountains that are 30-40-50 miles in the distance across the high desert.

We got gas just before turning south on Hwy 191 to Moab. Moab, UT, is the setting for a novella I’ve finished (are we ever finished?), and driving back to the town was like going back to see an old friend.

After grabbing a hotel, we went to get a snack, and then rode around some. We ended up taking the road that leads to Slickrock Trail (a famous mountain bike jaunt) but pushed on to where the road turned to gravel and then kept going another ten miles or so. When we stopped to take a break, stretch our legs, and snap some pics, Jes called to me from behind where I was standing. “Hey, Papa, do you think we need to worry about that?”

I turned and saw some dark clouds a few miles away approaching…and it was obvious that they were dumping rain. We were way high above the town and miles away, so I was most concerned about lightning. Fortunately, we missed most of the rain.

After taking a cat nap, we decided to do some more looking around and find somewhere to eat. I had a place in mind, but didn’t tell her about it until we started up a horribly-maintained asphalt road toward a very oddly shaped structure at the top.

“That’s a great dinner place,” I said. “Been there before and it was delicious.”

It proved to be an equally enjoyable experience this time, too, although the rain drove us off our outdoor dinner patio and inside for shelter.

We did our usual TV thing, throwing the remote back and forth, telling the other to try and find a good channel. Terrible TV all week, but that was really just as well.

Lights out at 11 or so.

Mike Sledge

Heaven Is On Earth...Esp. When It Rains In The Mountains

2009-06-17T06:33:00.000-07:00

Tues, June 16, 2009

I woke up in St. George and grabbed my neat little Asus Eee PC (a 10.7 in screen, 160 gig hard drive, 7-hr battery life netbook) and headed for breakfast…coffee in particular. The second thing I do is to check the weather. Hmmm…well, today might be a “wet day.” And it was!

By the time Jes got up (“Papa, I swear it’s like a meat locker in here!” is her morning mantra) and we got going it, it was clear that the sky would not be. Rain garments went on top of the items in the saddlebags.

We ran north on Hwy 18 out of St. George, planning on stopping first at the Mountain Meadows Massacre. It was, as before, a gorgeous drive, and intermittent light rain sprinkled us on the road.

Thirty miles later we pulled into the memorial sites, one of which is an overlook that has a memorial marking the names of those killed and several markers that provide the history of the tragedy. To make a long story short, an emigrant wagon train from Arkansas was ambushed by a group of Native Americans and Mormons from a local settlement. For reasons still not exactly clear, a Mormon militia joined in the attack. (This was during a time of the Utah War, when the US decided to assert its authority over the region and the Mormons resisted.)

After a day or so of continuous assault, a few people of the wagon train were killed and a “truce” was arranged in which the emigrants gave up their arms in exchange for a promise of safe escort out of the region. About a mile from the initial camp where the attacks began, the now-unarmed emigrants were slaughtered, save for all children under the age of seven (it was thought that they would not remember the incident).

Eventually, Brigham Young threw his son (one of them…nice to have some spares, no?) under the bus and who was eventually executed for this crime. Over time, the memorials were updated and improved.

The second memorial site was down in the meadows below the overlook and it contained the graves and stone cairn commemorating the burial site. It was really a beautiful place, one worth taking a side trip off the regular travel routes.

We decided to put on our rain pants in addition to our jackets we had already donned. The bad thing about riding a motorcycle when it’s wet is that if you wait till it’s raining to stop and put on rain gear, you’re doing so when the sky is dumping on you and it’s really too late.

Of course, along the way there were the usual stops for pictures. I love these that Jes took.

We made it to Cedar City on I-15 and took a look at the map. What the heck, we decided. We’d take the canyon road, Hwy 14, back to Hwy 89 (the road we had been on leaving Flagstaff.) and then head north. We were thinking that it would be too wet to ride the interstate up to Salt Lake City. On this account, we were truly correct, but we had hell still ahead of us.

As we rode up Hwy 14 heading east, I told Jes, “Well, it’s a canyon road…it might stay down low….unless, of course, the town was the bottom where the river ran out and we would be climbing to the mountains.” My words proved to be prophetic.

We climbed and we climbed. I pulled over and put my heavier pair of gloves on. We climbed. It rained on us…thank god not a downpour but a steady drizzle. Not much traffic. NO MOTORCYCLES coming the other way…definitely NOT a good sign.

Up, up, around and around…really pretty but really cold. By the time we pulled over at the junction between 143 and 14, it was about 40 something. I looked at the map and decided to take 143 where it led to 148 and then take the east turn down the mountains. This would put us up in the mountains a little longer, but drop us back onto 89 considerably further up the road. This decision was a mixed blessing, for we had a very rare view at one overlook, but we spent more time in the rain and cold.

And we continued up. Then, we saw snow alongside the road, which brought laughs. By now, we’re at 35 degrees. We really aren’t cold except for our hands, and it’s kind of important for a cycle rider to be able to work the hand controls, you know.

We stop at a pull out in which there was a viewing area overlooking a part of the mountain that seemed to have just sheared away, much like a tooth will break from the crown down to the root. (I’ve got to look that up on the net later.)

We get back on and continue climbing. We saw one sign that gave the altitude at just below 10,000 feet, but the road climbed for quite some time after that. I had to stop a couple of time just to take my gloves off and blow on my hands.

Once we crossed the summit and started down, the needle on the thermometer mounted on the bike started climbing….we were descending into heaven, I’ll say.

In town, we stopped for an afternoon snack and to get hot chocolate. I checked the map and we talked. It was clear that monsoon season in Utah was going to dump rain on the west side of the mountains we had just crossed, so we decided to go east, stay the night on I-70, then head to Moab the next day.

We saddled back up and motored the next 70+ miles north on 89. The road was nice, we had a wind in our back so I set that little puppy on 70 and let ‘er thunder down the road. A Harley big twin with the right pipes creates such a wonderful sound…not too loud yet you hear those big pistons just pounding away, their stale breath coming out through the exhausts in a steady, muted roar. It’s easy to get into a Zen state where your thoughts wander as the vista unfolds.

We turned east on I-70, got to Richfield and decided to make it an early day.

Great hotel, wonderful pool (it feels so good to get some exercise after a day on the bike...and it is NOT a good thing that I float better than I used to), dinner, movie, talk, bed.

I love my daughter!!!!

Mike Sledge

Flagstaff to St. George via Colorado City

2009-06-16T19:41:00.000-07:00

Monday, June 15.

Of course I got up first. Thank GOD for coffee. We drove to the storage rental place and unloaded the Harley, suited up, and took off.

Jes is a wonderful riding companion. She doesn’t complain, keeps her balance, and hangs tough when the ride gets difficult (more on this later).

We rode up Hwy 89 out of Flagstaff, took the alternate 89 turnoff.

This took us to the Arizona Strip. The Arizona Strip is the part of Arizona above the Grand Canyon and below the Utah border. There’s a whole lot of nothing there.

The weather at first was cool, sixty something, but gradually warmed up to the eighties and we began unzipping and removing extra clothing.

Our stop for the night was planned to be St. George, UT, but we wanted to go through Colorado City, first, because it is home to the FLDS church. The Fundamentalist Church of Latter Day Saints, an offshoot of the traditional Mormon Church, owns most of the land in Colorado City and the neighboring town. Driving through it gave Jes and me the willies.

The first thing you notice is the very large homes, many of which have no final treatment, siding or brick, done to the exterior plywood walls. These homes are often situated in walled compounds…not fences as you might know them, but eight and ten foot solid walls; you can’t see in or out, and that is intentional. There are other homes, also large, that are nicely finished out. Why are the homes so big? And, why do many have as much playground equipment in the back yard as some schools do? Stay tuned for the answer.

The second thing you notice is the absence of children, or anyone else walking around, as you would normally expect at 4 o’clock on a weekday. No kids riding bikes, nothing.

This is not to say that there weren’t kids, but they were all escorted by a woman (usually young), and they were all obviously on their way to someplace. The women and girls all wore the same kind of prairie school dress…long, blue or pink, and with a white frock. Their hair—no matter what age—was also the identical coiffeur: pushed up in front, long on sides and back. The boys wore identical dark slacks and blue shirt.

Suddenly, a string of big cars came from a side street. The drivers were men and all wore the same dark suit and light-colored tie. Apparently, a meeting of some sort had let out.

No dogs, no cats, no barking, no horn honking, no sounds of laughter (I’m sure they DO laugh at the right time), no typical city-life activity whatsoever.

The very little kids would watch us with big eyes as we drove by on the Harley, and you read the excitement in their faces, but their “keepers” quickly shut them down. No one returned our wave, save one young girl who drove a 4-wheeler full of kids in their matching kits.

Now, back to the big homes: they are big because the men have more than one wife, all of whom try to have hordes of children.

Now, here’s the scary part of our experience in Colorado City: if here, in America, we can have a cult or extreme religious sect seclude itself such as the FLDS does and brainwash its members such as the FLDS does, imagine how horrifically the self-isolating groups in Afghanistan and Pakistan and elsewhere can determine the kind of life those in their power have to live.

Mike Sledge

Dinosaurs Still Eat People

2009-06-16T19:32:00.000-07:00

I got up early on Sun, June 14, and drove toward Albuquerque where my daughter, Jes, was scheduled to arrive at noon. The wind from the south was brutal, constantly pushing my car and trailer to the shoulder and forcing the engine to get out of top gear. But, wind or not, I pulled up right about the time that she landed.

We motored toward Flagstaff, and pulled over to the side where we saw some dinosaurs in the field. Oh, wait…it was a statue thing. The little sucker tried to eat me!

Back in the car, Go West! Of course, we have to stop by Meteor Crater. That is one big hole in the ground. Jes was really surprised; she thought it was going to be something like a big splatter like from when you throw a stone in a mud river bank.

We got to Flagstaff and found a good hotel. Supper, talk, bed.

Tucumcari, NM...You Need To Go There

2009-06-14T07:04:00.001-07:00

Tucumcari straddles historic Highway 66, the road upon with the eponymous movie was based (Route 66 came about at a time of transition and movement of both people and ideologies; it was filmed when the interstate highway system was rapidly supplanting the two-lane road that had served as a primary migration route between the heartland of the U.S. and its upstart younger brother, the west, California in particular. To travel Hwy 66 at that time was to travel through time, forward if going west and backwards if going east.).

The town is redolent with aching knees, cataracts, big waistlines, and hair the color of Midwestern snow that has laid on the streets and sidewalks for months. I-40 bypasses it, leaving it to wither like a river cutoff…but not entirely, for the signs on the four lane speedway beckon you to divert from your fixed path and plans.

I pulled off and first encountered the usual grouping of new lay-over establishments, all of which lay apart from the town proper, like a young man who has returned home from college and who avoids his buck-toothed relatives at the family gathering. I drove on, passing by an abandoned go-kart track whose buffer tires marked the paved curves that had surrendered to encroaching dirt and grass.

The heart of Tucumcari still beats, though much less strongly than before. As I slipped back to the days of rolled-down windows, stick shifts, and unleaded gas, I imagined the crowds at the faded art-deco stores and motels, passing the wooden Indian standing nobly and stoically at the door to the general store. Gas station attendants didn’t ask to check your oil, they just did it…and threw in a windshield cleaning to boot. Kids sweated in the back of station wagons, fathers’ hair oozed brylcreme, while women’s red scarves kept bangs out of sunglassed eyes.

As is my usual wont, I rode the back streets, looking behind the redone façade of main street. It was as expected: loose dogs, doves preening and cooing, cats sauntering, and kids doing what kids do…in this case, riding four wheelers around and around in a yard that had been converted into a mini race course. The father stood on the porch with a hose, spraying them as they rode by. Glees rang out over multiple exhausts.

Elsewhere, trailers (none of which were younger than thirty or forty years) were mixed in will more permanent dwellings. All housing structures were small. (How do the accumulated memories of their inhabitants fit within such tight confines?)

But, of course, the residents aren't without their sense of humor, considering the picture below.

The wind—wondrous steady companion of my childhood days in South Texas—recalled to mind feet sticking and burning on hot tarry streets, dogs mating in the local sandlot, bike tires that constantly were flat from the unavoidable goat head thorns that also broke off in the soles of our feet, only to fester and finally come forth with a geyser of puss.

Taking advantage of the wind and standing by a state-of-the-art school (if you judge by the physical facilities), a lone windmill spins its three arms. It, perhaps, is the town’s defining landmark, a sign that Tucumcari has a future. Or, perhaps it’s the other way around…the town of stucco at the foot of the aluminum monolith reminds us that the future was born in the past.

Mike Sledge

Morally, Is One Innocent Life Worth More Than Another?

2009-05-29T14:09:00.000-07:00

It's very clear that in the secular world lives have different values. Try running over a neurosurgeon and a WalMart greeter and you'll quickly learn the difference. This is to be expected...if I recall, even the Bible carries instructions on making financial restitution for the loss of a life.

But, in the moral world, where we talk in hard to gauge terms such as "justice," and "fairness," how do we value lives?

The reason I ask this question is because now, at this moment, innocent lives are being lost in Afghanistan and Pakistan...and still so, but to a lesser degree, in Iraq.

Specifically, one of our Predators (flown from Florida, or California by a pilot/technician who, after work, can go surfing) takes out a house harboring Taliban and, in the process, kills ten other people, many of whom are children.

Certainly, in such cases, our representative makes financial payments to the family of the slain innocents. This much we know.

But, is this enough? Have we made restitution?

Some would say that Pakistan is a war zone, and, as such, contains innocent people who are sometimes inadvertently killed. I can buy that argument, IF we flip the coin and address the statement I've heard that says that our war on terror knows no borders and, thus, includes our own houses. Would we send a missile into a house holding known Taliban (or other extremist groups) if innocent people were there, too? (Our most recent action of using deadly force in a situation somewhat analogous to the house in Pakistan was when we stormed the Branch Dividians in Waco, with subsequent horrendous loss of life.)

But, now, at this moment, would we bomb a house here where even the slightest prospect of taking the lives of children existed?

Then why do we do so in Pakistan?

Mind you, I'm not saying we shouldn't try to root out the Taliban, which is infamous in its treatment of those who disagree with its interpretation of Islam. I am positing, though, that we ask the question I have posed: Is the life of an innocent person in Pakistan (or Iraq, or Afghanistan, or Somalia, or Mexico) worth less than the life of an innocent in U.S. of A?

We HAVE to ask this question; we HAVE to answer NO to this question; and only THEN can we find true justification for the loss of innocent lives in other places (if such justification can, indeed, be found).

Perhaps we don't ask this question for the same reason we don't ask other questions: we don't want to have to answer it with what we really feel.

Mike S.

Top Ten Reasons to Have Sex Tonight!

2009-05-28T12:43:00.000-07:00

The above was the subject line in an email (spam, no doubt) I received.

I'm thinking: Stupid people! I'm a man. I don't need a REASON...all I need is a WILLING PARTNER!

Mike S.

Men Do Stupid Things

2009-05-26T06:11:00.000-07:00

As if we all didn't know that!

I, myself, have a long list of "Stupid Things I've Done."

The earliest I can remember, and perhaps the one that could have ended all future possible idiotic acts, was sitting out behind the garage and wrapping a rope around my neck. Not that really tight, mind you. No particular reason...I was just foolin' around. (The "foolin' around" must be coded onto a certain gene in men; if you have too much of this chemical combination, Darwin's Laws will see to it that the error is corrected.)

Soon, my head began to swell and my neck tighten as the deep arteries pushed blood into my head that could not return via the closer-to-the-surface veins. (Does this remind you of how a certain kind of sex toy works?)

Well, anyway, panic ensued, and I fought to maintain control as I began quickly to unwrap the rope. The trouble was, I had used a really long rope...something like ten or more feet long...and it was taking just too damn long to get the coils off my neck.

Would I manage to take it all off before I passed out and, presumably, died?

Folks, it was close...very close. I remember passing the rope around and over my head, switching it between hands as fast as my little becoming numb fingers would go. My vision faded, each heartbeat pounded behind my beginning-to-protrude eyeballs, and my head felt as though it was going to explode.

Even as I struggled to save my stupid life, my mind was divided into the present and corporeal world (don't panic don't panic don't panic...work faster work faster work faster) and the more reflective, philosophical world (as this it? is this how I die? I hated the thought of my mother and father thinking that I had done this on purpose!)

Finally, just when the world before my eyes went red then black, I slipped the last loop off my neck and fresh air rushed into my lungs. I would have fallen to my knees, but I found that I had already done so.

The joy of living--a feeling so sweet and refreshing that, almost fifty years later, it recalls itself to me whenever I stand on a cliff or am on the edge of a thunderstorm and am washed by clean air--suffused througout every cell in my body. I was alive.

I never told this to anyone. Until now.

Mike Sledge

(Picture source unknown...)

Would Somebody Please Give Me a Break!

2009-05-21T14:55:00.000-07:00

This pool

came with this warning

The Main Problem in Establishing A Nation-State in Iraq

2009-05-13T14:32:00.000-07:00

The main problem is evident, but not so obvious: it is the difficulty in realigning loyalties given to a gens, phratry, or clan to a new holder of authority, an entity based not on family but on location.

Media sources carried the statement that when the Al-Qaeda member Al Zarqawi was on the move, trying to elude US forces, the first question he would ask when going into a new location was (to paraphrase), "What is the tribe?"

This makes total sense, because power rested not in the hands of any provincial government, but in those of tribal leaders, sheiks. The tribes were composed of clans, which were composed of houses, which were composed of extended families.

Those of us in the United States who have difficulty grasping why matters are so chaotic in Iraq simply do not understand and fail to grasp the strength of ancient social organizations. (Now, since we have more information coming our way about Afghanistan, we will see the same problem, but on several orders of magnitude greater. And, a thorough knowledge of ethnology will be required in order to have any chance of success in that "graveyard of empires.")

That a repository of power should be based on blood is, if we think about it, understandable. Anyone who has seen Braveheart has an idea of the strength of allegiance to blood rather than to a remote and amorphous "state." A not too distant example of the strength of tribes as the norm for societal group boundaries can be found by considering how Native American tribes of North America were organized into tribes, that were groups of extended families.

But, we can also look closer to our times for examples of filial loyalty. For one, I would posit that if you go to any rural area of the US, you will find the bonds of loyalty following more ancient rather than contemporary channels: who is your father/brother carries more weight than who is your representative or senator. And, consider Bush I and Bush II...and, possibly, Bush III? The hands working the levers of power bear a strong family resemblance and are an atavistic reflection that which has ruled for many thousands of years.

