Participation

Remain conscious (and wear a coat in cold weather)

A Great Day

The endorphins are really rushing in for some reason.

I don't know why my body is physiologically reacting this way. But here are some of the things happening...

Script Finished

I finished a re-write on an older script. This one feels better than usual, though, and I've been trying to figure out why.

It's a fun story, but I cut corners on earlier drafts. Took the easy way out and hoped no-one would notice.

This time I did two things different: Wrote what I really wanted to write instead of trying to formulate it to fit what I thought an agent would look for, and... Didn't cut corners.

In the third act (used the three act structure) there were always problems.

In earlier drafts I addressed them by having long "explainy" scenes, explaining everything with explanations.

This time I set about trying to put the work in I obviously skirted before.

Every time I thought I was finished, I listened for a moment to see if I heard that nagging voice deep inside that said, "Come on. You know this isn't any good."

When I stopped hearing it, I stopped writing.

The Saints

Finished the script in time to let everything go, relax, and look forward to my trip this weekend to New Orleans for the Saints vs. Patriots.

It's great when I think about it. My favorite team, 10 -0, about to play the Belichick-era Patriots at home on Monday Night Football.

If you hold on long enough, things do come your way.

I'm not even thinking about the win. I'm thinking about watching the Saints pour everything they got onto the field.

Coffee

As much as I love a well-made cappucino or americano, it's been one week without coffee and I feel great.

One of my brothers told me he quit last week, and since I have been wanting to, I decided, 'why not now'? Just do it.

Everything in moderation is fine, except I have trouble with coffee. Once I start, I'm Mister One-Pot-A-Day.

Will it last?

I once quit for ten years. We'll see.

Walking

My exercise regimen has been nil. My walks with the dog (since she broke her foot) have been to the end of the block and back.

I once swam weekly. Went rock or ice-climbing on a regular basis. Rode my bike on back-country trails.

Lately it's been: type, walk to coffee-pot, back to chair, type more.

The coffee-pot has been removed. And I have started taking longer walks again.

Tonight was warm. There is still snow and ice everywhere, but it was sweatshirt weather compared to last week's negative temps.

The moon hung behind a haze, showing just enough of the surrounding mountains to appreciate their individual silhouettes and peaks.

Ice crunched as I walked. Everyone's Christmas lights were on. Not so much for the coming holidays, as they are to light up our homes throughout the winters here.

One neighbor strings Christmas lights through the woods so his grandchildren can find their way in the winter darkness to his house from theirs.

The icicles have formed on the corners of our roof again. Alternating between growing larger, or melting as the temperature changes throughout the winter.

Tonight, they were streaming with running water, back-lit by house lights and making for an image out of a science fiction movie.

Snow, ice, Christmas lights, running water, fog, Spruce trees, Cottonwoods, mountain peaks looming above it all.

A Great Day

I want to feel this way more often.

I have heard that some live this this way more often than not. I'm 'more not than often'.

But I made a promise to myself. To try and not waste the rest of my life. And recognize it for what it is:

Something you must be conscious for... Something you must participate in.

(photo: Me at the geographic South Pole. I chose this photo because it was truly 'a great day' when I found myself actually standing there)

Off The Kebab & Out The Brothel

My sand dune beats your rubberband ashtray

If Offered A Headstart, Take It

How about those homeless (and hungry) guys in Russia?

Kill a guy, eat some of his body, and then sell the rest of the meat to a local kebab stand.

That would suck to read the article one morning over coffee and realize, "That's where I had lunch yesterday!"

That's what life is about. Keeping your flesh off the grill at the kebab stand.

Glad I was not 'born into a brothel'.

Got a dog I can actually pet and don't have to eat. A coat for the cold, crappy days I complain about. A credit card for things like flatscreen TVs, Amazon and eBay orders when I'm bored, and tickets to the NFL.

A real good headstart on not ending up at the kebab stand, or the wrong end of a brothel.

Of course, I could fuck it up. Lot of us do.

Concerning Death

Would you rather live to be 75 and end up murdered and your flesh sold to a kebab stand, or die accidentally falling off a cliff at age 9?

Find out you have cancer at age 50, and know about the impending doom for the rest or your life, or die quickly and incredibly healthy in an accident at age 22?