Interesting, our notion of ruling authority as seen in current governmental structures is based a patriarchal form of power lineage. (This is not surprising, considering the Glass Ceiling and other impediments to women achieving parity in the workforce.) There is much evidence that, in much earlier times, lineage was traced through the mother. Again, this should not be too surprising, as evidenced by a saying in rural parts of Louisiana, "Mama's baby, Daddy's maybe." Why, when, and how did societies move from a matriarchal basis of lineage to that of patriarchal?

I would submit that this change, gradual though it was, came about once humans were able to create wealth that could be acquired, stored, transported, and passed down. The germ for this change lies in the establishment of sustained agriculture. Richard Manning's article, The Oil We Eat, is an excellent treatise which gives a very good account of how packets of energy (read that as packets of carbohydrates...grain, rice) eventually led not only to the creation of wealth but also to the creation of a widely spread group of social classes. Once man could grow his wealth, he realized he could grow even more by employing others.

But here's the rub...once man could acquire wealth, he had a chance to achieve immortality by passing this wealth (legacy) on to his heirs. Thus, the creation of harems, polygamist marriages, and other institutions in which men controlled women in an attempt to increase their chances of knowing who their offspring were. (Recall again that sage Louisiana adage.)

Thus, to get back to the premise of this blog, we won't be able to adequately address the issues facing us in wars of theology where geographical boundaries do not matter (as they did, indeed, in WWI and WWII) as much as ethnological/societal beliefs/practices. We must think in terms of "they" (them, all of them) think, and realize that a solution will not come in a nice little ribbon-tied package. And, interestingly, a side-benefit of such outside the box thinking might be that we might come to a better understanding of our own gender/power issues.

Mike Sledge

Lucky...My Very Own Economic Stimulus Plan

2009-05-12T17:40:00.001-07:00

To heck with the Obama stimulus package...I've got Lucky, my 15-something-month-old lab/pit bull mix who claimed me as his own last December when the economy was tanking. Because of him, I've contributed a "comma figure" to the local economy.

Let's see...initial vet bill $400
Emergency bill to get a cow neck bone off his jaw $120
Ear mites (Lucky had been a stray) $100
One pair of cycling shorts $125
Many books he found he had a taste for $120
Another pair or cycling shorts $140
Second vet bill $100
Much food and treats (estimated) $400
Pair of shoes $ 80
An adult trike so I can run him in the hood $250
Pair of sunglasses $550
Pair of clear glasses $450

Get the picture? This is, by no means, the full tally of what the little sweetheart has cost.

But, like children, we try to reconcile matters of the wallet and the heart, with the heart often winning any toss-up. Just look at him...how can you NOT love a cute little boy like this?

Thankfully, Lucky is growing out of puppyhood and his little transgressions are quickly forgiven. And, the economy shows signs of reviving, so it can do just fine without my personal contribution to the common good.

And, finally, I can always console myself that Lucky will never get a DUI or wreck the car!

Mike Sledge

Good Tasting Medicine?

2009-04-30T17:15:00.001-07:00

I went to pick up some medicine today, and this was the sign I saw in the pharmacy window.

WHAT?

No Way!

Medicine is supposed to taste bad...for at least two reasons.

The first is obvious: little kiddos are known for prying in places where they shouldn't, and, because of our genetic survivial of the fittest traits, they tend to taste unknown food/substances before eating. So, if the little miscreants get hold of mommy's and daddy's get happy pills, a bitter taste would prevent them from shooting them down the pipe.

The second reason for bad tasting medicine has to do with tradition: what would happen to the saying "Take your medicine" if the medicine tasted good? What would have happened to the delightful scenes in the movies when the parent threatened the kids with castor oil when they complained of a stomach ache to stay out of school? How much less poignanat would the scene have been if the little fakers said, "WHOO HOO, it's MEDICINE TIME!" instead of, "Oh, NO, please not the castor oil. I'm better. Really I am! I'm ready to go to school."

Also, we're not supposed to want to take medicine. After all, it's MEDICINE! You're not supposed to like the debt restructuring plan your bank gave you, but you do it because you know it's good for you and you want to get it over with.

Perish the thought of good tasting medicine. It just doesn't tase right.

Mike Sledge

Beware The Man With Garden Tools In His Hands

2009-04-26T09:25:00.000-07:00

My philosophy, when it comes to yard work, is "Why should I pay somebody to do a lousy job when I can do the same for nothing?"

Actually, that's not quite true: I will gladly pay someone to do the mowing and edging. (I did that enough for $$ when I was growing up...and this was BEFORE the days of warnings pasted on mowers that said, "Do not use as a hedge trimmer.") I, though, insist on screwing up the flowerbed work myself.

The irony is that I bought my house, in part, because of the very nice flowerbeds. But what do I do? I let my dog dig in them, lie down in them, and otherwise invariably let all kinds of Cichorium intybus, Iva axillaris, and Amsinckia intermedia establish themselves, only to wrest them from the soil with a set of tools.

Now, so I'm digging away, leaving a trail of herbaceous corpses behind me in front of the flowerbed. (I never clean up the dead until after they've withered so much that I decide, "Hey, let the lawn guy chop them up!")

And, I'm doing a great job of uprooting these really tall leafy things that are embedded among my lillies. Or, irises? Or whatever.

Anyway, I've got a nice pile of these weedy-looking things in the yard and a neighbor walks by and says, "Hey, if you're going to throw away all those flowering bulbs, can I have them?"

(I was wondering why the roots of the "bulbs" were so different from those of the other "weeds.")

So, I replant them all.

Then I remember...I had done this same thing last year.

Mike Sledge

Viva Viagra?

2009-04-18T06:36:00.001-07:00

First, a disclaimer: I am not nor have I ever been a member of blue pill party.

Second, a corollary to the disclaimer: Should I ever need to, I will have no qualms about plunking down $$ for the lil' pepper-upper!

Now, come on, you creative marketing geniuses, you...is this the best you can do for an erectile dysfunction ad?

I mean, WTF? Do you think I'm gonna set around with a bunch of buddies and sing about getting a boner? Give me a break. (Having said that, I would much prefer men to sit around singing about an ed product than slaughtering rhinos in Africa for their prized horns with, supposedly, aphrodisiac qualities.)

Now, a really good song about older men and their loss of virility is Buddy Guy's Done Got Old.
(The song is on the right hand side of the screen.) (One line is priceless: "I cain't love like I used to.")

Just think...a really creative ad group would run Buddy Guy's song and then advertise handguns with the voice-over, "Men, have you done got old? Lost your hearing? Can't get it up? Well, Smith & Wesson has the answer for you!"

Now that's the kind of advertising I would consider original.

Mike S.

Capt. Phillips is Rescued, but Limbaugh & Hannity Are Still Afloat

2009-04-13T17:15:00.000-07:00

Thankfully, the courageous Captain Richard Phillips is on his way home, but Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity are still on their way to the moon...or somewhere else where hypoxia must have affected their thinking.

Even while President Obama has praised Captain Phillips, moving the spotlight off of himself and to the leader who put himself at risk so his men would be safe, our conservative, talk show hosts (let's be clear here...Limbaugh and Hannity are not astute policy wonks...they are talkers who will do most anything to increase their listener base) have spent hours making themselves look like whiny, snot-nosed, little boys who didn't make the team and who are now running around trying to make those who did look bad.

The only ones they're making look bad, is themselves. Let's face it...Phillips is back safe and sound, and as the result of the use of force, something that both talkers had said our President would fail to employ.

Certainly, President Obama, as others, would have preferred to resolve the matter without shedding blood, but such was not the case.

The funny thing is that people I know, in days prior to the crisis coming to a head, said that we should take out the pirates. Now that we have done so, under Presidential orders, these same people are saying, "So what...the President is supposed to use force if necessary."

WTF? Do they even hear themselves? Or, are their ears and minds too clogged with the afternoon-dribble from our two major talkers?

Instead of blowing off so much vitriol about President Obama, how about they spend their time expressing their thanks and gratitude that Capt. Phillips is coming home...in one piece and alive, not in a body bag.

Mike Sledge

Marijuana Kills!

2009-03-27T06:30:00.000-07:00

LOL! Yeah, haven't we all seen the film Reefer Madness?

Lately, the anti-marijuana ads have gotten a little more, well, hip.

However, both of these films miss the point, because whether grass is a gateway drug or a harmless pasttime, and whether it should be illegal or treated just the same as alcohol are all academic exercises or merely simply excuses to continue current behavior because, save for medical purposes in a few places, marijuana is illegal and, as such, the use of it promotes criminal behavior. (Note: I said "criminal" behavior not "deviant" behavior and not "shiftless" behavior.)

With Sec. of State Clinton, now and for the first time I am aware of, shouldering part of the blame for the criminal insurgent activity in Mexico, one of our sister countries, we see that we are, indeed, our brother's keeper and our desire for illegal drugs has spawned a spree of killing on a scale that greatly exceeds even that of the days of Prohibition.

It is important to note that not all of the killings are "bad on bad." Honest policemen, journalists, judges, and politicians have been brutally murdered, sometimes in front of their families.

Illegal drugs are, in many ways, a commodity. They will be supplied at whatever cost the traffic will bear. Sadly, this cost comes not only in the loss of lives and law and order south of the border, it is increasingly clear that it will also carry a greater human cost in our own country. The last, that we will suffer the results of our demand for illegal drugs, does not supercede the first, the pain and misery to our neighbor.

I'm sure there are those who will say, "Hey! MY grass comes from California. I'M not contributing to the killing. However, again, it is clear that the drug cartels are also shouldering their way onto our native soil in areas of production, as well as distribution.

There are others who will say that there is no need for them to put down their favorite vehicle of escape because there are far worse drugs coming across the border and that we need to deal with those serious drugs first. They are absolutely right...in that there are far worse drugs. They are wrong in that there is no need for them to change. If they can justify their behavior with an illegal, non-addictive drug, how can they expect others who are actually addicted to more serious drugs to quit.

I'm no prude. I know, personally, the pleasurable effects of marijuana, having experimented with it many, many years ago. However, my break with it came because I work up one morning, way before the making of the movie Traffic and other films in which the world behind-the-scenes of drugs was illuminated, with an epiphany that my money spent for my fun fostered evilness.

Ultimately, especially during the moment of a relaxing, completely enjoyable, shared high, a look around the circle of close acquaintances tells you how happy you are for such company. At that same moment, in another place of the world not far away, there are those who look around their circle of teary-eyed friends and they are thankful for their support during the mourning for their dead son, father, brother, cousin who lost his life while trying to maintain some sense of law and order in a world gone crazy.

Push for all the legislation you wish to legalize marijuana, but in the meantime think of John Donne, whose message in MEDITATION XVII I shall rephrase to say...any man's loss is our loss.

Mike Sledge

Advice to the Younger Woman

2009-03-22T08:20:00.000-07:00

OK, I'm an old hat. I admit it...been around long enough to have stains and bends in my brim. And, of course, women have aged along with me.

At this point in our lives, the effects of sun exposure on are becoming very apparent. We're talking breakdown of collagen, wrinkles, spots, blemishes, other markings.

Beautiful skin, sadly, even begins to look like leather...and not the expensive supple of calfskin gloves. Rather, we're talking old work gloves that have lain out in the sun and are now hard and lined with crevasses. For them, it's too late.

I won't go into the litany of skin cancers and such that are so common with overexposure: these risks are known to all. Instead, I want to speak straight to two issues: Vanity, and the "I'll never get old" fallacy.

First, yes, a tan DOES look good. Somehow we've become indoctrinated to feel this way. However, we have a BRAIN that is supposed to work. LOL...no, it doesn't work all the time, does it? Like, "OHMIGOD, I can't believe I did X with him! I MUST have been DRUNK!"

Second, yes, you WILL get older. Or die. You must try, as hard as it is, to imagine yourself 40 or 50 or older. (Trust me, older women are sexy...BUT NOT if they look like this:

So, girls and young ladies, lie out in the sun all you want, but use the screen that protects against ALL UV. Get a tan now and then if you must, but please, please, please try to think ahead and protect your natural beauty.

Or, you can end up with your skin looking like this:

Mike Sledge

Photo licenses at: http://creativecommons.org/licenses

Book Review of The Shack ...Traditional Christianity Cross Dressing

2009-03-15T10:52:00.000-07:00

SPOILER ALERT! THIS POST WILL REVEAL KEY ASPECTS OF THIS BOOK.

The Shack by William P. Young has made it to the bestseller list. After reading it, I wonder "Why?" and I answer myself with, "Ah, yes, I see!"

This book (it doesn't even rise to the level of a "novel" even by romance novel standards) is, in essence, a syncretic blend of Traditional Christianity, New Age Spiritualism, and World Spiritualism. However, let there be little doubt that the New Age/World Spirituality aspects are but the spices in a meat-and-potatoes stew of the typical Christian views of God, humankind, and how the roles of the two interact.

As I read it, I was struck with the parallel between it and the theme of how fundamentalist Christians have used the Intelligent Design Theory as a back door method of introducing Creationism into a science classroom. For more on Intelligent Design Crossdressing, go to
http://www.harpers.org/archive/2005/12/0080852

There is a distinction, though, between the proponents of introducing Intelligent Design into the classroom (former President Bush was one) and Author Young: that is, Young is not trying to push an agenda...he is simply a writer who has penned what I would call an "inspirational fictional Christian memoir." It should do well in a Christian Bookstore. That it appears on the Bestseller list is, to say the least, disturbing.

However, let's talk about the book.

In The Shack, a man loses a young daughter to a serial child killer. Her body is not found. (Not initially, that is.) The father and another daughter who feels responsible for Missy's disappearance and death are saddled with guilt over the loss. The father is also afflicted with The Great Sadness.

The father, Mackenzie (Mack), gets a mysterious non-postmarked letter in his mailbox that tells him to go to "the shack", the place where his daughter was murdered. Upon his initial arrival, Mack grieves while viewing the bloodstains on the wood floor and contemplates suicide. Then, predictably, he falls into a slumber. He soon, presumably, awakens, feeling forsaken, "I'm done, God...I can't do this anymore. I'm tired of trying to find you in all of this." Mack goes to leave the shack, but on his trek back to his vehicle the cold winter is suddenly replaced with a "sudden rush of warm air", "The chirping of a songbird" and so on. (You get the picture, right?)

He turns back to the shack and finds that it has been transformed into a beautiful cottage on the lake. He returns to it and, inside, finds God in all three manifestations: The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost. But, God is personified as a black woman, presumably to overturn a White God Male stereotype that Mack holds. (Do I need to continue?)

Anyway, Mack walks and talks with God in all three forms. As he does, he learns the meaning of man's control over his destiny, God's role as one who sees and knows but refuses to intervene in daily details (oh, that is interesting...then why did God come to Mack?), and the futility of man's trying to live without God. Ultimately, Mack meets his daughter Missy in the other-world (Heaven?) and knows that she is fine. God assures Mack that throughout her abduction and murder that Missy was never alone.

And--now here's the crossdressing part--Father/Son/Holy Ghost assure Mack that there is not one road to them, but that they will travel all roads to those who believe. Oh, yes, Jesus (he's a carpenter by the way) insists that he is not a Christian.

Eventually, Mack is cured of The Great Sadness and given the choice of staying with the Holy Trinity or returning to the world. Since his wife and children, especially Kate, the daughter who feels responsible for the tragedy, need him, Mack decides to return. On the way back home, he is in a terrible car accident.

Mack is in a coma, from which it takes days to awaken...and it is weeks before he is out of the hospital. Mack learns that the car accident occurred on a Friday, the day he left home for the shack, and not several days later as time had transpired while he was in the presence of the Trinity.

During his recovery, Mack tells Kate that she is not responsbile for Missy's death. Apparently, Mack's verbalization is the first time it occurred to anyone to talk to Kate about her burden...it was "...a secret."

After his release from the hospital, Mack leads the police to the place where Missy's body has been secluded this whole time. The police obtain enough evidence to find the bodies of the other murdered girls and arrest the killer.

End Of Story.

Of course, I'm leaving out the parts where Mack walked across the surface of the lake (possible only if Jesus was by his side), where the Holy Spirit manifestation was nebulous, a-shimmer with lights, how Mack had trouble seeing the Trinity through the radianting brilliance of light...how God said that his/her handing down of the Ten Commandments was not to show how to lead a good life, but that all were doomed unless they had God. (Think "Original Sin").

Now, don't get me wrong. This book was on the Bestseller list. Is that scary? To me it is. Am I cynical? Well, let's just say that I am highly spiritual and I try to be as literate as possible. That such a story (it IS a cute story) can sneak out of the Christian Bookstore and into the general market should tell me something. I need to pay attention to what that says, just as the Conservatives need to pay attention to why there was such an overwhelming move toward Obama in the last election: to reword, "I don't understand it but I need to pay attention to this."

Mike Sledge

The Dover Ban - Why Everyone Still Gets It Wrong

2009-02-27T11:14:00.000-08:00

Recently, Defense Secretary Robert Gates announced that the ban on media presence at the return of “transfer cases” containing the remains of US service personnel who have died overseas would be lifted. I offer my sincere appreciation for this proposed change in policy.

However, after studying the proposal (and the objections of groups such as Military Families United), I can’t help but be struck by how much misinformation exists about the return of our Soldier Dead.

First, “coffins” (as generally reported) are not coming back to the US. A coffin infers that the deceased is already identified and prepared for burial. Rather, the “transfer cases” containing the remains are nothing more than big ice chests.

(The picture of these transfer cases was taken by the author at the U.S. Army Morgue in Baghdad, Iraq)

Second, once the as yet not officially identified remains are received at Dover, they go through a meticulous identification process in a state-of-the-art facility that is the envy of the rest of the world. Military deaths are often a messy affair, and dedicated men and women work diligently to assure that each and every body part is associated with the appropriate service person who has given his or her life.

AFTER the remains are officially identified (Dr. Craig Mallak, Chief Medical Examiner for the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology, has stated that remains only have a tentative identification when they arrive at Dover), they are prepared for burial, which includes a full military dress uniform and the casket of the family’s choice.

What this means is that, at the time of arrival in the U.S., these fallen soldiers are the country’s unnamed emissaries who carry the nation’s sword and shield. As such, they belong to the country as a whole, not just to a particular family.

Therefore, to say that we leave the decision to the family about whether or not to have media present at the return of the dead gives a decision to a group that does not yet have an official claim on the dead.

Certainly, it doesn’t take much prescience to understand that, if we have a single death in Afghanistan AND a day later a plane shows up carrying these remains, it would be possible to say with confidence that a certain transfer case does, indeed, carry the remains of someone whose identity is clearly known.

And, if this fallen soldier’s family wants privacy from the beginning to the end, then there could be a potential conflict in satisfying this request.

To try to resolve any actual or potential conflicts in any situation, especially one in which the issues are subtle yet deep-rooted, it is necessary to have a thorough grasp of the theoretical basis of such issues.

In this case, that of allowing media presence at the repatriation of our Soldier Dead, it all boils down to the question: “To whom do the dead belong?”

I assert that the dead belong to both the family and to those they serve. This means that, until the dead receive formal identification and are officially handed over to the Next of Kin, they belong to each and every citizen of the United States, for it is on our behalf that they gave their lives.

As such, there will be those of us who agree that these men and women died for a worthy cause, and there will be those who disagree with this premise. Undoubtedly, some of those who disagree may attempt to use the formal recognition of the receipt of our dead to convey their disagreement.

And, undoubtedly, there will be those who agree with our call to arms who will, in their own way, use the receipt of our dead to support their position.

Dissension and the employment of images of our war dead for one reason or another is inevitable, and should be looked upon as a peculiar feature of our process for displaying and resolving conflict. It is part of our heritage and, as such, should not be squelched.

In conclusion, there is no pleasing everyone, but I would dare say that, while some families may feel that they have lost control of how their loved ones are portrayed, many more families will be comforted by the embrace of many millions who, heretofore, have been “banned” their chance to both offer and receive comfort.

Michael Sledge
author of Soldier Dead: How We Recover, Identify, Bury, and Honor Our Military Fallen
www.mikesledge.com

Kindle 2 - What Sleek Beast Slouches Toward Store Shelves?

2009-02-27T06:07:00.000-08:00

I did it. I bought a Kindle 2. Yes, a battle has raged within and a victor has emerged. But, the battle between the electronic book and the paper book models of providing printed text to the reader is really only a side show to what Kindle 2 represents.

First, a quick review on Kindle. Kindle is Amazon's foray into the electronic book business. You order a sleek, light device that holds up to 1,500 books. (You can also download magazines and newspapers.) Its screen uses state-of-the-art "electronic ink" that is energized to show up much as liquid ink does. The readibility is marvelous.

You can order a book either through Amazon on through Kindle itself. The book is then, magically, sent to your Kindle through "Whispernet", which is Kindle's Sprint phone wireless service.

I won't go into all the features that Kindle provides in searching, marking, and noting, but I will say that such features, including the dictionary, are a great aid to readers/researchers.

It is the use of the Whispernet where Kindle's real power lies. It won't be long before you can Google Search on Kindle, or, better yet for Amazon, pull up Amazon's site and order from it...that is, order items other than books!

Undoubtedly, you will also soon be able to buy an accessory keyboard and, thus, obviate the need to lug your laptop around for quick trips to the coffeeshop.

Kindle has the potential to reach far beyond the providing of books and newspapers. It represents a potentiality to provide the "information user" with a new tool that will supplant one or more (how long before you can "talk" on Kindle as though it were a cellphone?) of your electronic devices.

The King is dead...long live the King.

Mike Sledge

Nerd’s Revenge – Gaston in Beauty and the Beast

2009-02-24T07:08:00.001-08:00

Or: Oh, The Power In The Hands Of Those Wielding The Pen

Recently, while baby-sitting one of my granddaughters, I watched Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. We all have seen it more than once and are quite familiar with the tale, but this time I was really caught up with the fun the writer(s) must have had when doing Gaston, the thick-headed, dull-witted, egotistical, narcissistic, and bicep-bound bully who insisted on marrying Belle, despite her obvious objections.

Why did Gaston want Belle, when he could have had any of the other “bimbettes” in the film in a moment’s notice? Because she was “the best” and didn’t Gaston “…deserve the best?”

There was never a worse mismatch: Gaston loved to hunt, Belle loved the animals; Gaston hated reading (“How can you read this? There’s no pictures!”) LOL!

And imagine Belle’s disgust when Gaston described how she could look forward to fulfilling her dream by marrying him, bearing him many “…strapping boys…like me!” and could dote on him, massaging his feet (his toes sticking through holes in the socks, mind you!). I’m sure sex with him would have been a mutually satisfying experience, an image that the writers at that time could only intimate.

Yes, the scriptwriters missed little. One can only imagine them thinking, “How can I make this guy more of a jerk?” One can also only imagine that the writers had had sand kicked in their face at the beach, or had taken note of who dated whom in high school and college back in the days when “men were men”.

Of course, a Gaston can’t exist without an adoring crowd of inadequate men willing to pump up the ego of their hero so they can live vicariously through his exploits. As Gaston is the “paragon” of strength, the fawning Lefou is the epitome of a member of the support system such a mindless brute requires. During one scene, in which Gaston’s minions cheer him up after an ignoble rejection by Belle, Lefou says, “Gaston is the best and the rest is all drips!”

The writers, of course, know how the game is played, and have both Gaston and Lefou intone, “No one plots like Gaston, takes cheap shots like Gaston.”

One could say that Gaston does have a redeeming moment at the end when he exhorts the Beast to fight him, but his challenge is really an empty one for two reasons: 1) the Beast is clearly dejected, and 2) Gaston knows that he will be extolled as sone worthy of extending his gene pool if he fights a worthy opponent.

However, Gaston’s veneered request for a good fight is peeled away when he stabs the Beast in the back.

Yes, the Disney writers certainly had a great deal of fun, undoubtedly drawing upon their own and shared experiences with men of muscle, and those around these pillars of brawn.

Mike Sledge

Shot To Death - Twice

2009-02-16T19:02:00.001-08:00

You can never tell when you will learn something new. Yesterday, our local news anchor was reporting on a tragic post-Valentine's Day murder/suicide. She said, "...[the woman] was shot dead...twice."

I'm going, like, Oh, this is interesting...the victim was either a vampire or a zombie: dead once, came to life again (so to speak) and then killed again.

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.5/

The murderer, after killing his girlfriend twice then turned the gun on himself. I guess that, now dead, he can come back to life and then be tried for murder.

Which begs the question: Which killing of his girlfriend would he be tried for? The first or the second? Could he be tried twice? Probably not, given double jeopardy law.

At least, if given the death penalty, he would be executed only once since, after all, he had already taken his own life once.

But, if politicians, actors, and even A-Rod can resurrect themselves from a celebrity death (usually death by stupidity) I guess it's not too much to expect a physical resurrection of ordinary folks.

Of course, what I'd really love to see is a resurrection of command of the English language.

Mike Sledge

I Know Where Fat Comes From

2009-02-08T06:40:00.000-08:00

I have no doubt that this year’s Nobel Prize in medicine will go to some significant advancement in treating adult hypertension that comes from raising children. Likewise, an eminent scientist who has determined why you only get flat tires in the rain will receive the physics award.

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.5/

Eventually, though, I feel that all due recognition will be given to my interdisciplinary discovery concerning fat: I have discovered where fat comes from.

This discovery, which I have named the “Unified Fat Theory” or “UFT”* for short, states that: “Fat cannot be created nor destroyed.”

Like all important theories, the UFT was postulated from observation. I noticed that when I reached 35, all of a sudden this extra inch was hung around my middle. Since I had not changed any eating or exercise habits, this fat had to come from some place.

Upon talking with my wife, I found out that the same had happened to her, and to my friends, and to her friends. Since they, too, had made no major life style change, then this fat had its origins elsewhere.

From this basic Unified Fat Theory concerning the stability of fat in the universe, there are several corollaries. First, since fat cannot be created nor destroyed, yet we all gain and lose weight, then it follows that fat only moves to and from a “fat bank” into which lost fat is deposited and from which fat is withdrawn, and that the books must always balance.

For instance, when you reach a certain age, there is an automatic draft upon that fat bank with a corresponding deposit to your account (hips, legs, stomach). After you age, or lose weight through disease, the fat is redeposited to this bank.

Second, fat does not have to be deposited directly to that account. It can, instead, be transferred from one person to another.

Third, the likelihood of fat being deposited to your account from another person who is losing weight is directly related to your proximity to that someone. If you take an office of five women, one of whom decides to go on a diet, woe to the other four, because they are bound to gain what the dieter loses.

Fourth, fat attracts fat. Once you start gaining some extra pounds, you are likely to gain even more.

Lastly, up to a certain point, fat likes age. The older you are, the more likely you are to gain weight.

I believe that there is a “fat” bug which is a carrier of this fat. This fits in very nicely with the corollaries above. One bug always attracts more. An ailment spread by bugs is more likely to infect those in close surroundings. Older people have lower resistance than younger ones, and are thus more susceptible to infection.

Somehow, these bugs are run though the fat bank system, are loaded up with fat, and then later unburden themselves on some poor, hapless soul.

In conclusion, I feel it vital that we turn our attention to the Unified Fat Theory and attempt to develop means by which we can delay or, even better, defeat the mechanism of transference of fat, and I will be happy to volunteer some of my buddies at the downtown Y for experimentation.

Mike Sledge

*This UFT is not to be confused or conflated with the more common use of UFT in physics: Unified Field Theory

Misunderstanding X-Ys

2009-02-07T07:24:00.000-08:00

A few years ago my daughter and I were riding in a car (important fact because of road/wind noise) and I said, "Men do funny things because of their X-Ys." And Jes replied, "Men do funny things because of their ex-wives?"

Yeah, that too!

Mike Sledge

The American Way of Looking (Appearance, that is)

2009-02-05T18:51:00.000-08:00

Jessica Mitford’s 1963 The American Way of Death was a startling expose of the funeral industry in America. Like Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, it led to Congressional investigations and, ultimately, more regulation over an industry whose members—from funeral home directors to real estate developers—habitually squeezed the last bit of profit out of a transaction that was rooted in the grief of bereaved family members.

I’m sure the Ms. Mitford would roll over in her grave—actually, she can’t because she chose cremation at the cost of less than $500—if she knew the latest trend of ridiculousness and insanity that had permeated the funeral business: plastic surgery on the dead. However, this trend (we can only hope it is only a fad) owes its promulgation not to the somber men in dark suits who knowingly pronounce that “Momma would love this engraved, pearl-coat upscale model” casket, but to the vanity of the living.

I guess it just had to be this way...after all, vanity plastic surgery has increased faster than the rate at which Obama nominees begin paying “overlooked back taxes”. To be sure, the American Society of Plastic Surgeons reports that right at 350,000 women had breast augmentation in 2007. This is up 60% from 2000. What? We’ve got 60% more women in only seven years?

Imagine the entire population of the city of St. Louis, MO going out of their homes and standing on the curb. Now, imagine each of those persons to be a woman with a newly-enhanced bust line. That’s 350,000. Instead of having a single silver arch as the Gateway to the West, there would be a double arch side by side, showing where America cleaved.

For a less-invasive procedure, botox was done over 4.6 million times in 2007, half of which were by Patrick Swayze. (Oh, wait, that was an overstretched face job he had.)

Statistics are still being gathered on post-mortem plastic surgery as to quantity and cost, but I would rather imagine that plastic surgery medical classes would give a BIG discount, since there’s no worry of a student screwing up and killing the patient.

It is obvious that we care what we look like, even if “we” are no longer “we”. And, since we all can’t have Beowulf’s funeral pyre and a mound set upon a headland as a guide for sailors, we can at least anticipate people saying, “Oh, but doesn’t she look so good.”

Mike Sledge

A beside:
If one does elect for post-mortem perky boobs and also plans for a cremation, then the procedure would have to be done in reverse: gels leave a mess on the floor of the crematorium!

If Your Dog Poops In The Dark....

2009-02-04T12:33:00.000-08:00

Do you have to clean it up?

While walking my dogs early one morning—way before the sun came up and certainly way before I really wanted to don clothes and grab leashes and poop bags—I thought: “Do I really have to pick this up? No one has seen it.”

Such existential thoughts as this have plagued minds since the first cavemen wondered: “Do I have to adhere to the practice of ‘Leave No Trace’ since future archaeologists will be dependent upon my making a mess?”

Perhaps the most famous question along this line is: “If a tree falls…?” This philosophical question quickly leads to many other paths, such as “If something is not observed, did it really happen?” Certainly, our recent political leaders have given us their variations of this theme, while, of course, providing their own answers: “If no weapons of mass destruction were found, the world is still a safer place.”, and, “It depends on what your definition of ‘is’ is.”

My favorite theorem on observation and existence is the “observer effect” (often conflated with the “uncertainty principle” in quantum physics) which states that the act of observation affects the position/existence of the thing observed. A good example of this would be the person who cheats on his or her spouse, and says, “This didn’t happen”…presumably because the infidelity act was unknown (unobserved) by said person’s spouse.

I, though, prefer to conclude that the observer effect means that if it was dark enough for no one to see me when my dog poops, then that pile of poo simply does not exist.

However, try as I might to rationalize, using Presidential examples and up-to-date physics theorems, Descartes pulls me back to reality and I think, “It smells therefore it exists.”

And if I/we make a mess, we must clean it up.

Mike Sledge

The End of White America (?)

2009-01-22T06:24:00.000-08:00

“The End of White America” by Hua Hsu
The Atlantic

(This is my personal Cliff’s Notes version in which I summarize Hsu's excellent article. My personal comments or material I add will be indicated by a double bracket [[ ]].)

Sometime between 2040 and 2060 “white” will no longer be the majority racial group in the US. No one racial group will dominate.

What does this mean?

Pres. Bill Clinton, speaking at Portland State University in 1998, said that, “In a little more than 50, years, there will be no majority race in the United States. No other nation has gone through demographic change of this magnitude in so short a time…[these immigrants] are energizing out culture and broadening our vision of the world.”

Pat Buchanan has said, “Well, those students [at Portland State] are going to find out, for they will spend their golden years in a Third World America.”

[[These two comments pretty much bookend the discussions of the future of racial politics/attitudes in America. You either agree with one of the positions, or fall somewhere in between.]]

In any event, one thing is certain: White America is losing its control of affairs.

In response to the “loss of control” by white America, we see two responses. The first is more-educated, liberal youth moving to establish an identity other than whiteness. They are, in essence, trying hard to not be white. We also have seen the rise of Larry the Plumber Guy, Jeff Foxworthy, NASCAR, and a Vice-President choice of Sarah Palin. (The choice of Palin was a vain attempt to draw upon a class that is increasingly becoming isolated as it becomes smaller.)

In the 1993 movie “Falling Down” Michael Douglas played a typical “white guy” stereotype who raged against racial stereotypes and the fading of white America as he knew it. He says, when confronted by the police, “I’m the bad guy?” His is a frustration we can all identify with. [[A new take on this theme is “Gran Torino,” in which racial stereotypes are depicted and then thrashed.]]

[[Interestingly, in the movie “8 Mile” we see a white rapper, Eminen, working against the stereotype that only a black can be a rapper. Eminen finally shows how hip-hop/rap is not really about race, but about culture. Yes, the two can be separately identified.]]

[[In doing so, Eminen points toward a new direction that America is taking, which is many young people cutting across racial lines to establish social connections. Marketers less and less try to market to their “core group” (read that as “white consumers”) and try to market to specific cultural groups: skateboarders, cyclists, “green” consumers, and the like.]]

[[Barack Obama knew that he needed to overcome the objections of white people who, other than for their oft-submerged animus against blacks, would support him. The poor economy gave him a lever to use to pry these voters from their racially fixed position and to move them to consider their economic, best interests.]]

Having said that, we do see a segment of white people who are circling their wagons in an attempt to preserve all that they feel is good, right, and “white” about America. This group has its home in a belt from Arkansas, through the south, and into West Virginia and southern Virginia. Clearly, the last election shows that this group is becoming smaller.

[[The numbers show what is going on…how you feel about it and what you do about it is your choice.]]

Mike Sledge

"k"

2009-01-19T06:37:00.000-08:00

“k”

I think it all started with the little emoticons in email. You know, the little smiley, non-smiley symbols facing sideways in your message, an innovation—if you want to call it that—by a university professor.

Well, actually, while Professor Fahlman at Carnegie Mellon University may have been one of the first to use the little horizontal buggers in his intranet emails to symbolize emotions—because, as some would argue, it’s hard to adequately convey feeling in written words, something I’m sure Shakespeare would disagree with—he was hardly the first to use such abbreviations.

But, seriously, such communication shortcuts have gotten totally out of hand, and here’s the latest example: the other day I was texting a friend about a task we were working on, and her final, sign-off response was, “k”.

Huh? “k”? I mean, not even “K”? Just little letter “k”.

So, I’m not a Neanderthal (not totally anyway), so I got it: my friend had used an abbreviation for an abbreviation…“k” for “OK”.

Now, “xoxoxo” is okay in my book—“XOXOXO” is even better—but “k”? What? It takes too long to make one more keystroke?

It doesn’t take much imagination to see where this horrible social abbreviation will lead. Soon, we’ll be seeing “p k 2” (hint: it’s not a lottery ticket) for “Pick the kids up at 2.” Or, “me at s” (no, a meat market is not the message) for “Meet at Superior” (then again, maybe “meat market” is more appropriate).

And, “t” for “thank you” to someone for doing a favor. I don’t even like “thanks” in place of “thank you”.

And, “e”. That is the short version of etc, which, of course, is short for etcetera.

While I’m sure that there are many who wish their text messages had been more cryptic—Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick comes to mind—I know I can’t be the only one who is “pd” about this trend to hyper-abbreviate.

Mike Sledge

2009-01-06T07:28:00.000-08:00

DATING’S DIRTY LITTLE SECRET

Yeah, you’ve done it. Sure you have, at one time or another. The Drive By. It may have been an afterthought or planned with the precision of a military maneuver; it probably occurred late at night or early in the morning. We’re talking about the quick, mostly surreptitious trip down a road to view his/her driveway. Of course the driveway’s there—you wanted to see what was (or was not) parked in it.

When did it happen? Probably at the beginning or end of a relationship. At first, you two were budding, but there had been no official handshake to close the deal and on those days (night really) when you weren’t seeing each other there was the question, that question. Or, sadly, when facing the dregs at the bottom of the bottle, it was really over, mostly in your head, but not in your heart. And again there was the question, that question.

Either way, you wanted information, the evil fruit, and you drove by the address of the possible-to-be or of the once-was.