What about depression?

Wealthy and incredibly depressed? Or poor yet strangely content? (No, not college student poor, poor poor.)

Here, we find an answer. At the crossroads of those two questions:

For me, I don't want to die depressed. At any age. Even one hundred and one.

When I used to stare across the ice-shelf from McMurdo Station, Antarctica, and write about desiring to walk out across the ice on Facebook, I was actually supremely content.

Friends called me Captain Emo (which was fucking funny), and joked about my frame of mind (they were right to do so), but I was content.

I wasn't dealing with endless 'fine print' in my personal contracts with the world. I wasn't reading Yahoos top ten designed to piss-you-off or depress you news blurbs. I wasn't trying to ignore the 'load-of-crap-but-secretly-worrisome' check-engine light for another 5,000 miles.

And I wasn't sitting at home worrying if I was doing anything worthwhile with the life I am fortunate to have.

Sitting at home with fine print and worry drives me nuts.

Even with cable TV, Netflix, and Madden NFL (Hey! Wonder who will be on the cover this year?)

Even with the internet, cupboard full of snacks, or 'office' games I invent to procrastinate with.



Yeah, Office Games

My personal top three...

Dog-toy Toss -- A game played with a rubber dog-toy that is scored by hitting and successfully returning/catching the toy after it strikes a certain step on the stairway.

The bounces can be wild, and require good hand-eye coordination, but the thumping sound it makes drives anyone else in the house crazy.

Waste-basketball -- A classic. Right up there with 'Rubberband Ashtray'. Waste-basketball at its simplest is shooting wadded up pieces of paper into a wastebasket. But it can be taken much further.

Try placing the wastebasket halfway around a corner, exposing just the edge of the can and requiring pinpoint accuracy.

Or, arrange objects the paper 'ball' has to be deflected off for two-point, or even three-point shots.

Rubberband Ashtray -- I actually haven't played this in years, but it sure helped pass the time I had to sit in as a floor receptionist.

Many years ago I was a mailroom guy at MGM. In addition to delivering mail, I had to relieve the floor receptionist for an hour at lunch. Her desk was facing the elevator banks so she could direct people getting off the elevators to the correct offices.

Even for only an hour this drove me nuts... Until I discovered a box of rubberbands in a desk drawer.

There were two standing ashtrays next to the elevator doors, about twenty feet from where I sat. Each ashtray had a sandpit on top, and an open hole in the side for regular trash. See where this is going? Two points for the hole, one point for the sand, which actually required some skill of its own as you had to arc the shot more so it wouldn't skip across the sand.

The best part was watching people's faces as they got off the elevator. I always heard the 'ding' and made sure to not be shooting when the door opened, in case it was a big-wig, but if I had been shooting for awhile there would always be a bunch of missed shots all over the floor.

Occasionally, someone would not be too pre-occupied with their day to notice rubberbands scattered everywhere. They'd raise an eyebrow, look perplexed, shake their head, but usually no-one ever mentioned anything.

...Unless they had once been a floor-temp themselves. Then, as they passed by my desk, dressed in their sharpest business attire, they would give a knowing nod. Hoping I might offer them a chance to take a shot or two, as I stood lookout in the hallway.

In Conclusion

Try to keep your flesh off the grill at the kebab stand... Help others born into brothels... Love your dog (but not in the "wow, this dog tastes great" kind of way).

And, when you don't have a desert or ice-shelf to peacefully stare out across and let your troubles fall from your mind, ask around for a pick-up game of 'Waste-basketball'.



(photos: Happy as a child, jumping off sand dunes; Ice-shelves to stare over)

Weekly Snarfle

I like noodles in my movies

Fleur de Yeah

Got my ticket.

New Orleans Saints vs. New England Patriots November 30th.

Paid almost as much as a Super Bowl ticket costs, but people spend more on a new car, so I took the money I saved by not buying a $30,000 car (I once bought a $14,000 Honda, which means I saved $16,000 over what my friends have spent, which means I can afford at least one trip to New Orleans to see the team I've cheered on for so many seasons).

No, I cannot afford it, but my credit card went through, so... Pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today, as Wimpy would say.

Phil, if you can arrange a flight from the South Pole, I'll get you a ticket to the game (I'm guessing you're a Pats fan).