Head down, eyes averted, hoping to see but praying to not be seen (what a blow to pride that would be!), you made the pass…sometimes more than once. The tightness of your chest, the flutter of your pulse, the seasickness in your stomach, all served to say, “Enough of doubt! Set me free!” But what bitter information it was, for there was no way to know for sure, for if a car was there, whose? If not, did was one there last night or would be there tomorrow night?

Sweaty hands on the steering wheel. Or, if you had a friend who drove, the grit on the floor mat in your knees as you ducked out of sight. The hope for darkness to hide, but not conceal.

You were young, you were middle-aged, you were senior—in all cases you were old enough to know better yet young enough to care—nothing changed except the car you drove, the clothes your wore, or the dollar signs of the address.

And, finally, you hated stooping to such lows. You hated yourself and were ashamed. No matter what you saw or didn’t see, The Bard’s words ring true: “It is not nor it cannot come to good.” But you did it again anyway.

Mike Sledge

Dad, Me, Abbott and Costello

2009-01-01T07:35:00.000-08:00

Dad, Me, and All Those Pills

My elderly father, God rest his soul, had moved to an independent retirement center and was trying to cope with the inevitable difficulties that aging brings. Of course, “independent” is somewhat relative, so let’s just say that he was able to accomplish most of the daily living activities required for a person to be self sufficient. Most, but certainly not all.

Feeding himself was never really a problem for Dad: he ate like Michael Phelps. He could don his daily attire, albeit clothes that were at least ten years dated and the fronts of his shirt were often misaligned like two tectonic plates that had shifted sideways. He could, thankfully, use the bathroom without assistance, and his largely hit-or-miss swipes with a wash cloth while standing in front of the sink (a “spit bath”) took the edge off the old man smell that clung close to him like an aura. And, given his spinal stenosis, he was as mobile as we could wish for, although his days of west coast swing were merely a forlorn memory.

But there was one activity, though not listed as necessary for independence, that Dad had trouble with: taking his medication. He always got his pills and days mixed up.

I can easily understand Dad’s problem. I was lost amid the maze of pharmacological products and could only keep them straight by listing them in my Palm Pilot. So, to bring a little order to chaos, I got Dad a pill organizer…one of the little plastic devices with a separate compartment for each day.

This worked for, maybe, two days.

The problem was that, because Dad had so many prescriptions (to name a few, for: pain, restless legs, heart arrhythmia, and, no surprise here, depression) they wouldn’t all fit in “Monday” and “Tuesday” and so on. Also, some pills were supposed to be taken two or three times a day, creating even more confusion.

So, we graduated to an organizer that was divided into the days of the week and which had separate compartments for “morning” “noon” “evening” and “bed”. Of course, this meant buying a huge amount of meds to fill one whole week AND most of the next so I could just swap the full for the empty on Friday night. (Kind of like exchanging propane tanks for your outdoor barbeque.) MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! Or so I thought.

One Monday morning I called Dad to see how he was doing with our new and improved system for keeping up with his medications. What ensued was like the old Abbott and Costello "Who's on first" skit. Our version went like this:

Me: Hi, Dad how's it going?

Dad. Oh, well, I'm here.

Me: Well, how are you doing with your medicine?

Dad: Mike, I don't know how I've done it, but I've messed it up.

Me: Well, look at Saturday. Are all the compartments open? (After he opens up a
compartment and takes the pills he's supposed to leave it open. That way he knows
he needs to go to the next closed compartment.)

Dad: No, they're closed.

Me: Well, open them and tell me what you see.

Dad: (Clicks of compartments opening). There's nothing in them.

Me: Ok, now look at Sunday and tell me what you see.

Dad: (Clicking and snapping sounds). Well, there’s nothing in them. (Then, more clicking sounds.)

Me: Dad, what was that sound?

Dad: Well, I was closing the compartments since there was nothing in them.

Me: No, Dad, you’ve got to leave them OPEN. Remember? That way you can tell where you’ve been and where you’re going.

Dad: I’m not going anywhere am I?

Me: No, Dad, that was just a figure of speech. Leave the compartments open once you take the pills.

Dad: But I don’t think I’ve taken any today.

Me: Dad, I’m talking about Saturday and Sunday. You just opened them and said they were empty.

Dad: Oh! You want me to open them?

Me: Yes, Dad.

Dad: Ok, wait a minute. (More clicking and snapping sounds) What do I do with the pills in them?

Me: Dad! You just told me there were NO pills in Saturday and Sunday.

Dad: You mean you wanted me to open only Saturday and Sunday?
Keep in mind that this is Monday morning and I’ve got employees, faxes going off, client emails coming in; my office looks and sounds like the control room of a reactor during a meltdown; PLUS, Dad is hard of hearing and I have to often repeat what I say to him several times.

Me: OK, Dad, let’s start over, now don’t do anything unless I specifically tell you to do it.

Dad: OK.

Me: Now, open ALL the compartments for Saturday and Sunday.

Dad: OK. (Clicking sounds).

Me: Now, do any of the compartment have pills?

Dad: No, I took those today.

Me: You took them when?

Dad: I took some pills today.

Me: Dad, now open Monday morning compartment. OK?

Dad: OK.

Me: Are there any pills in it?

Dad: No.

Me: OK, those must be the ones you took this morning.

Dad: But how could I, it’s Sunday.

Me: No, Dad, look at the clocks I bought you. They tell you the day of the week. It’s Monday. (I had previously bought him a clock that showed AM and PM time and the days of the week.)

Dad: Ok, then I need to find some pills to take?

Me: No, Dad, you’ve already taken them. (By this time I want some pills!) Now, look at the next compartment for Monday, it should say “noon”.

Dad: OK.

Me: Well, does it have any pills in it?’

Dad: I don’t know.

Me: What do you mean you don’t know? Do you see any?

Dad: No, you told me to look at the compartment that says “noon.” You didn’t say open it.

Me: OK, Dad, OPEN the damn compartment.

Dad: Ok, now what?

Me: Are there any pills in it?

Dad: No.

Me: When did you take them?

Dad: Jesus, I don’t know.

Me: OK, Dad, your therapist will be there at lunch. Tell her to call me. (Clicking sounds everywhere.) Dad! What are all those sounds?

Dad: I’m closing the compartments.

Me: Which ones?

Dad: All of them.

Me: Dad, leave ALL the compartments open. Don’t TOUCH the organizer until Kathy (the therapist) gives it back to you.

Dad: OK, I’m sorry, Mike. I just don’t know how I could fuck this thing up so bad. It looks so easy but I don’t know how, I just messed it up.

Within an hour or two, Kathy and I got it straight. I went back out Monday night to check on Dad. The pill organizer was in good form. All the previous times for the week were open and empty. All the pills yet to be taken were safely ensconced behind closed plastic lids. The rest of that week went just fine. Or, it went as fine as could be expected.

Dad is no longer grasping with the mortal coils of trying to stay healthy and alive, and I wish I had saved those damn pill organizes with some of his other things I kept.

Mike Sledge

Falling On My Facebook

2009-01-01T07:32:00.000-08:00

Falling On My Facebook

One day I received an email "invitation" from someone quite close to me with a request to be her “friend”. It was from my lovely, favorite, and only daughter. All I had to do was to sign up on Facebook. No biggie, right? I figured it would just be another way to keep up with her…I mean, we were already friends, right?

Well, two months, twenty friends, and ten games of Wordscraper (a Facebook version of Scrabble) later, I’ve found yet another way to be embarrassed, or to embarrass myself.

For example, do I REALLY want to see pictures of my daughter’s friends (now young women) in all sorts of scanty attire of which they are so fond when I used to change their diapers in the daycare at church? That’s the “be embarrassed” part.

Should I have gotten into an Obama vs. McCain (with each on the side of the candidate you might least expect) debate with one of my daughter’s friends (even though SHE posted her negative comments first)? That’s the “embarrass myself” part.

Oh, but there is so much more.

How about having your butt spanked and otherwise being thoroughly humiliated at Wordscraper by a dominatrix who doesn’t reveal her predilection until “chatting” and playing words that can’t be repeated for genteel readers? That’s BOTH “be embarrassed” and “embarrass myself” all wrapped up in one.

But, alas, the bug has bit and now I’m trying to hook my friends across the country to also join up so we can more easily keep tabs on what we are all doing. A junkie is most happy in the company of other junkies.

Mike Sledge

Sequoia...Giant Trees, PeeWee Herman Road...

2007-08-13T14:37:00.000-07:00

Sunay, August 12, 2007.

I left Fresno, after a Grand-Slam Denny’s breakfast (wanted to pig out cause I was uncertain of food places ahead on the road) and started east across Hwy 180. Orchards and grape fields were broken up only by a few roads and houses. There was no one in the fields, so I guess it wasn’t harvest or maintenance time, but, the vast expanses call for huge amounts of manual labor. California just wouldn’t make it without immigrant (legal and otherwise) labor.

Then, I began to pass a few “camps” on the Kings Canyon River. The camp was an amalgam of weekend visitors and long-term inhabitants, but, Oh, my, god! Talk about The Grapes of Wrath! Here is “Snoopy.” I first asked him, “How long have you been here?” and he said, “Oh, about five days.” I took one look at his vehicle where ant had built beds built up the flat-tire rims and said, “Heck, it looks like you’ve been here longer than that,” and he said, “OK, make it five years.” He’s never been off the West Coast save to bury his aunt in Kansas.

And here is Tsunami, supposedly a full-blooded timber wolf. He was a "cuddle bunny!"

Down the road I saw this sign on a building. These few miles of road and river were in a time warp...I could just imagine old, beat up pick-up trucks full of plains-land people looking for work. Except now, of course, I imagine many of those so laid back are on the dole.

The road began to climb again, and at one place I pulled over and took the picture you see below. This part of the country was wonderfully fertile land, but it needs water. You can expect to see water battles intensify in coming years. Of course, if we shed some of our English “garden yard” mentality, there would be plenty of water available.

I saw the 1,000, 2,000, 3,000 and 4,000 elevation markers pass. Here, the trees on the sides of the ever increasing slopes were now taller pines instead of the smaller junipers and cedars that populate the lower altitudes. Lodgepole pines were everywhere. Straight, tall, somewhat thin and with sparse branches, they got their name from being used to for teepees.

The road climbed to 5,000 and then 6,000 feet. I had been thinking about how nice it would be to ride a bide (as in “pedal”) from the floor of the desert to the park entrance, but a 5,500 foot climb is a long, long way. Still, I’d love to do it…just not in August!

I paid my twenty dollars at the park and sorted through the maps they gave me. I wanted to go to Kings Canyon, but figured it would take too long (I was right!). But, I did stop at two places in Sequoia National Park: General Grant’s tree and Panoramic Point.

Giant Sequoias are thousands of years old. They are resistant to bugs and infection, and fall mainly when fire has hollowed out the base. Fire, while eventually causing large trees to fall, also helps to grow new trees because it cracks upon the cones and releases seeds. Again, fire plays its role in the forest.

Take look at some of the trees!

I had to hunt to find the turn to Panoramic Point, but once I had made it to the top I was glad I had taken the time and effort to do so. Here, I had an excellent view of the rugged Sierra Mountains just to the east. And to think that the railroad had to be built through that set of behemoths.

After leaving Sequoia, I continued east through the park and soon found myself in the Giant Forest, the land of tall redwoods. At one point, a mother bear and her two cubs walked across the road in front of me. I pulled to a sideways halt and grabbed my camera. Damn! I only had a wide angle lens on! Well, I missed momma but here are the two little kids.

If I thought the road out of Yosemite was crooked, well, the road out of Sequoia made Yosemite’s look like as straight as a drill sergeant. This time I really and truly did feel my stomach go queasy on me…even though I was driving. I thought I was in a PeeWee Herman movie! (Not the one where he was in the audience and was subsequently arrested for, er, well, whatever!!)

At last, down from the mountains, I pulled over into a roadside café at We Three or some name kind of like that. Wireless! The friggin’ café had wireless for its customers. I found that many little restaurants offered the same! California.

Finally, I hit Hwy 99 and four lanes. I passed through Bakersfield (thank God I don’t live there!) and joined with I-5. I-5 is like the main artery of CA, and I believe everyone north of LA was headed back to town after getting the heck out of Dodge for the weekend.

I-5 began a long climb through the mountains north of Santa Clarita and, once again, there were cars pulled over on the shoulder all along the way, the victims of over-heating. Eventually, I passed Pyramid Lake, sitting a thousand or feet or so below the highway, filling up the lowest places of the damned-in area of the high mountains. What with the heat, I wanted to drive down and jump in!!!

I-5 sucks. I finally made it in about 7 or so, just in time for Logan and me to go have dinner and play pool.

Then, to bed! Long day, but gorgeous driving.

Mike S.

From Tahoe Lake to Yosemite El Capitan

2007-08-13T10:43:00.000-07:00

Saturday, August 11, 2007

Today I left Squaw Valley on Hwy 89 just north of Lake Tahoe and headed south around the lake. Earlier this summer there had been a serious fire on the south side, and I saw some of the scorched areas. The residents had signs up everywhere thanking the firemen for helping.

My plan was to follow 89 all the way to Hwy 395, the same route I had taken last year on the Harley, and then turn west into Yosemite National Park. For pictures of Hwy 89, you can go to my post from last year, My Love-Hate Affair With Hwy 89.

This time, as last, there were bike riders doing the big climb up and over Monitor Pass. It looks like it would be a great, but killer, bike ride and I’m itching to do it sometime.

From 395, I turned west into Yosemite and drove up the road into the mountains. Somewhere around 7 or 8 thousand feet, there was a large lake with a narrow band of sand upon which sun bathers had laid out their blankets and towels. And, yes, some people were swimming. I didn’t stop to check the water, but because the sun is so intense, shallow depths are heated to an enjoyable temperature.

Along the way, I was struck with the desire to pull over and sit by the stream that ran alongside the road. I even sunned out on a rock like a lazy turtle.

I stopped to take pictures of some climbers on this sheer rock face. Definitely not my cup of tea. Look carefully: they are in middle of the pic…maybe you can “blow up” the shot to better see them.

I reached the bottom of the valley and began heading up and out. Of course I wanted pictures of El Capitan (which was behind me) so I pulled into an overlook. Now, this vantage point proved to be a real challenge because buses kept pulling in and vomiting hordes of Japanese who very aggressively ran around with their cameras, jumping in front of my car, my camera view, and even my very person.

The road leaving Yosemite was perhaps the windiest I have ever been on. Heck, even driving I was close to become nauseous. I did pull over and take a picture of a Yosemite burn. You might be aware that the concept of fire management for forests has been evolving from a no-burn policy to a policy that recognizes the importance of fire in preserving forests. Letting underbrush build up without regular clearing by fire, and letting trees grow too close together actually contributes to even worse fires in the future. Now, steps have been taken to thin forests out so that they more closely mimic what would have been there had we not tried to put out all fires. The goal is to let nature takes its course with only a light hand of management.

But, eventually, I exited the park on Hwy 41 and headed for Fresno. The land was dry…god, it was so dry. A single careless cigarette would light the West up like a roman candle.

At Fresno, I started east on Hwy 180 toward Sequoia National Park, thinking I’d see a hotel. As I passed mile after mile of orchards sprouting out of the parched soil (this so very much reminded me of my home in McAllen, Texas, where they used to grow wall-to-wall orange and grapefruit orchards covering hundreds of square miles), I realized I needed to go back to Fresno to bed down. And I did, uneventually. Oh, yeah, I had to stop two places to find someone who could speak English and tell me which way to the hotel strip.

To bed...tomorrow is Sequoia National Park.

Mike Sledge

Harleys Rule The West...In The Summer

2007-08-03T20:04:00.000-07:00

Friday, August 3, 2007.

This morning I had to hit a casino for breaksfast, and ended up playing the slots! Oh, the addictive nature of the dings and rings, the colored lights, and the random reinforcement. I was behind, I was even, I was behind, I was ahead, I was even, I was behind...behind...behind. Oh, well, they got my $20.

Next I went for a bike ride of a little over an hour. Oh, does it feel good to exercise while traveling! Leaving Ely, heading west on Hwy 50, the Loneliest Road in America, I hit this scene..over and over again. Ever time I cleared a mountain range I went down into a long valley about 15-25 miles across. It was 70 miles or so, at least, between any sign of civilization.

In one pass, I stopped to take pictures of the dry lake bed that appears as a white layer between the cliff walls, and the Harleys came roaring by...both ways. For sure, Harleys run the road in the West in the summer. It was 95 degrees and, of course, dry. These riders probaby died ten years ago but just don't know it and don't rot because their skin is luggage.

While taking forever, it seemed, to cross the large, flat expanse between one set of mountain ranges, I started counting the dust devils that were swirling several hundred feet into the air: I counted six at least.

It was more open spaces, more Harleys in a never-ending cycle. Thank God for XM radio! Moving toward Reno, I came across Sand Mountain. There were 4-wheelers racing up and down this thing for Chrissake!!

After leaving Sand Mountaing behind, I saw this rider up ahead walking a bike. I pulled over and the young lady practically begged me for a ride to the next town. She and a group of 24 left New York two months ago on a cross-country ride to raise money for Habitat for Humanity. They expect to reach San Francisco on Aug. 8. They ride about 70 miles a day. I asked how many had been hit by cars and she said that one rider had, and that he was near death. All the riders were beech-nut brown! I'm sure some dermatologists will be happy about 30 years from now! But, it's an adventure for them and they're supporting a good cause.

I checked into a hotel in Truckee, CA, near Squaw Valley where I'll do the workshop. Just down the street Ziggy Marley put on a concert in a park, so I jumped on the bike and rode down there. Met a young couple with their first baby...8 weeks old. They're already teaching her how to go hear quality music.

You may check somewhere on the blog link and find a tab to click that will allow you to receive an email when I update this blog. It may save search time!!!

Mike S.

Utah: Where a Man Can Get Married...Again and Again

2007-08-02T21:06:00.000-07:00

and a mother teaches her daughters to share. I'm thinking of my daughter, Jessica. She's a wonderful human being, woman, artist, friend, and compadre...but, good lord, after her, who would have the energy for more?

Thursday, August 2, 2007

Wow! Today is day 3 of my trip from Shreveport, LA to Lake Tahoe where I will attend the Squaw Valley Writer's Workshop. Leaving Shreveport on Tuesday, it was all rain rain rain until I finally got north of Dallas.

From there all the way to north Arizona, it was pretty much uneventful...no pictures.

However, once I got off I-40 and started moving through Arizona, things began to pick up. I stayed Wed night in Kayenta, on Hwy 163, just south of Monument Valley. For those who did not read my travel posts from last year, when I did the big western loop on the Road King, Monument Valley is where John Wayne did a lot of his films because of the buttes that populate the area.

So, this morning, bright and early, I headed north on 163, then turned to 261. Holy Cow! 261 climbed up the side of a large mesa, switching-backing more than a teenage son's story about how the car got a dent. See the picture...the road went left of center then climbed right across the upper part of the bluff.

After getting up on the top of the bluff, I stopped and shot a couple of pictures of the valley.

Then, it was a left turn to the west on Hwy 95 and a quick stop at the Natural Bridge National Monument. There, I saw this bike. Man, this guy must be serious.

After leaving Natural Bridges, the road cut through Glen Canyon, which is famous for rafting.

Then, it was time to drive through Capitol Reef, where the rock formations huddle over the road.

This picture is looking east after I crossed the border into Nevada on Hwy 50. There were huge valleys laid in between the mountains and you could imagine the saratoga wagon drivers looking ahead to the mountains and saying, "I'm never gonna reach them." By the way, Hwy 50 is called "The Loneliest Highway in America."

It was a long day, but the views were great. I'll tell you something else: it's easy to run out of gas in southern Utah.

Mike Sledge

Why Cows Do What They Do

2006-08-25T16:43:00.000-07:00

Here is the post from a N. Dakota blonde. Please keep in mind that it IS written by a blonde. I'm not sure if she had already had a glass of wine, or microbrew, or two before writing this, but it is funny. Mike Sledge

Ok...'bout them cows.....Hmmmm...now horses will stand side by side, head to tail to switch flys for each other....but cows...I did extensive research as I know, Michael, that you are only interested in the facts!! Here's what the experts had to say:Quote, originally posted by BHB » since cows are known for laying down when rain is approaching, i wonder if they dont also have some sense which tells them to face a certain direction into certain types of weather. ---Wind direction to keep bugs out of their eyes???? ---Lean into the wind, want to see/do what every one else it doing.---Facing the barn and grazing their way home?---Growing up on a cattle ranch I can assure there is nothing really to the direction they are standing. ---They could be grazing and working their way to the barns, or they too like to watch things and could be observing the cars that are passing. ---And for the record.... cows sleep laying down, so you can not tip a cow while they are sleeping AND OF COURSE A WEB SITE LINK:http://s-p-o-n-g-e.com/articles/article9.phpWhy do cows graze facing the same direction?By Historian Clineff "Why DO cows face the same direction while grazing." We began by studying the cows from behind as they graze. Trying to determine if perhaps they were staring at something close by. After being treated and released from the hospital, we discovered and published two very important observations.A grazing herd produces a large amount of Methane Gas. Never light a match behind a heard of grazing cows.We returned to the herd and remained careful to stay upwind. After four weeks of unsuccessfully trying to gain the cows trust, we had a break through. In her diary Ms. Goodall writes:"Success!!! I was finally able to infiltrate the herd and be accepted as one of their own. It was another disappointing day, I was making my way back to camp when I slipped and fell face first into a worm infested Pasture Patty. My stomach, associating the patty for the spaghetti I had earlier, began to expel the contents of said dinner. The cows in the area mistook my activity as my trying to "chew my cud" and seem to have accepted me as one of their own."This was the breakthrough we had been looking for. We were now able to mingle among the cows and observe their behavior closely. We were soon able to tell them apart and began naming them things like Bob, Jim, and Snookies. Our next big break came when we realized that, during the night, the cow we had named "Boy, he’s old, I wonder if he is going to die soon" was missing. We tagged the one we had named "He’ll be the next to go" and waited. The next morning he was gone. We turned on the tracker and, after a few days and a journey of over 500 miles, we followed it to a McDonalds. It was at this point we realized we were using the same tags the slaughterhouse used for choosing the next cow. With moral low, and the magazine pressuring us for results, we changed tags and attached one to the cow we named "No, that one over there." The next morning, the cow was gone. We turned on the tracker and began our final journey. After three days and two states, we were beginning to fear another visit to McDonalds, but then the tracker showed the cow had stopped moving. We turned down a dirt road and drove as far as we could. We had to go back to the last town we passed to get camping supplies, it looked like we were in for a long walk. After two days of climbing, we found ourselves deep in the uncharted mountain ranges of Kansas. After a hard day of hiking, we sat down to a meal of beef jerky and water, each lost in the despair of the seemingly hopeless quest upon which we had embarked. Fortunately for us this quest ended the next morning. We had just broken camp and had begun our trek westward. Jane slipped on a narrow ledge and, pulling me with her, we slide down the side of a steep hill and came to rest on the valley floor. We both stood, speechless at the sight before us. What we had taken for the whiteness of daisy petals was, in reality, the sun shining off the bleached bones of a billion dead cows. We had found it, the Graveyard of the Cows. And there, taking his last shuddering breath, was the cow we named "No, that one over there." Pulling out a map, we realized we had traveled in an exact straight line in the direction the grazing cows were looking. They were paying homage to the millions of cows who had gone on before them. After a night of feasting and passion, Jane and I began our return home secure in the knowledge we had finally solved that age-old question of the grazing cows. As you well know, Jane continued her career as a naturalist. My career was cut short when embarrassing photos came to light involving me and one of the cows. Dismissing my explanation of alcohol and mistaken identity, I was fired from How Now Cow and was unable to find work in the field ever again.

What Do Bible Literalists Do?

2006-08-24T11:04:00.000-07:00

What do they do when they are touring the Grand Canyon, or Glacier National Park, or the Gunnison Black Canyon, and they read the information board about the ancient geology of those places?

For background info, consider the Young Earth theory, in which an earth much younger than mainstream sciences thinks it to be had its antediluvian land masses shaped by Noah's flood. That is, the 80% of the earth's land that is currently covered by sedimentary layers had those deposits laid down in a short time, some say one year, and that all the major geological features were created during that time period.

The Young Earth theory, originally conceived, I believe, in the 1600's, modified and then mostly dropped in the 1800's, saw a partial resurgence of adherents in the early 1900's and then really began to catch on with Christian fundamentalists with the rise of that movement.

Or, do they even really wonder about it?

Groundhog Day

2006-08-23T21:11:00.000-07:00

pic 1: Typical Black Canyon Scene
pic 2: High mountain meadows near Crawford...view of West Elk Mountains
pic 3: WHY ARE THE COWS FACING THE SAME DIRECTION?

Day 22 August 23 Wednesday - 210 miles

Groundhog Day

I almost feel like Chevy Chase in his Groundhog Day movie. I wake up, go get the continental breakfast (coffee and cereal mainly), pack up, load up, gas up, hit the road. But in my case, the locales are always different.

Since the day’s ride schedule was not too long, in miles at least, I decided to wash clothes at a Laundromat. That done, I was on the road by a little after 10.

The first destination was the Gunnison Black Canyons. The canyon system is not too far out of Montrose and I had wanted to see it for years. The Black Canyons, so named because they are so steep and narrow that light can reach the bottom only when the sun is nearly directly overhead, were formed by the Gunnison River wearing through hard, crystalline, ancient rock; the Colorado River, by contrast, cuts through the much softer sandstone of the Grand Canyon.

In the 48 miles of the canyons, the Gunnison River drops more than does the Mississippi in its entire 1,500 mile length. (Test question: how much does the Mississippi drop? I mentioned this earlier.)

One road at the park runs straight down to the river at a grade of 16%, which is almost three times the steepest grade on interstates; I think the elevation drop is something like 2,000 ft. in less than 3 miles. We’re talking 1st and 2nd gear here, folks!

After being awed and then numbed by the vastness and wildness of the canyon, I ran back down to Hwy 50, continued east and over the Blue Mesa, and then turned north on Hwy 92, a scenic drive.

Hwy 92 was quite a surprise. First, I had no clue that it would be so twisty and slow. Second, I didn’t know it would climb so steeply. And third, it bent back on the map so that at one point it was maybe 10 miles, as a crow flies, away from where I was in the Black Canyon, but was over 40 miles away by road.

Hwy 92 at first ran up the side of a large mesa, crested it, and landed me in high mountain meadows. Once up on top, the road straightened out and I began to run at about 70. Then, I saw a small deer up ahead and let off the throttle to get a better look. BUT WHAT WAS I THINKING! That little sucker could run out in front of me. I grabbed the brakes, not an easy task because the road had been resurfaced and was coated with a fine, loose layer of small gravel. The deer, thank god, ran back into the woods. I was to see three or four more in the next five miles or so.

I turned west on 133 at Hotchkiss headed toward Carbondale, and this turned into a beautiful section. The road, smooth as it could be, continued to run across the high mesa before dropping a little into a very wide canyon where it passed through several coal mine areas where trains were being loaded for trips to utility companies.

Then, 133 climbed for a few miles and before descending along the Crystal River that ran into Carbondale.

So, north on 82 and I’m in Glenwood Springs. I did the usual, “Ma’m the internet in the room has to work,” and also visited with the other motorcycle riders who were camped out in front of their doors.

Supper, bath, read a little, download pictures, and do the journal. Just like Groundhog’s Day.

MY BUTT HURTS!

2006-08-22T19:55:00.000-07:00

pic 1, 2, 3: buttes in Monument Valley
pic 4: Mexican Hat
pic 5: rock calving near road...would have hated to be there when it happened
pic 6: small section of San Juan Mountains looking down on road
pic 7: Telluride is located up ahead in this canyon, up against the jutting sides of the San Juan Mountains.

Day 21 Tuesday August 22 - 310 miles.

MY BUTT IS SORE!

I got up early so as to see the eastern rising sun light up the buttes in Monument Valley. Alas, the sky was cloudy! And, it stayed that way all day wherever I went.

I drove north on Hwy 163 into Monument Valley. It was much more impressive than the pictures show. To really do justice, I’d have to get the light right and have a superwide lens. Here’s a good site for more pic. http://www.americansouthwest.net/utah/monument_valley/index.html

You might notice the thin red to black coating on some of the rocks. This is “desert varnish” owes its origin to microscopic organism that interact with the rock’s minerals and water, leaving the oxidized residue. Here’s a place for more info: http://www.nps.gov/cany/nature/geology/varnish.htm

(OH! While typing this I saw that there will be a new season of Nip/Tuck on FX TV. Great! What a dark show!)

I came upon a small, small town named Mexican Hat on the San Juan river and, of course, wondered where the name came from. Check out the pic and all is explained.

Before I reached Bluff, which is on a turn back to the east and south on Hwy 162, I climbed up a section that had “Road Damage” signs on the shoulder. Coming around a corner I saw why: some of the soft, sedimentary rock had “calved.” The picture shows a large chunk of rock that has sheared away from the cliff and fallen dangerously close to the roadway.

By the way, I had been playing leap frog with a car of Belgium tourists, them stopping for pic and then me doing the same. The whole eastern side of Utah, with its deserts, canyons, and mesas, is very popular to Europeans; they have forests, they have mountains, but they don’t have the red deserts and huge, eroded canyons and buttes that we do.

At Bluff, which is appropriately named, situated between the bluffs on both sides of the San Juan river, the land became dryer even the cottonwoods struggled, with many giving up the fight and their limbs and trunks becoming wasted visages of a better time.

162 ran into 160 that led to Cortez, and the road lay atop a mesa that was surrounded by the Colorado version of Monument Valley buttes, only these eroded pinnacles lacked the red color of those only 50 miles west.

At Cortez, inhabited by a large number of Native Americans, irrigation had been put to use and I once again was reminded that a little water can work miracles in dry soil.

From Cortez, I headed north on Hwy 145 that led to Telluride. I’ve always wanted to see Telluride, hearing that it was really isolated, situated at the end of a box canyon as it is.

Telluride was originally founded during the late 1800’s, as were many Colorado towns who owe their existence to mining, particularly gold and silver. And, like those towns, it almost died when silver prices were deregulated in 1893. And, like many town, it was saved by the selling of “white gold,” or, skiing.

It is nestled in a gargantuan box canyon formed by the San Juan Mountains. Unlike Aspen, Keystone, Vail, and, to a certain extent, Crested Butte, Telluride has “no way out” other than the way you came in. The town has, in the last few years, benefited from (or succumbed to…the same result is viewed differently) the real estate boom of ski-resort properties and tourism.

But to get there, I had to travel through rain coming over Lizard Pass, and I decided to have some coffee (God, it was the best ever) while waiting for the skies to clear.

After an hour, I put my rain gear back on and headed back out north on 145. The rain was not too terrible, but I had left my clear visor in LA for Logan to mail to me (I’m trying to lighten up for the final leg) and, even tucked behind the windshield, the rain drops stung like a million little bees.

I turned right on Hwy 62 and was greeted with the stupendous view of the Uncompahgre Peak to the right, heading up a platoon of fellow titans that looked down on the road.

The final run to Montrose was fast, about 80. I had been driving slowly because of the rain and the sharp turns and Harley begged to stretch his legs. We had left the San Juan Mountains and only the Uncompahgre Plateau guarded my left flank.

The motel is cheap, extremely clean, and run by the sweetest little old lady. And the internet is blazing fast. Yeah!

Tomorrow I’ll do the Black Canyons of Gunnison and head toward Carbondale, I think. I may go another way, but I want to take my time in the canyons, so Carbondale may be it. This will give me time tomorrow to work on investments and write some. And, I think I’ll read. Am currently reading a Harper’s story on the deplorable and unconscionable actions taken by the current administration with regard to the detaining and interrogation of suspected terrorists, some of whom are known by even the interrogators to pose no threat.

Low Point of the day: The clouds over Monument Valley
High Point of the day: Hanging out in the coffee shop in Telluride. It’s so nice to get back to CO where, everywhere you look, people are so fit.

Hwy 66 - Almost Didn't Get To Ride It...Or Anything Else!

2006-08-21T19:39:00.000-07:00

pic 1: who says you can't take the dog?
pic 2: hwy 66 as it runs into mountains
pic 3: wow! the timer on the camera works!
pic 4: twisty turn hwy 66 looking down on its curves.
pic 5: beginning of Monument Valley
pic 6: typical out of town, Native American living place...almost all residences have a mud "sweat lodge"...see the brown, dome-shaped structure.

Day 20 August 21 Monday - 385 miles

Historic Hwy 66 – I almost didn’t get to ride it.

I woke up and packed the Harley at 8 in the morning, and the parking lot was already beginning to feel like an oven. By 9, when I left, it was over 90 and within the next 30 min it hit 100. So, the leathers stayed on the back of the Harley.

Rt. 66 was running near I-40, and a quick look at the map showed there were a couple of good options for a ride on it, but I have to admit that I was surprised by the outcome.

We ran east for a little on 40, then turned north on 66 at Topock. Within a few miles I came into Golden Shores, which is little more than a few trailer houses, VFW lodge, and ratty convenience stores. At the VFW, a man starts to move across the parking lot toward the road I’m on. I slow a little, he looks RIGHT AT ME (the sun is in his back, highlighting me, mind you), and pulls out in front of me. I swerve to the other lane, thank god no cars were coming, jump on the horn, and miss him by quite a bit, but it could have been a very bad moment. What’s with that? He doesn’t see me! And I’m running three headlights! Jeez!

Hwy 66 is rough, no shoulder, but you can just sense the old cars moving up and down it, passengers leaning over buckets of ice to try and stay cool, cars overheating, and drivers praying they don’t break down. The thing is, if you wait for cool weather, the rain runs down the washes, potentially stranding motorists. If you go when hot, you face 100+ days. And then the road got really funky.

Up ahead, the looming craggy mountains loomed and the map showed that I would come up on Oatman. What the heck was Oatman I wondered? It is an old mining town that is still inhabited, almost completely as a tourist stop. The buildings are made from the vertical slats of wood, cedar I think, and corrugated metal. It was established in 1908 and over a million ounces of gold was mined. It eventually closed down, excepting for a few federal mines still nearby. I’m just amazed at how HARDY people were who lived in inhospitable places without a/c, McDonalds, or all the other conveniences we take for granted.

After Oatman, Hwy 66 went nuts…it would up, down, around, reminding me of the old PeeWee Herman show where the road sign turn warnings wound into a knot. In fact, Hwy 66, the whole time I was on it, impressed me with how its builders cooperated with the land rather than try to dominate it. Sadly, many drivers apparently did not do the same as the sharp, steep curves into the gulleys and washes were often marked with crosses.

But, I came down eventually and hit I-40. I wanted to ride another 70 miles of 66, but figured I would have plenty of good riding ahead on other roads. On this point, I think I was correct.

The road climbed into Flagstaff, eventually reaching 7400 ft and the temperature dropped accordingly, although it never got lower than 80. The road to Flagstaff was very much like you would see in Southern CO or some places in New Mexico. Cedars were plentiful and healthy, and there were more than a few signs warning of elk on the highway.

In Flagstaff I headed north on Hwy 89. Hwy 89 was interesting in that the landscape just totally opened up. For the last two days I had been riding desert hemmed in by mountains, but now the whole northern vista dropped away in a wide plain, with the mountains way out on the horizon.

Eventually, I ran along the west edge of the Painted Desert. Yes, it layered with red, white, and mauve.

From 89 I turned northeast on 160, figuring I would stay in either Tuba City or Kayenta, both of which were in the Navajo Indian Reservation.

Tuba City was not very impressive, to say the least, so I continued toward Kayenta…and I’m glad I did.

On the way to Kayenta, I began to run through eroded canyons and skirt weathered mini-mountains. It began to look like Utah, Moab in particular, in places. Little wonder, because I was approaching the border with Utah.

Kayenta is an Indian reservation town. Stray dogs, hungry, thin, some nursing mothers, roam everywhere. Some sections of the town are what you might call “typical reservation” while others are very new and clean. No alcohol can be sold or served anywhere on the reservation.

Tomorrow I’ll get up early to catch the morning light on the buttes.

Low point of the day: It being so hot so early.
High point of the day: 1st runner up is Hwy 66, but the real best note of the day was the phone call from my son, informing me how well his audition went for a small role on Veronica Mars. Later, he called me again and told me that he already had gotten the notice for a callback tomorrow. Whoo hoo!

Leaving LA...Out of the Frying Pan and into the Fire

2006-08-21T13:08:00.000-07:00

1. Richard (daughter's boyfriend), Jes (daughter), Logan (son), Sarah (son's expecting wife).
2. Only a small section of windmills.
3. How hot can it get?
4. Typical scene for the day.

Dad Was Yelling At Me Today

August 20 Sunday - 300 Miles

If you had tuned in to the beginning of this trip, you read that my father is accompanying me. That is, some of his ashes are, placed in an Indian medicine bag and tied to the handlebars.