Snow Falling On Sadie

As much as I dreaded first snow, Sadie looked forward to it.

I hate the shoveling, chipping the ice-damns from the roof, sliding on the off-ramps... Sadie loves the rolling, the romping, the snarfling.




Snarfling: Running nose first through deep snow making strange (but happy) snarfle sounds.

Writing Wrongs

Recent requests for War During Lifetime have led to some positive feedback and request to see more 'commercial' work.

So, I started digging out a couple older screenplays and outlining how I could make them more commercial.

Thankfully I stopped before I got into them too far.

More commercial?!?

Tried that once, doomed to fail. I've heard other writers say the same thing.

I defer to some Joe Eszterhas advice, 'Have the ability to sit on your ass...and write. That's your job. And write what you want to write.'

I see a beautiful and subtle film inside 'War During Lifetime', but it will take the right director and cast to see and tell it.



And, since the perfect holy trinity of story-director-cast (augmented by editing, photography, music, and art direction) is so difficult to come by, it's on to the next story.

Writing is what gives me pleasure anyway. Not trying to sell the damn stuff.

I always wondered how the scripts for some of my favorite films read...

Was it in the writing all along? Or in the interpretation and personal touches added in the telling?

Aguirre, the Wrath of God - My guess is they made it up as they went along, but watching Klaus Kinski clunk around in armor through the mud, and floating down the river with monkeys, my eyes were glued to the screen.

Sometimes A Great Notion - I actually read this script, and it's all there. Of course Paul Newman, Henry Fonda, and the Pacific Northwest scenery doesn't hurt.

On The Waterfront - All three. Good writing, directing, and acting.

The Thin Red Line - I would like to read this script to see if it moves me as much as the movie did. It's slow, and beautiful. How do you write that?



Ratatouille - Great animation, but it's all in the story. And the food.

Once Upon A Time In The West - Good acting and storytelling, but also a great story, which means the bones of it must be evident in the writing. Although you can't 'write' Charles Bronson's face. Just photograph it.

American Graffiti - I recently watched a special on the making of this movie, and it seemed evident that it was the time George Lucas put into casting each role, as well as the freedom he gave the actors to improvise within a structured scene, that helped create this gem.

The Host - As entertaining as this movie was for me, the clumsiness of the monster, the subtext of the importance of family, the fallout of hosting a foreign military, or the scariness of man-made environmental disasters, it all came down to the composition and photography of the final scene for me... Watching the man and his (adopted) son shut off the television and sit down to a great looking meal of hot noodle soup while snow fell outside. To set that up took some great story-telling ability... which starts with the writing.

Sullivan's Travels - The writing. Close your eyes and just listen to the opening scene between Sullivan and the studio bosses. It's all in the dialogue.

Enough procrastination.

Time to emulate.



(photos: the road today, with coffee; snarfles; snow on railing; snow on firepit; view from my writing desk)

Have Fun, Jimmy! (A Quadrilogy)

The Hero must have a flaw...

Driving Home Tonite (1st)

Highway mile markers were my first choice. Then railroad markers (subtract fifteen). Next were visual cues...

Beluga Point, Rainbow, Windy Corner, Falls Creek, Indian, Bird Ridge, Bird Creek, Bird, Bird Flats, Bird Point, Girdwood, First Pond, Gun Mount, Chugach Sign, Shooting Range, Otter Falls, 2o Mile Cabins, 20 Mile, Portage Train Depot, Big Game, Portage Cabins, Portage Road, Placer River, Placer River Overflow, Ingram Creek --

Driving home in the darkness tonight from Anchorage I tried to remember the 'poem' I used to remember mile markers along the New Seward Highway -- 110 Belugas again, 109 landslide, 108 unfortunate fate, 107 climber's heaven -- when emergency responses occurred between mile markers, or in the dark of winter, these acted as cues to help me let dispatch know where the location was.

Super dark tonight. Moonless, everyones' headlights look like they're on hi-beam and people keep flashing each other.

Hey asshole! Your brights are on! Oh yeah...I'll show you...

They wait until they're just upon the other car and then blast them with their own hi-beams. Shoving the light down the other person's throat without giving them a chance to retaliate.

We're not as in control as we think we are. No wonder people speed up, or work not to let the other guy in when someone is trying to pass them.