Well, I left LA at noon and, by a roundabout method, got on I-10 east. The temperature began climbing and now, at 9:30, it’s still in the 90’s. While we were on the road (check out the temperature gauge), Dad began to yell, “Holy Shit! I’ve already been in the oven once! What are we doing here?”

Well, there is no easy way to get out of LA and keep cool.

I drove east about 100 miles and had to stop. It was just so hot I couldn’t continue. I got some Gatorade, the first of several bottles for the day, took off my boots to use as a pillow, plugged my XMSR portable satellite radio’s earbuds in, and took a nap in the shade of the Valero gas station sidewalk. I woke up about 30-40 minutes later. Tiger had continued to kick butt in the golf tournament and I felt I could go a little further.

At most, I could manage 30-40 miles before having to pull over. In one place, the road sign read, “Turn of A/C to avoid overheating!” Yeah, right!

Apparently, in some times of the year, one area gets a lot of wind, judging from the windmill farms.

Every service stop along I-10 was strangled with cars, trucks, and passengers getting out for cold drinks and ice cream.

I was a little concerned about running the Harley in such heat, but after several others blew by me figured it would be ok.

Finally, I turned north on 177, just east of the Joshua Tree State Park. There, thank god, I gassed up. The attendant, cousin to the bad guys in Deliverance, took my $20 and tried to make change for a $10. He never batted an eye when I pointed out his error.

On 177, Harley and I plowed over waves of rolling desert, with some peaks and troughs so steep and abrupt that I could feel the negative and positive g-forces working on us.

I turned right on 62 and then left on 95 toward Needles. I had thought about taking I-10 to 95 and then go north, but it’s a good thing I didn’t because it was closed part of the way I would have taken I found out. Hell, I may have ended up in Phoenix!

All the way from east LA, the road ran thru desert, but once I turned north on 177, it became obvious that this was true Mojave Desert country. There was no shoulder on the road, and two cars that had pulled over or gone off were stuck.

I was heading north, with the setting sun on the left side of my face, but, thankfully, not for long, because it set behind the Old Mountains. As it did, it lit up the Whipple Mountains on my right.

Here and there were turnoffs leading to God-knows-where. I was having visions of mechanical trouble, wondering where and how I would pull off safely. But, knock on wood, all was fine.

As it grew darker, the heat only slightly loosened its grip…it was now 7 or 7:30 and it was still over 100.

About 30 miles out of Needles these really weird little trees, or big bushes began showing up. The plant looked as if a green, multi-tentacled octopus had been hurled from the sky and buried its head in the sand, with its thin, hairy limbs still streaming out behind.

About 20 miles from Needles I came upon the Sacramento Mountains. Now, don’t think of these as much more than well worn foothills, but winding up and through them was a great change of pace from the undulating desert waves that comprised the flatland of the desert.

The dry air is just killing my sinuses (or nasal passages or both) and I get all clogged up at night, which prevents me from getting really good rest. But, onwards and upwards. Tomorrow I’ll be riding historic Route 66 some.

It was great to visit with my babies in LA, but now I’ve charted course for home. By next Monday, I’ll be hard at work in my office-in-home, both getting it set up and continuing to work with my clients.

Low point of the day: Hitting 118 (temperature, not speed) on the road.
High point of the day: The final through-the-coming-darkness-badlands-canyon ride to Needles.

Resting My Butt Till Sunday

2006-08-19T07:19:00.000-07:00

Am taking a break off the Harley while in LA with my son and his wife. They are expecting a baby in Oct (this will be my 4th grandbaby!).

I will leave this madhouse Sunday afternoon and head east. Not sure yet if I will be going I-10 or I-20, but will eventually head up to the north east corner of Arizona where there are, supposedly, some scenic routes. I just hope they don't have the road construction that I encountered in CA.

Never, Ever, Never, Ever Again

2006-08-17T21:11:00.000-07:00

top pic - sierra nevada to the west of hwy 395
next pic - road to nowhere in the Sierras]
last pic - road to LA and, eventually, Hell

Day 16 August 17 Thursday - 360 miles.

When does doing 85 put you in the slow lane? When in LA. That’s where I ended up, with my son and his expecting wife. To get here, though, takes some explaining.

I left Lone Pine at about 9 in the morn (all times are mountain time), and could tell that it was going to be a hot day. Still, I had on my leather chaps (they make me look so sexy) and my leather jacket.

The Sierras, including Mt. Whitney, one of the highest if not the highest, jutted up from the plains on the right. Unlike the Rockies, or even the Appalachians, where the rocky heights are introduced gradually by foothills, the Sierras thrust themselves upon you without any getting-to-know-you time.

I drove south, staying around 70, thinking about how the land had changed ever since coming down from 89. There, 395 just south of the 89-395 junction was lined with huge cottonwoods. Sadly, many of these majestic trees had white crosses affixed to their trunks. Here, scrawny junipers took their place.

I gassed up, then looked at the map and realized I had missed my turn to the west on J41, which I thought led me to Sequoia National Forest. So, I backtracked 8 miles and turned to the west.

I came upon skid marks in the road and two men with plastic bags who were walking the shoulders. Needing directions and information, I stopped and started up a conversation. The men told me that the REAL Sequoia forest was considerably to the west and north, but that the current road, though very rough and tricky, would give me some great sights.

After we talked for a little, I asked them what they were looking for and one said, pointing at the tire marks, “A friend of ours died here yesterday.”

I expressed my condolences, and asked, judging by the evidence, if their friend had run off to the right, overcorrected, and then flipped. He confirmed my suspicion, adding, “I think it was a cell phone death.”

Apparently, there was is no cell phone service where they all lived back up in the mountains and they usually checked their phone once they got to this particular section of the road. In his case, if this was the contributing if not causative factor, he must have been distracted with fatal results.

I decided to take the road up into the mountains. Over an hour and a half later I was back down at the wreck location. It was just going to be too long and too filled with unknowns to continue on that very rough and very tricky-to-drive road. But, it sure as Hell led up into the high valleys of the Sierra Mountains.

I continued to drive south on 395, leaving the High Sierra behind me. It heated up to 95 and the wind continued to blow in my face from the south. I set the cruise control on Rock and Roll. The road undulated and undulated and undulated…I was riding ocean swells, passing cars, trucks, and anything else that was slower than I was. Yeah, right, this was soon to change.

Then, 395 ran into the north side of San Bernandino and into I-15. I got on the interstate thinking that I was finally going to have an easier time of it. Wrong!

The closer I got to San Bernandino, the faster and tighter the traffic became. OK, now I’m going over 80 in a wind that did its best to intimidate me…and intimidate me it did. The interstate took a severe drop through a series of curves and I swear to God that I thought I was going to die. I hate the middle lane…no where to go if a problem occurs. If I take the right lane, then impatient drivers race into it in order to get around vehicles in the middle lane. The left lane is just hauling ass. I finally decided on the left lane…if I was gonna go out, I wanted to be sure to do it at full speed ahead.

I’m going 80 and 85 and spot a Harley rider up ahead. I tuck in behind him but can’t hold on…he speeds away. I then spy a trike (a three-wheeled Harley) and jump on his tail, regardless of what lane he wants, figuring that the two of us make a more formidable obstacle for the lane-changing, cell-phone-talking, cut-you-off-at-the-knees idiots driving Escalades and souped-up Hondas.

While the last 100 miles to I-15 were pretty bad, the last 70 into Fullerton were even worse; the worst was only horrible.

I never knew I could drive so long and so fast with my head between my legs, kissing my butt goodbye.

Highpoint of the day: morning coffee.
Lowpoint of the day: the last drive to LA.

My Love/Hate Affair With CA Hwy 89

2006-08-16T21:35:00.000-07:00

Pic, from top to bottom. Lake Tahoe, Emerald Bay at Lake Tahoe, Coming down Hwy 89, End of 89, Mono Lake

Day 15, August 16 Wednesday - 430 miles.

My love/hate affair with California scenic Hwy 89 ended when it ran into Hwy 395 below Carson City. How did it end? To tell the truth, the final miles decided the issue.

I woke late and took 395 down towards Reno and Tahoe. I turned west on Hwy 70 above Reno (I decided to bypass Reno in order to see more country) and then south on Hwy 49 which then hooked back up with 89 to run down the west side of Lake Tahoe.

What can I say about Lake Tahoe? Well, the first thing is that is truly is beautiful. The second is that I wouldn’t live there for a million years because it is horribly crowded. Just too many people and too many houses crammed into too small a place. And it was only a Wednesday!

Finally, south of Tahoe, the road opened up again, except that there was constant work and delays. Apparently, what they say about the mudslides in northern CA is true…the hills are always coming down on the roads and buildings; almost all of the work was crews cleaning the dirt and rocks off the roadway. And if you take the time to look at the hills (and I had plenty of time when stopped) you can see that they are nothing but loose, porous soil in which boulders are sprinkled much as are chocolate chips in c. chip ice cream.

I hated that road. But when it was clear, it was gorgeous. It was like a bad woman…hurting me and then making me fall in love with her all over again, only to mistreat me again. How would it end?

Still on 89, Harley and I rolled, and stopped way too often, through the 4 – 6000 foot passes, the land being mostly dry, almost semi-arid, but with hardy pines still the dominant tree. Then, we descended into a canyon, with the road running alongside some funny kind of sounding name stream. Up ahead I could see a mountain string that I figured we would ride over.

I started up the grade to the pass, and I started seeing some cyclists coming down. One rider was remarkable on his descent past me…the wind was gusting fiercely from side to side, the worst thing for a bike rider, but he was really moving out…much faster than even I would have gone down a mountain on my Trek.

The cottonwoods gave way to pine that eventually yielded space to stands of aspens. Then, after a turn or two, I was near the top of the pass, at almost 8,000 feet. This is only 2,000 ft higher than Tahoe, but I had lost altitude after leaving Tahoe, so the climb in total feet was pretty significant. And the view, what I could see through the smoke haze, was gorgeous. Even at that height, it was hot, 85, so I kept rolling. Once I hit the peak, and looked into the valley below, I knew how it would end with 89 and me…we would part on good terms.

The road down was a biker’s dream, pedal or motor. The roadbed was perfect, the turns predictable, the grade steep, and the views to die for. I passed a couple of teams of cyclists on their way up and knew they would be having a good day, albeit long.

Finally, 89 ended at 395. It was over. I forgave 89 for all the grief she had caused me; she left me with a lingering kiss and fond memory.

On 395, it was time to roll. The 65 speed limit was a joke. But there were two problems. The first was that, because it ran parallel with the mountain range, the wind whipping down the slopes clobbered me from the side much as was often the case on Hwy 93 in Colorado. But 93 didn’t run for long…now, I had over 100 miles to go. It was so windy that they even had wind socks along the road in places. The second problem was that there was, you got it, more construction.

At one, I was again, second in line to stop. The driver of the car in front had her window down and had a really good song playing. Finally, I couldn’t stand it, started up, rolled up alongside her, shut down the engine, and asked her who the band was. She said it was David and David…you had to order over the internet. Well, I’m gonna order it.

Soon, the flagger waved up around and she took the lead. After we passed through the other end of work, the last for the day, thank god, she stomped the pedal. She had told me while we were visiting that she was from Reno and going to LA. It was 350 miles and I guess she planned to get there in an hour or so.

Even though there was a fierce headwind coming up the valley from the south, I turned the throttle up and stayed back behind her…if there was a cop he’d nail her first.

But when she got stuck behind a truck, I was first around and took the lead for a while. For the next 75 miles we swapped turns up front. Then, when I was leading, I pulled into a gas station in Bridgeport and she followed me in. I got gas and she went in to buy cigarettes. When she came out, I had pulled the bike up to take a break. We started talking and it turns out she’s a surgical nurse in Reno going to see her cousin in LA. She had a ring with diamonds on her left ring finger, but when I said it was time to get going, she took a pen and piece of paper and wrote out her number and email. “If you’ve got time in LA, call or email me,” she said.

Oh, yeah, right! She’s a smoker, I’m not. I’m available, she’s not. I don’t need more trouble. But we had a nice chat.

From there, 395 had surprises for me. It climbed over several more passes, had no more work, and revealed some beautiful scenes. One was Mono Lake, near where the first placer gold mining operations took place. Another was the line of Sierra Nevada mountains that appeared on the right. Imagine driving up 75 in Boulder County, but all the land around you is flat, excepting that to your right is a steep wall of mountains, not the foothills that grow into the Rockies like by 75. And, to your left across the flatland is another wall of mountains.

The thing is, much of CA is valleys hemmed in by long lines of mountains. And these mountains and valleys vary in height from one to the other. For instance, Owens Valley, where I am now, is at about 4-5000 ft. I understand that the Sacramento Valley that eventually becomes the San Joaquin Valley are at a much lower altitude. But they, too, are walled in. The geography of CA is really interesting…when it holds still long enough for you to see and study it!!

I was running way late, fearing two problems. One was that I didn’t want to hit any animals. Hwy 89 was littered with the carcasses of dead deer, and they were big mothers. Now, on 395, I saw signs warning of ELK! The other problem was getting a room. All the travelers are like birds flying to roost at night. Wait too long and your spot in the tree or on the wire is much less than desirable.

In fact, I’m in Lone Pine, at the Dow Villa, an old historic, downtown motel. There are pictures of John Wayne everywhere. He (or more likely, one of the Old West characters he played) must have stayed here. There is NO BATHROOM in my room, only a sink. Just like the real west. I checked out the communal bath, saw the water on the floor and didn’t even bother to check inside the shower stall. The old “spit bath” thing is gonna work for me tonight.

Low point of the day: The traffic around Tahoe
High point of the day: The final miles of Hwy 89

Cool Hand Lucy

2006-08-15T20:56:00.000-07:00

Day 14, August 15, Tuesday 410 Miles

Have you ever seen a road worker flagger, female, take a shower in front of the line of waiting cars? Read on.

I got a good start out of Bend, OR this morning. It was 60 and clear. My first destination was Crater National Park. I don’t know about the people who live there, but Hwy 97 sucks when it’s packed with traffic, which is most of the time. When not, it’s a decent road.

I turned west on the hwy below Beaver Marsh and ran quickly toward the park entrance. I love to ride when the sun is behind me. The only time I don’t is in town because I worry about cars not seeing me.

I turned back south on the road to the crater and then had a choice to go on the west or east side of the crater. I chose east in order to get the sun behind me while taking pictures. Alas, the haze from fires still hung in the air, but as the saying goes, “you take the pictures when you’re there…then buy the postcard if necessary.” They didn’t turn out too bad. The little spine-back looking rock formation is called the “Ghost Ship.” I’m not going to post all kinds of stuff about the lake cause you can Google it easily enough.

Leaving Crater Lake, I passed several fields of cows and, yes, they were all facing the same way in each field. You might recall a post I made early in the trip about this phenomenon. I’ve been puzzling about it the whole time. I thought I had the answer once: the cows all faced with the sun in their back. But, alas, this proved to not be true as cows in adjoining fields faced different directions. Oh, well.

Then, back to Hwy 97 and head down toward Weed, CA. It was clear that I was in logging country, both from the log trucks on the road and the clear-cut sections on the mountainsides. The road up to this point was relatively smooth and fast, especially for a two-lane. In Weed, I took this picture of Mt. Shasta, the most southern volcano of the Cascade Range.

I decided to take Hwy 89 west off of I-5 just below Weed and head toward Susanville. The map showed the little dots on the road, designating it as a scenic drive. Well, this wasn’t the first time that the dots, instead of leading me to a scenic drive, lured me into a royal screwing. At first, the road was narrow, with no shoulders, and had large pines and firs only a few feet from the asphalt. I thought, wow, this road needs some work cause if you go off you’re dead. Well, my thoughts proved to be prophetic, because I began to encounter work sections after work sections.

At one, I was the second vehicle in line at the stop. After 15 min of waiting in the 90 deg. heat with leather jacket and chaps on, I pulled up on the right side of the car in front to chat. Two young guys were in it along with their dog. We visited while the woman flagger jawed with the guy on the radio…they were obviously doing the blue collar flirt thing. “Hey, hon, will you ever turn that ‘stop’ to ‘go’ for me?” And, ‘you getting all hot standing out there in the sun?” And on and on. Well, a water truck roared past us on the left and pulled up next to the woman. I wondered what that was all about, but looked down at my new friends in the car. The driver was looking at me, but the passenger was facing ahead and said, “Oh, my god, would you look at that!”

The driver and I both looked up and saw that the water/sprinkler truck driver had turned on a valve that released a shower of water about shoulder high in the back. The woman flagger had taken off her helmet, vest, and scrunchies and was half-crouched under the shower. She was wearing a, yes you got it, white t-shirt. She soaked her hair, then turned and let the water soak her chest. Then, yes I swear it's true, she turned toward the line of cars cooking in the heat and kind of sashayed about.

Then, she spent the next five minutes combing her long blonde hair out.

Now, don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t that pretty. I mean, she may have been ok for a the-bar-is-closing date, but that’s about it. Still, it was a picture. I just gawked and forgot to get my camera out of the case that I keep strapped to my belt for quick shots. Oh, well.

Finally, I was through the repairs and hit the section that had already been fixed. It was a biker’s heaven. I had two cars running a front door for me, a tailwind, and 5,000 ft of altitude. (It’s remarkable the difference riding a cycle at high altitudes makes. Down lower, the wind buffets a lot, even behind a shield, at fast speeds. Above 3-4,000 feet, the air is much thinner and you feel like you’re gliding through gossamer instead of swimming through pea soup.

On a smooth-as-glass road, the three of us ran at about 75-80 through heavily meadow calderas that morphed into forested lava fields and back again. I have one picture…notice the blur at the bottom.

Finally, down to Susanville. You may love northeast CA, but the towns there leave something to be desired in the way of art and theatre.

I'm so good at schlepping my stuff in and out of rooms now that it takes no time at all. By this time, my Harley and I have become well familiar with each other. I know every sound, every vibration, and every move.

Tomorrow it will be down through Reno and maybe include a jaunt by Lake Tahoe and I shall continue my peripatetic journal.

Summary: Low point of the day - Waiting on the construction work.
Highlight of the day – Riding those same roads where the construction work had been completed.

High Desert Harley

2006-08-14T20:46:00.000-07:00

Day 13 August 14 Monday - 400 Miles

Yesterday I met a couple from Canada (ever since I go to Great Falls, MT it seems like 80% of the Harley riders were from Canada) who was touring with their Harleys and their 13 yr old daughter. The girl rode behind dad on his bike and mom had her own. They were doing about 4-5,000 miles. Most daughters that age don’t want to be on the same continent as their parents.