Screw this asshole. Look at him. What's he doing trying to pass when there is a line of cars. We would all like to pass...fuck him. I ain't letting him in.

Occasionally, when the bore tide, Belugas, or an awesome sunset comes down the arm, I pull over and marvel, but more often than not I sit back for the ride to town, turn the radio on, and watch the human behavior.

Nashville, Tennessee (2nd)

Back from Tennessee. Saw some family and then spent two days in Nashville for Rhonda's birthday.

Both of us have driven through Nashville, but neither of us have stopped to visit. It was fun for two days.



Weather was great. We stayed at a great hotel downtown, and when the Titans game across the river let out, the streets became overrun with happy fans (Titans won their first game of the year).

Next morning we had room service (amazing how many extra charges hotels can come up with for room service), then took a walk through downtown and toured the Ryman Theater. The musical history there is awesome.

That night we hit some bars and listened to music. Browsed Ernest Tubbs record store. Tried to buy ice-cream, but the counter girl raced us to the door and locked it just as my hand grabbed the door-handle...It was pretty funny actually. Guess she wanted to make sure she got off in time, and not a minute after.


The next day we celebrated Rhonda's birthday with some great cupcakes from a cupcake speciality shop (she got one of those 'red velvet' things), walked over to a Farmer's Market for lunch, ordered room service for dinner, and...

Watched the New Orleans Saints on Monday Night Football. Kind of appropriate to do it in Nashville, since Hank Williams Jr. comes on to sing Are you ready for some football! (Exclamation point instead of a question mark. 'Are you ready for some football' is a rhetorical question).

Health Care... (3rd)

Is a racket. It's not evil. Just another racket.

Addressing health insurance costs is not addressing health care costs. Whether I have health insurance or not, health care still costs me the same.

With a $7,000 deductible, I pay almost every cent of my doctor visits, x-rays, medications, etc. Which is why I seldom go to the doctor, even when I need to.

For this, I pay $175 a month. Should I decide to get rid of insurance it now appears I will be penalized via a fine (if that part of the bill is still intact).

The only reason I have insurance is in case a devastating illness/injury occurs. We all know that such events costs in the tens of thousands of dollars. So, I choose the cheapest available to me, which comes to $175 a month. When I'm not working (I work seasonal, short-term jobs) I often drop my insurance...Except now, I will be fined for taking such an action.

When I pay for my insurance it does nothing for routine health care or maintenance.

Does not encourage me to get blood tests, prostate exams, oral or vision care (mouth and eyes are part of the body too, although basic health care does not see it that way).

It is mostly my choice to live this way. I know I can come up with more money, there's always a way to come up with more money, but why fine those of us who chose not to have health insurance because of financial reasons, or the fact that the insurance we do have does not make it any more affordable to go to the doctor.

I never use insurance to pay my doctor's bill. My plan doesn't cover me until I've spent $7000, which I won't unless it's some large emergent event, and if such an event happens it's goodbye car, savings, and Xbox anyway...

I pay my doctor bills with my credit or debit card.

Maybe we should force people to have a credit card, and insurance for the credit card. Fine them if they don't.

Actually, we should force people to carry insurance for anything they own, actions they perform, or encourage others to do (Have fun, Jimmy!) that can be shown to cause harm to others or incur damages.



There used to be an option (I had it with Blue Cross in the 1990s) where a person paid a very minimal monthly fee that covered emergent situations only. Even someone on a McDonalds salary could afford it. I dropped that coverage for a while when my funds ran low, and when I tried to reinstate it, Blue Cross told me they only offered that plan to those currently enrolled in it.

Made sense though. I'm sure many people were signing up for that plan, and than going to the emergency room for every minor ache and pain so that the visit would be covered.

And why all this negative talk about 'Socialized' medicine? I've received such care when I was traveling abroad. It was as good of care as I required. It was affordable (almost free). And the people involved all seemed pretty happy.

I've talked with people in these countries, asked them what they thought of the health care they received, and never heard a negative answer.

The problem with the nay-saying here in the states is that it's all theoretical. It's people telling each other the bad things that will happen because they can show on paper that it will happen.

But real life is not theoretical. It is what actually happens as we pontificate and theorize about what should be happening.

Kind of like Fantasy Football.

Man, if only the ref had called that missed penalty, and our team had scored more, and he had thrown it to Larry instead of George, and the clock had been working correctly, and we ran right instead of left on the 4th and inches...I would have won. The numbers all show the game was in my favor.

Injured Dog (4th)

This post is similar to a trilogy, like Lord Of The Rings.

Except it's a quadrilogy.

In the opening film we find our hero driving home along a dangerous highway at night, reflecting on how people behave like assholes to one another, and... Well, that's the film.

In the second film things get a little more intriguing. A little more action (kind of like Aliens 2).

We find ourselves in Nashville... Music! Ryman Theater! Cupcakes! Wow, what is going on here?

And then, just like Empire Strikes Back, we are left hanging. What next?



Third film. Heavy, Brooding. Not a feel-good movie...

A man, back from a drive along a dark dangerous highway filled with assholes, has sat down to tell his friends about a recent trip he took to Nashville, but lurking in the back of his mind were those specialty cupcakes. He asks himself...

What is all that unhealthy food doing to my body? I will never know because I cannot afford to go to the doctor to find out!!!

Now, we are onto our forth installment of the quadrilogy.

The man has gotten the health care bullshit off his chest, realizes that his opinion is only that, and decides that life only has value when we recognize what is really important.

Our families, our (no pun intended) health, and our dogs.

Except the man's dog has been injured!

Both the man's happiness and his dog are now in jeopardy (as well as the dog's health).

We follow the man back onto the dangerous highway full of assholes, past the airport that led him to Nashville (and other far away places), past the building on Northern Lights and Denali where the Alaska Blue Cross offices are, and into the parking lot of the vet!

The vet questions... What happened? Chasing another dog!

To x-ray... The toe is broken!

A splint... Six weeks, maybe eight! Keep the splint covered with this plastic lactated ringers bag when she goes outside, but! Take it off inside so it can b r e a t h e...

One more harrowing trip along dark, dangerous, asshole highway, but this time there is also ice!

The man gets flashed with hi-beams, flashes back, curses, swerves, feels his back end start to break loose on the icy pavement, and just as he is about to pull over and sleep along the side of the road until morning, he sees his turnoff...

Signals, makes the turn without sliding, weaves through the hippies wandering the street, finds his driveway, backs in without hitting the stump in the dark, unloads the dog, encourages her as she tries to figure out how to walk with the splint and... will she... she does!

She pees!



The man lifts the dog in his arms, carries her up the icy stairs, feeds the dog, makes a snack for himself, writes a blog entry, reads the preview for tomorrow's New Orleans Saints game, and settles into the most comfortable couch in the world for season 4.5 of Battlestar Galactica.

Which he calls a soap opera for men and doesn't really like. But then the crack addict doesn't necessarily enjoy the crack either. He needs it.

Our hero has a flaw.

(photos: Cumberland River, Nashville; Rhonda at the Ryman; author next to multiple squash; Hotel Lobby; Moon over Broadway in Nashville; Injured dog)

Reality Vs. Reality

You wouldn't be able to move that fast, right?

Illusion of Reality

During the filming of the Oliver Stone movie, World Trade Center, a couple of firefighters, myself among them, were asked to perform for a special effects shot.

We were extras. Firefighters playing firefighters in the name of 'authenticity'.

The shot, as it was explained to me, would involve a camera fast-tracking us as we ran along a line taped to the floor.

This shot would later be duplicated in post-production and then placed within scenes of the Twin Towers tumbling to the ground, as hundreds of people, including emergency personnel, ran for their lives.



The costumers had geared us up pretty well. Full turnouts (firefighter coat and pants, also called 'bunkers'), helmet, tools, and SCBA (airpacks).

We were loaded. As we would be.

Time comes for the shot. An assistant reviews our action:

Run from point A to point B as if 'The walls were coming down around you and you need to get the hell out of there!'

Fine.

Ready?

Let's do it.

Action!

The three of us hauled-ass as if our lives depended on it --

Cut!

The assistant comes over.

Hmmm... Why don't we take it just a little slower. I mean, with all that gear on, you wouldn't be able to move that fast. Right?

We just did.

Right... Well, take it slower. We're striving for the illusion of reality.