I checked email and investments; saw that the market would probably run up today and most stocks did not have much going on so I hit the road.

The first 100 miles to Walla Walla, Washington on Hwy 12 from Lewiston were great. At first, I ran alongside the Snake River. Then, it pulled away and continued to run down through a small canyon. The road was a biker’s dream. If I had had a sports bike, I would have let it rip at over 100 in places. The turns were constant radius instead of the often treacherous decreasing-radius type I sometimes encountered in Colorado. For those of you who don’t do turns, a decreasing-radius turn is one that tightens on you as you go into it. So, I could set the lean angle and just go.

At Walla Walla, the road became very congested until I hit hwy 730 that led to I-84. Sadly, I had to pass Kennewick, home of the Kennewick Man. The Kennewick Man is a skeleton that was discovered there and has since become the source of a great deal of controversy. Native Americas, under the N.A.G.P.R.A. (Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act), have a right to remains and skeletons and other funerary cultural objects that are discovered or in museums. Thing is, some anthropologists believe that the Kennewick Man is non-Native American, even though he dates back thousands of years. According to some people, he predates Native Americans. Here is a link: http://www.kennewick-man.com/

I got on I-84 as it clung to the edge of the Columbia River, and just hauled butt. It was 90 degrees by now, and the cool morning ride along the Snake River was only a melted memory.

Finally, I got to Hwy 97 and turned south. Oh, great, now I climbed out of the river valley and up onto the High Desert. I swear I thought I passed the skeletons of some Harley riders, still astride their rusted bike, their fat little bodies now only bleached bones. It was a l-o-n-g 140 miles to Bend, Oregon. There was no wind, which was good unless I had a tailwind. The windsocks on the pitiful excuses for airports (small strips) were as limp as Richard Nixon's protestation that he was "not a crook".

On the last stretch, I could have had a great view of a volcano to the west, but NO, the smoke from a forest fire somewhere north and west had thrown up a grayish-red pall that obscured the view in all directions.

Hey, what’s with the Oregon law about pumping gas? I stopped to fill up and this yo-yo comes out and stands by the pump…in between me and the pump handle. He keeps looking at me and saying “Hi.” After the third, “Hi,” I say, “Can I help you or something?”

He says, “Yeah, I gotta pump your gas.” You know me with my hard of hearing ears right? So what do you think I heard him say?

Well, anyway, we work that out and he said, “I’ll just swipe your card and hand you the pump, you can do the rest.”

OK, it’s a bad joke but it’s true. And I asked me why it was the law and he says, “Oh, for safety. Or for jobs. I’m not sure.”

So I pump my own damn gas, and what does he do? He leans against the wall and lights up a smoke. Gimme a break for crying out loud.

I get into to Bend in time to run by the Harley shop and get a full fluid oil change. You know what HD stands for don’t you? Hundreds of dollars. So Harley Dav idson did to me what the attendant didn't!

Whatever.

I’m in, clean, fed, tired, and going to bed. Tomorrow I continue south on hwy 97 and do the Crater Lake tour. Time for the good camera.

I've Had My Wheaties Today For Sure

2006-08-13T20:34:00.000-07:00

Day 12, Sunday, August 13 – 365 Miles

Well, I’ve seen all the wheat fields I ever want to see. But more on this later.

I left Kalispell, home of cowboys and cowgirls, by 10:30. It was a late start because I took time to wash clothes.

I drove west on Hwy 2 into the setting moon with the perfect riding temperature of 60. Soon, I was wending my way along the valley between gentle-shouldered mountains. Somewhat like CO, but very green. It reminded me of a combination of Crested Butte and Steamboat Springs, but with smaller mountains.

If you ever want to fish, northwest Montana is the place to go; I must have passed a thousand lakes and rivers.

The day was much different from the previous, where the Going-To-The-Sun road ended up being a Going-Into-The-Cold-Rain journey.

I passed Logan’s creek, Logan’s Cabins, Logan’s this and that. (In Glacier, there was a Logan Pass.) I tried to find the reason why so many places were named “Logan” but couldn’t.

I hit the most northern point of my trip, just north of Bonner’s Ferry, which is only about 20 miles from Canada. Then, south on Hwy 95.

I passed thru Sandpoint, home to a beautiful lake that is much prized for its fishing and which offers the opportunity for skiing, boating, para-sailing, sailing. It was probably one of the prettiest lakes I’ve ever seen.

I crossed I-90 (man, it’s a long way above I-10) and headed down toward Lewiston, my intended destination. Soon, with the temp now 95, I got held up for 30 min because of construction. Sitting on the damn bike in that heat is a real pain.

But, afterwards, I was curving through the wheat fields of northern Idaho. Let me tell you, Kansas or any other place that grows wheat has nothing on this place. Note the pictures. Almost every inch of land was cultivated, even up the sides of the steeply rolling hills; it reminded me of the pictures of China, where the land is scarce.

At one point, I realized that Idaho had it backwards; they had “crop squares” instead of “crop circles.” See the pic.

Eventually, I topped a rise and saw Lewiston below me, situated between the Snake and Clearwater Rivers. Lewis and Clark had made a stop here in 1805. Eventually, it became a port for steamboats. The Nez Perce Indians lived there, enjoying the “banana climate” that is the result of warm air funneling through the lower river valleys. (Only a fifty miles north, a Honda rider I met complained about the -10 winters.)

Got a great hotel, had dinner, met some bike riders, got some advice and am now planning the rest of my trip.

I have changed my plans and will not to go to Seattle. There just isn’t enough time. Instead, I’ll run west on 12, parallel the Columbia River for a while, then head south on 97. 97 will take me through Bend, Oregon, by Crater Lake, and along the Cascades.

Taking this route will eventually lead me to 395 that will take me pretty much straight to LA. I’ll do the Redwood Forest and the Pacific Coast ride another time…maybe when (if, ha!) I ever have another girlfriend.

So, I should be back to Shreveport, via Boulder, CO by August 25-26-27.

By the way, Lewiston is in the Pacific Time Zone and is farther west than LA. How about that!

Glacier National Park Pictures

2006-08-13T19:56:00.000-07:00

View these in reverse order! Me bundled up, approach to Glacier, and pic in Glacier.

If You're Going To Hell, Go Thru Glacier Natl Park First

2006-08-12T20:24:00.000-07:00

Day 11 August 12 Saturday – 265 miles
(will try to get pic up when Blogger will let me)
Because if you do, your eternity in damnation will be bearable. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I ran the Harley into the Big Sky Harley shop in Great Falls to see if they could fit me in for a quick check on fluid and to make other minor adjustments. They were able to accommodate me (all was fine) and I was on the road a little after 10.

I went north on I-15 and then west on Hwy 44. 44 took me to Hwy 89 that ran into Glacier National Park. The temp was about 70 when I started and kept dropping as I went north and west. Since the elevation was higher in Grand Falls, the sky was closer. At one point, the road ran up through a cut in a ridgeline, and the section up the hill was shiny and glimmered from the mirage effect. The sky was blue and partly cloudy. So, the road, as it disappeared into the mirage and up into the cut, looked as though it was heading straight into the clouds! I felt my wheels would grow wings and I would just continue going up after the road dropped. Sorry, but I couldn’t get that picture.

The land is what is called "high desert." Again, hay is the major crop.
I passed into the Blackfeet Indian reservation and while the Indians were relegated to junk land in many instances, the Blackfeet must have had connections or just been lucky because it was good land for cattle and horses. And the horses were everywhere. I saw them running along ridge tops and flowing in a brown-black-white stream down into the lower areas. Makes me want to get a horse!

After a quick lunch at St. Mary’s (I missed the fantastic dessert), it was up and into the clouds for real.
The temperature kept dropping and I kept putting clothes on. Then, near the top, I hit the rain. It was 45 degrees, windy, and rainy. So, this part of paradise was less than ideal.

It was something like 60 miles through Glacier National Park. The road was nervously narrow, but scenic pull outs were everywhere. Sadly, there was much more I wanted to stop and see but, again, time is a factor.
The rain cleared up, thank god, and I would have loved to have been able to spend more time, maybe even camp some. But I’ve got a long way to go. I figure that I’ve covered about half of the miles I’ll do on this trip, but I will have shorter mileage days coming up as I go to the scenic two-lane routes in the Pacific Northwest.

Speaking of which, as I came down the west side of Glacier National Park, I was on the west side of the Continental Divide, the rainy side, the large-ferns-under-trees side. So far, this is absolutely the prettiest country I’ve seen. I’m back in the mountains, but they are not as dry as those in Colorado and are completely covered by pines. While the altitude here is lower, the height difference between lower areas and mountains is still measured in thousands of feet.

I tried to find a hotel in Whitefish, MT, but they were having a Huckleberry Festival and all rooms were taken. So, down the road to Kalispell I went. Hello, Super-8. And not too soon because about 30 min. after I checked in the Harleys started thundering in, looking for a place to bed down.

Now, all the bikes are lined up in front of the office (the desk attendant said to park them out front so they could be watched) and if anybody wants to make a haul, they’re all gathered in one place.

Tomorrow is Sunday and I have a long way to go…much of the drive will be on gorgeous two-lane roads through the mountains and along side lakes and rivers. And this is just the start of the Pacific Northwest.

Not Enough Time

2006-08-12T06:46:00.000-07:00

Am having my Sat. morn coffee, looking at a map, and figuring distances on my laptop. I've come about 2800 miles, not quite halfway. Next Wed will be two weeks. Now that I'm approaching the Northwest, I want to take more scenic routes (is there any road that isn't scenic?) and get off the interstate. But this will take mucho time. Which means that I will have to cut back on time somewhere else. Where? I haven't done any camping yet because it's been hot and the really pretty country awaits me. But how will I do these four things:
1. See the backcountry areas
2. See Seattle
3. See Logan and Sarah and Jes and Richard,
4. Camp

Of course, one of the factors is that I am working on this trip, with the need to be able to review investments and talk to clients, and I'm not going to slight that work.

And, you can only do so many miles a day on a motorcycle. Plus, if you wait too long to get a room, they're all sold out. I doube that will be a problem in the less-traveled areas, and even if it does I can always pitch a tent somewhere.

Even in these smaller towns, Glendive, Fargo, Great Falls, I can see the Chinese restaurants and dark-skinned smaller motel owners (Pakistanis?). I have to believe that these business owners stay pretty much to themselves because I never see them on the streets, in the restaurants, on in the bars. Of course, it might would require a coincidence to meet up with them because their numbers are so small. Still, you have to imagine that don't easily, or necessarily even want to, mix in with the locals. Which leads me to wonder about their children...what do they do for school and such?

Well, I need to try to get the bike in for an adjustment. Let's see if the shop can make it happen.

Then, have to hit the road...bikers are already heading out.

The Land of Big Sky, Roadkill, and Meth

2006-08-11T17:02:00.000-07:00

Day 10 August 11 Friday 360 miles

I left Glendive and headed northwest on Hwy 200. The weather was a pleasant 80 and, lo and behold, I had a slight tailwind again. Wow! (Unfortunately, this would soon change!)

The land began its rise and fall, almost in a regular rhythm, quickening at times and slowing at others. Hay crops filled my view, in a 360 degree circle, all the way to the horizon. The hay looked to be golden ambrosia for horses. For me, it was soon to almost too much. God, where does all that stuff go?

The wind changed direction and began to pound me from a 2 o’clock position. Eventually, I had to stop and put on the leather jacket just to reduce the billowing of my shirt.

Signs exhorting the evils of meth were present in every small town and on roadsides. One sign said:

Life is a gift
Give it your best
Stay away from meth

Check out the pic.

As the asphalt passed under my wheels, I kept noticing all the blood and gut splatters. There was roadkill everywhere: skunks, rabbits, birds, deer, and even a few liberals. I have been avoiding nighttime riding on the highway for just this reason; what a way to screw up a bike or me, as far away from home as I am now!

The further west I got, the dryer it became. Soon, I was running under virgas, something I hadn’t seen since leaving Colorado. I was hoping that the rain that was evaporating before it hit the ground would somehow make it all the way down and cool me off some.

The rolling hayfields eventually yielded to miniature badlands, and I ran into miles of smoke that had blown down from grassfires somewhere north. It wasn’t enough to totally obscure the road, but I did have to pay more attention in the winding, up and down curves.

I punched through the blue haze and found myself again under Montanan’s clear, blue, big sky., and the land again changed to fields of gold warming under the August sun. But, god, the wind just kept pounding and pounding on me. I pulled over in a nowhere-land town no bigger than two or three large city blocks to grab a snack and the trees that had been planted for wind breaks just howled. My whining as I got back on the Harley was totally drowned out.

Eventually, I rode through Ponderosa country. I kept expecting to see Ben, Hoss, Little Joe, and Adam, up on the hillside on their winged stallions. Instead, I did see some horseback riders galloping along. In the distance, I could see the, I think, Julien mountains that I would soon be approaching.

I made it into Great Falls, MT and was welcomed by a car wreck that took place just after I turned out of an intersection. I was lucky I wasn’t 50 to 100 ft further back! Nobody was hurt, but they all got out and started pointing fingers at each other.

Now, I’m holed up in a cheapo motel, riding off the next door bagel shop’s internet! Will get cleaned up, go for dinner, and check out the town. Want to find a bar and sit and watch TV, have a drink, talk to the locals. Shouldn’t be too hard.

"Dispensation"

2006-08-11T06:53:00.000-07:00

August 11 - Friday

“Dispensation”

Am getting ready to leave Glendive and head to Great Falls via Hwy 200. The locals said, “There’s nothing to see” and “Get plenty of gas.” Hate to go this way, but any other way will add a day or so and plenty of beautiful sights await me.

The waitress was grumpy, just what you’d expect in Glendive. But I left her a big tip anyway; I’m leaving in an hour and she’s staying here.

Had bacon this morning. To some of you, it’s no biggie. For me, since I LOVE bacon and pork chops, it’s a guilt thing because I have found out just how cute and smart pigs are. It’s like eating your dog. But, occasionally, and esp. while on the road, I will have a weak moment. A friend-lady of mine said, “Well, you can give yourself a dispensation.”

I said, “dispensation?” That’s when you do something that, for you at least, you know is wrong?

She said, “Yes. You take a break from your vows.”

I said, “Now, this is a Catholic word, right?”

Anyway, the market is not cooperating this morning and I can’t call clients cause cell coverage is bad here (it’s bad HERE, wait till I get 200 more miles into nowhere!) so I’ll finish my coffee and pack up.

Home on the Range

2006-08-10T17:14:00.000-07:00

Day 9 August 10 Thursday - 400 miles

As usual, I spent the first two or three hours working with my investment clients in the morning. Then, once I had an idea how the market was moving and that no more calls were needed, I packed up and got on the road.

Headed west out of Fargo into the great unknown. Sky was overcast and soon I was going in and out of light thundershowers. Not worth getting rain gear on, though.

A zillion Harleys were coming back from Sturgis. Felt sorry in a way for them cause they were bucking a headwind whereas I, for the first time, had a tailwind. Just set the cruise control on 75 and fly.

The flat plains of eastern N. Dakota soon began to fold a little, forming gentle undulations that were broken up by pimply-like, worn-down buttes. These high points were not remarkable for their height, being only maybe 100-200 feet high at the most, but they were kind of cool cause they looked like miniature volcanoes, only they were completely covered with grass.

The farm crops changed from corn and soybeans to some type of barley or rye as the land grew more and more dry. They were the quintessential “amber waves of grain.” I saw two deer running through the knee-high stalks and prayed they would not cross the highway in front of me. They ran parallel with I-94, bounding through the field. That was a picture I’d love to have taken.

Moving on through Bismarck, the land roughed up some until the Badlands appeared. Teddy Roosevelt had a park there named for him. I did not take the scenic route through the park because I have to pick and choose where I spend my down time; I have decided to hang out in Glacier National Park and other parks in Washington, Oregon, and northern California. But, I did do the picture thing.

There was plenty of time to think while on the road. I thought about all the apologies I needed to make…it took maybe three minutes…and thought of all the apologies yet to be made to me…it took thirty minutes!! Working on my latest book (will do more copy editing changes tonight) and ideas for existing stories and new stories. It’s great to get away from the radio and phone.

Ended up in Glendive, Montana. Trying to figure out which way to go tomorrow. More I-94 to Billings and then up to the NE corner, or up now then over. Will have to sleep on it.

Glendive is not where you want to spend the rest of your life. It’s on the Yellowstone River but there is nothing I can point out that would make me want to stay here. Yes, being in Eastern Montana it has a glorious sunset, but it’s gonna take more than that for me.

One side of the town is bordered by more badlands. This rugged terrain is really a series of large, mud hills. When it rains, they lose inches of surface soil, and what is exposed is more of the same muddy gray mess as what was washed away. Yeah, time to move on for sure.

Notes on Fargo

2006-08-10T06:54:00.000-07:00

Well, surprisingly, Fargo is booming. I’m not sure what the driving force is, but there is a huge amount of new roads and buildings. People are everywhere. Since land is cheap (N. Dakota’s population is something like 500-600,000), the roads and three and four lanes wide in each direction. The talk is that it, like the Twin Cities, has a broad base of businesses. No gambling.

For Jan and Feb the average HIGH temp is around 19-20 degrees!!!!!

Went to the old downtown. Nice, but not especially quaint as some older towns in the west.

I take back what I said about the blondes. This morning, I saw a lady trying to make a waffle on one of the flip ‘em things. You know, it’s a swivel heating device. You poor the mix in, rotate it, and wait for the timer. Well, she was trying to, like, pick the whole damn thing up and flip it. She had a baby in one arm and a little kid standing beside her. The mix was pouring out onto the counter and steam was hissing out around the edges as she was yanking and pulling and twisting on the thing. I asked if I could help and she said, “It says to flip it but I don’t know how to do it.” I just laid the handle back in the cradle and turned it over. She said, “Oh, I didn’t how it was that simple.” SHE WAS BLONDE.

Hey, I shaved my head last night. Well, not totally. And it’s not like I meant to. What happened was that I forgot my beard/hair trimmer and had to go buy one. The little buzzer I got had an attachment that, I found later, wouldn’t really do the job so I took it off and took a shot at my hair with just the blades. Well, it took the hair down to the scalp. So now I have to do the whole thing, right? Oh, well, it’s not like I was looking for hot dates on this trip anyway. Hell, if I put a tattoo on my neck I’d look like a Nazi jail gang member, or else a member of MS-13.

Well, need to run to the Harley shop, grab some oil, do some more investment work, and hit the road. Rain coming later so I need to get down the road.

PS: I can tell that from here I’ll be jumping off into the west. The blank horizon on the west side of town looks the same as the sea outside of San Francisco…fathomless, distant, almost foreboding. It will be like stepping off the edge of the world.

To Loudly Go

2006-08-09T15:54:00.000-07:00

Day 8 Wednesday, August 9, 2006 285 miles.

To Loudly Go

Where No Harley Have Gone Before.

Well, I’ll make two corrections to that statement and, no, I’m not fixing the split infinitive.

First, I put the stock (quiet) pipes on my Harley for this trip.
Second, while there aren’t NO Harleys on the road from Minneapolis, there weren’t many. Maybe, because of Sturgis, it’s like your toilet: once you flush and all the crap drains, all you see is the ring around the bowl. Well, whatever, it was a nice try.

My agent, Laurie, and I headed out west this midmorn on Hwy 7 and turned north on 71. The plan was to have lunch in Willmar and she would head back to meet her boyfriend and I would keep going north to I-94 and take it to Fargo.

So what is going on in northwest Minnesota? Not much. Fields and fields of hay. But I didn’t see many cattle. Maybe it’s too cold here and they just bale the hay and ship it out. One of Annie Proulx’s short stories in Close Range was about a man hauling hay to Wyoming from either Wisconsin or Minnesota. A ranch owner needed hay for her horses because of drought, so she hired a ne’er-do-well to go pick up a long-neck trailer’s worth. On the way back, he throws a cigarette out the window and it sets some of the hay on fire. He drives a truckload of smoldering hay across two or three states, flaming embers flying off and starting fires all along the way. I think she said something like he was a meteor racing backwards against the night sky or something.

Well, anyway, I can see how this part of the country supplied the hay; there is enough for the whole world it seems.

Ended up in Fargo, ND. Could have driver farther but wanted to go take a look at the old downtown.

Pic is of Laurie. Other is of me with too much time on my hands.

Tall Blondes

2006-08-09T05:57:00.000-07:00

Day 7 August 8, Tuesday

If You Like Tall Blondes, Guys

Then Minnesota/Wisconsin is the place for you. The Scandinavian genes run strong in the women, here, so if your thing is for this body type, you’d be in heaven. As for me, of course, there is no particular body/hair type that does it…all I need is someone (female, that is) who is in shape, looks good in a short, black dress, isn’t crazy, and is very smart. That’s not too much to ask, huh? Oh, BTW, I don’t think that blondes are any less smart than redheads or brunettes. Here, they certainly seem able to drive cars and go shopping well enough. And even talk on cell phones to boot.

Minneapolis/St. Paul is a great family town, I understand. Minn is the party side and St. Paul the more reserved side. The roads are great and traffic flows smoothly. Because of the cold weather, there are elevated walkways connecting the buildings so that once you’re downtown you really don’t need to go outside.

I spent a lot of time on the west side of Minneapolis, near Minnetonka, Tonka, and Wayzata. Also wanted to go to Whatsuppa, Wankerwonka, Upyerpooper, but didn’t have time. Will also have to make another trip to Whereamiatta and Wydoiluvya.

Oh, a factoid on the Mississippi River. You know that water flows downhill right? And, you know that, at the Gulf of Mexico, the water is sea level. So, from how high up here in Minn. does the water flow to sea level below New Orleans. Before you look, guess. The answer is that Minneapolis is about 800 ft above sea level. So, in the thousand plus river bed miles from here to N.O. the river drops less than a foot a mile. Gosh, I’d of thought a lot more.

And, the Mississippi here is not the big, grand, river it is there. Here, it’s more like the Red River (that’s in Texas and LA for my Colorado and elsewhere friends).

The pic is of the Cathedral of St. Paul which, though finished in 1958, dates back to 1804.

My Comment on "Comments"

2006-08-09T05:24:00.000-07:00

I have enabled the blog to allow "unregistered comments." If you "register" (and I have been told by some that the blog does not allow them to do so) then your comments will (should) immediately show up in the blog. If you don't register, then your comments will be emailed to me (although I won't know who made the comment) and will show up in the blog, hopefully, at a later date.

So, I recommend you try to register as it's kind of cool for all y'all to see what the other has said.

But, either way, send me your comments!! :-)

Mike S.

Comment setting is now changed for ease of use.

2006-08-08T11:34:00.000-07:00

Some people have told me that the blog site did not allow them to post unless they jumped through their ass, but after having done so (not a hard job for some) they still couldn't post.

So, I've changed the settings to ease blog comments.

Now, be nice...your mother may be reading your comments! :-)

Mike S.

The Oil We Eat - Miscellaneous Post

2006-08-08T11:29:00.000-07:00

I woke up during the night thinking about all the grain fields in Iowa and started reflecting on an article by Richard Manning in Harper’s a couple of years ago. It was titled, “The Oil We Eat.”

Here is the link.

http://www.harpers.org/TheOilWeEat.html

Among many things, he talked about how our modern agriculture methods (he really does a fascinating job on talking about how the cultivation of “packets of energy”, which is what seed kernels are, transformed human societies and cultures) have resulted in our becoming dependent upon the sources of oil necessary to continue to production of food.

I have, of course, greatly oversimplified his article, but you can get the idea.

Pictures are from the Dubuque, Iowa area. A view overlooking the Mississippi, a typical home, and a home for sale $177,500.

My agent told me that we got our "first rejection letter" on the book she is trying to sell for me. I wish she had said, "We got our first response and it was a rejection." ha! I replied, "Fuck them." If I can't believe the story is good no one else is. I remember we had a terrible time selling Soldier Dead and then it has done very well (for the type of book it is). Writing and publishing is a terribly brutal business right now. But, my motto is, "Onwards!"

No Hondas in Iowa

2006-08-08T10:03:00.000-07:00

Day 6 August 7 Monday

Well, I hung around Dubuque because it was simply stunning. The town, the oldest in Iowa I’m told, sits mostly on the bluffs that overlook the Mississippi River, but parts of it, including the historic downtown, are lower down near the water. There are the usual gambling boat and old hotels, but the real draw to me was the architecture, which was Victorian brick, just as you would see in Boston. Sure, there were the newer homes, built maybe in the early 1900’s, but many dated from the previous century…or two!

There are three colleges and state-of-the-art medical facilities (necessary for all those farmers working around tractors, I guess!). Grandview Avenue, the main residential drag, runs parallel with the river, but is on top of the high ground. Apparently, this is the street used for joggers and walkers (mostly walkers) for exercise. There were very few bikes.

Riding up the Mississippi now for two days, it is definitely different for me, from the south where the land along the Big Mo is low, to see such high land alongside a river. But the views that result from this geographical arrangement are to die for.

Dubuque’s population is 90,000, which makes it about equal to Boulder, CO. Supposedly, the tech industry there is beginning to catch hold.

And houses, beautiful houses, are dirt cheap. A 4 br 2 ba brick and stucco home with two fireplaces, beautiful hardwood floors, remodeled kitchen, and sitting on a 1 acre wooded lot situated high above the river is listed at $177,500. I’ve included a picture, which does not do it justice.

The other picture is a mansion across from the library.

Leaving Dubuque, I should have taken the river road up to Hwy 52 and gone through North Buena Vista, but instead turned west out of town on 52, just missing Dyersville where Field of Dreams was filmed. Alas. I heard later that the drive was gorgeous.

Hwy 52 led me through rolling high-country hills, all of it farmland. Every time I topped a rise, I was met with a vista of steeples and silos dotting the landscape. Interspersed among the farms were cattle lots that, I believe, were used to feed milk cattle. Most milk operations looked to be fairly small.

This is God’s farm land, providing all the corn, soybeans, milk, and soldiers that we need. Indeed, American flags adorned barns, light posts, and hung from many houses. I imagine more than a few Gold Stars also were affixed to windows.

The shoulders of the highway were wide, packed-gravel affairs on which farmers drove their various pieces of large equipment. And when I entered Minnesota, these wide shoulders were paved for the Amish buggies.

There were no Hondas, Nissans, and Toyotas on the road, only GM, Ford, or Chevy. It wasn’t until I reached the outskirts of Minneapolis that I began to see foreign cars.

I got directions from my literary agent and she and her boyfriend met me for dinner. Their house is on Minnetonka Lake. Interestingly, there are a good number of upscale homes for sale. The talk is that the market is very, very soft and the realtors are starving. I've included a picture of my agent.

Well, I’m off to bed. Will see the Twin Cities tomorrow.

Children of the Corn

2006-08-06T20:04:00.000-07:00

Day 5 August 6, Sunday 385 miles

Left St. Louis and headed west to Hwy 79 that led to Hannibal, MO, Mark Twain’s home. The road, called the Great River Road, ran north along the Mississippi. All along it there were signs reminding people of the flood of 1993. If it can’t grow in the Mississippi flood plain in Missouri, it just can’t grow anywhere. Corn and soybeans seemed to be the main crops. (I was destined to see nothing but corn and soybeans today it turned out.)

I passed a ramshackle building (they were pretty much all run down) that had “Christian Disposal” as its name. Missouri has a long way to go to catch Colorado, who would figure out a way to recycle old and depleted Christians.

Occasionally, the road would be covered by giant mimosas (the mimosas seem to grow wild very well there) and it almost seemed like I was back down south where the oaks growing on both sides of the road form military wedding salutes with their limbs touching over the middle of the road.

Hannibal was, well, a little disappointing. It’s a tired, worn-out town that looks like it is fooling itself that it can live on the reputation of Mark Twain. However, I did take pic of some famous landmarks.

I left Hannibal and headed north on 61. Soon, I felt like I had stepped into hell. But, then I realized that I hadn’t even reached Iowa, yet! The land was crap, and stayed that way into southern Iowa: dry, burned up, hot. For two hours I repented, promised God, and did everything I could just to survive. If I lived there, I would not own a motorcycle; I’d use all my money for alcohol and drugs!

Then, I hit Davenport and was pleasantly surprised. What really blew me away were the mansions up on the hill facing the river. They were all situated on HUGE LOTS perched high above the water on a hill. I have to think that the home owners have their money from old farm estates, big businesses, or are from out of state.

After stopping into a biker bar, I got some good advice about how to get on up the road. I noticed that hardly any riders in Iowa wore helmets. Hell, if I lived there I wouldn’t either, hoping to get killed.

But, the last hour from Davenport to Dubuque was great. A nice four lane road, with corn and soybeans everywhere. And I do mean planted in every nook and cranny of open space. But as I got further north, there were more and more places that were not under active cultivation. The land rolled gently, with the light colored green plants and trees becoming a darker green as they flowed down the slopes toward the water in the hollows and draws.

But, god I can see how they made a movie like Children of the Corn. All those fields are just downright spooky. I could imagine getting lost in those fields of green. Speaking of green, that is the ONLY color you see. There is no red, purple, or blue. Only green in a million different shades.

Dubuque looks to be very quaint. The highway dives down between bluffs and runs into the town, which is situated on the Mississippi. I think there are the usual gambling (I mean, “gaming”) boats, but I couldn’t tell for sure as it was getting late. I did, though, notice blocks of townhomes, much like you’d see in the older towns in the east, around the streets close to the heart of town. I’ll check it all out in the morning.

Gateway Arch

2006-08-05T15:01:00.000-07:00

Day 4 Aug 5 – Saturday.

It was time to go to the Arch. The Gateway Arch is located on the west side of the Mississippi River, which is on the east side of St. Louis. East St. Louis is a rough place, kind of like North Little Rock and nobody goes there.

The museum is located beneath the arch, under the space between the two legs. The displays in it contained a lot of Go West, Young Man exhibits. But the highlight were the Lewis and Clark Expedition displays. If you’ve not read Stephen Ambrose’s Undaunted Courage, I would suggest it. (Ambrose, who wrote Citizen’s Soldiers and Band of Brothers, has been panned by serious scholars, in part because his research has, at times, been lazy. Before he died, he was accused of plagiarism and, I believe, issued a lukewarm apology.)

The ride up to the top of the Arch was, well, let’s just say that if you suffer from claustrophobia you don’t want to take the itty-bitty tram. Once there, it wasn’t too difficult to think that you could feel the whole structure swaying just a little in the wind.

After coming down, a quick trip to the original riverfront area for lunch was in order. Since a Doctor John’s store was just around the corner, it was too irresistible to not visit. While there (what are all those things FOR anyway?), a woman tried to bring her little girl in. The store clerk had to argue strongly with her about how Missouri law forbade anyone under 18 in a sex store. Like, what was that mother thinking?

Later, it was time for a famous St. Louis thin crust pizza. Delicious.

Then, on to the Forest Park, which is a famous city park. The zoo is there, along with the art museum. There is a statue of King Louis XIV (not sure of the #) in front of the museum. And in front of it there is a body of water called “the basin.” It looks much like the man-made lakes in front of the French palaces, complete with fountains, paddle boats, and canoes.

After that, Ted Drewe’s on the old Route 66 beckoned. It is a famous joint for locals and tourists. They basically serve frozen custard, kind of like soft ice cream. It was good, but you just had to know that it mostly sold its history. But, one thing is for sure, it is a popular stop. So much that police had to direct traffic in and out.

St. Louis actually does not have that many people, but the greater metro area is huge. What has happened is that many townships, or smaller municipalities, eventually expanded until they all met up with each other. Each has its own history and special appeal. You can live in one of the smaller towns and never go out. Webster Grove is just gorgeous, with large oaks and elms, very much like South Highlands in Shreveport, but with even more hills. But, you go only a few blocks in any direction and you run into a major highway.

Tomorrow (Ben Franklin said, “Fish and visitors stink after three days,” I will head out late in the morning after a famous Steak N Shake burger. I’ve decided to go back west on I-70 and then north to Hannibal, MO, Mark Twain’s home.

Crossing Kansas and Missouri (not Jordan)

2006-08-04T07:33:00.000-07:00

Day 2 Aug 3

Left Salina, KS at about 8.

Before I left, all the other cycle riders and I were inside the hotel lobby, having coffee and talking motorcycles and weather. The topic of women just didn’t come up! We were all wondering if we could go either east or west because it looked awfully socked in. Just then, we heard a roar, looked out, and saw a string of Harleys going east and another going west. We all just downed our coffees and went to our rooms to saddle up.

Traveling across Kansas I realized that while people may be different in different parts of the country, the cows are always the same. I mean, they all, everywhere, face the same direction while feeding. What’s with that? I guess they graze from one place to another and, well, they’re cattle after all, right?

North Kansas is much prettier than west Kansas. Around Manhattan the land is green, with rolling hills that have lots of draws and creeks. Then, you move on to Kansas City and then into Missouri and the land pretty much looks like north Alabama, Mississippi, and the flatter parts of Kentucky and Tennessee. Corn everywhere. Unlike out west where there is nothing along the interstate for miles and miles, east of Kansas City there were always some businesses in sight along the road. Heavy truck traffic, causing much buffeting. Wind was still from the 10 and 11 o’clock position. Wore me out.

I knew I was coming into St. Louis when I saw a HUGE building that sold only, you guessed it, HUMMERS. Nothing else.

I got my usual salad and chicken for lunch and couldn’t help but notice that I was back in the land of big people. No wonder they drive Hummers.

In Missouri, I immediately noticed that the restaurants had smoking section. Maybe someday they’ll completely ban it in eating and drinking establishments. Also, I expected the restaurants to have a sign that said, “We recommend that our patrons eat responsibly.”

No pictures...nothing of note.

Leaving Louisville, Day 1 Aug 2

2006-08-02T19:49:00.000-07:00

Well, I left Louisville at 11 sharp with a Harley loaded down to the gills. The only thing not on it was a passenger, and there was no room for hair dryers and all that nonsense!

Packing up a Harley is a little like making love the first time. You’ve got all this stuff that has to go someplace and you’re not exactly sure how it will all fit. Then, somehow it happens and you’re off and running.

Hit a headwind on 70 heading East. Pretty strong. It was so strong that Dad was being blown all over and I was afraid that I would lose him. So, I had to take him off of his front row seat and store him away someplace safe. (See the expanded pic for the Indian Medicine Bag on the handlebar. In it are my lucky stones and a small zip loc with some of Dad’s ashes.)

But, rolled the miles off. Thank goodness the weather was relatively cool.

The folded foothills and sharp peaks of the Continental Divide faded in my rear view mirror and up ahead the major landmarks that gradually appeared were grain elevators and steeples of the plains churches. The concrete and asphalt carried me into a different political and cultural landscape, too. In Kansas, anti-abortion signs appeared, with one that read, “YOUR mother chose life.”

At one stop, a man came up to me and asked which direction I was heading. When I said east, he said, “Uh oh!” I had looked at the grey, low-lying clouds ahead and figured that I would be running into rain. Sure enough, 70 miles down the road I hit it and the last 100 were in the rain.

Passed three 18-whlrs that must have been blown off the road...all within 100 yds of each other...and another with the top torn off. Sure glad I wasn't in that spot sooner. Some cars and trucks would pass in the rain and the passenger or driver would give me the Thumbs Up sign. Sure enough, after they passed I could see the orange HD emblem in their back window.

Super-8 never looked so good. Now, my Harley is sitting outside in the rain like an abandoned puppy. The riders who got here soon enough were able to park their bikes under a small section of the covered sign-in area.

Met up with an RN from Denver who was riding to Ohio and points further east. He had no windshield and said, “I’m getting too old for this shit!” No kidding.

All in all, 450 miles on a bad day with a late start. I should arrive in St. Louis one day early, which will give me Friday there to work.

So, now’s it’s time to crash. OH MY GOD, I just thought! Dad is out there on the bike in the rain. He’s stowed away, but still, he might be pissed in the morn. Hmmm…I’m sitting here on the bed, butt-naked. Sorry, Dad. I’ll make it up to you…I promise.

(Couldn't get pic to upload...will try later)

Getting ready.

2006-07-10T08:07:00.000-07:00

The house is a wreck. But, man oh man it will be fun when I start. OK, here's the deal...I pick up a Penske truck on July 28 and will have a crew help load it that day. I leave on Sat the 29th to drive to Shreveport. Will, fingers crossed, arrive on July 30. Unload on the 31st. Fly back to Denver on Aug 1. Pick up Harley from shop on Aug 2, load, and head east to St. Louis. Let's see how it goes!! then will go north to St. Paul, west to Seattle, south to San Diego, then back to Louisville.