Reality of Illusion

During a rescue of a woman who tumbled down a mountainside we noticed the arrival of a news van on the road below.

We weren't close to town, but the rescue was a difficult one, and it gave those scanning emergency frequencies time to get a crew out.



Patient safely away. Apparatus and crew back in service.

Questions.

How serious is the patient?

She fell about a hundred feet and was unconscious. Wet. Cold.

Why the helicopter?

She needed to get off the mountain before any more time passed.

Or?

She wouldn't have made it through the night... [Oops. Mistake.] I don't really know. She wasn't in good shape and needed help.

You said, 'Or she wouldn't have made it through the night.'

Maybe. Maybe not.

You said, 'Or she wouldn't have made it through the night.'

When the paper came out the next day I was appropriately teased for giving the media the verbiage necessary to ramp up the story enough to sell it.

The illusion of reality often sells better than the reality.

The rescue itself, which included a helicopter hovering just off a 45 degree slope, with the pilot at my eye level, had a moment where one bad adjustment or wind gust and we would have eight dead or injured rescuers.

But those moments come and go and are usually difficult to recreate accurately in a way others can envision.

She would not have survived the night on that mountain.

That, people understand.

Would she have? I honestly don't know.

People survive worse, perish from less.



(photos: In the movies, and at a fire)

Moth

I always thought it was spelled Full Bright...

I went to unplug the Christmas lights that adorn the outside of our house year round -- it's always nice to come home to colorful lights in the dark on a return trip from Anchorage -- anyway, I unplugged them and a moth flew into my ear in the pitch black.

For some reason it reminded me of the first time I saw a Luna Moth -- when we lived in Durham. About six inches across, vibrant green. Here is a picture of it...

One of our neighbors there had told me about these moths and I had looked them up online, never thinking I would actually see one. Then one night I went to take out the trash and a large Luna was hanging beneath the porch light.

It was fantastic. I kept returning to the side kitchen door to look at it just 'one more time', before it decided to leave.

Thinking of the Luna Moth got me thinking about Durham.

Thinking of Durham got me thinking about my latest screenplay -- the one that recently brought me to the semi-finals of the Nicholl competition, which in turn got me thinking I should continue writing.

And after I had almost walked away from it.

Now, three polishes and a re-write since receiving requests to read the script, I am deep into it again. Pulling other scripts out of the drawer to see if they might also benefit from resurrection.

I wrote War During Lifetime while in Durham.

To recap, for those who missed earlier episodes, I had left the fire service in Alaska, spent some time in Los Angeles trying to get back into acting and writing (thank you Altoids), and then moved with Rhonda to Durham where she had a nursing job offer.

In Durham I had nothing to do except drink coffee, walk the dog, aquaint myself with the South, and spend my savings. I needed a job, and writing was a job. Even though it paid in IOU's that I may never collect.

Back to the moth here in Alaska that flew into my ear only moments ago as I unplugged our outdoor Christmas lights.

Why did it remind me of the Luna in Durham instead of some other bug in some other town? Because we had just been watching the film Sunset Boulevard (borrowed from the library).

Oh, come on. You know that's not such a jump when you really think about it.

Sunset Boulevard has a tragic ending. Makes for good drama. My latest screenplay has more of a hopeful ending. Does that make for good drama?

I'll tell you, it's given me pause.

I mean, I want to sell the thing. That means someone else has to give me their hard earned money for it, and maybe they don't want to buy 'hopeful'.

Why did I give it a hopeful ending if I knew that it risked tainting the tension needed for a good story?

Now we are back to the fire department. And my father.

I once asked my father to watch The Deer Hunter (after I had seen it, loved it, and wanted to be able to write it) and the first thing he said was:

"Is it a sad story? Cause I don't want to watch anything sad or depressing. How about seeing a comedy?"

That was the kind of man he was. His reaction to the things he had experienced in his own life made him want to stay away from sad, depressing, graphically gruesome stories with little hope.

I guess I inherited that.

Before, I had sought out intensely morbid, gut-wrenching, heart-breaking movies, and called them great.

Then, I ended up with a small fire department. After a few years I woke up one day unable to make it past the couch. I called in a week's sick leave. Gave my notice a month later.

I also began to loathe violent, sad, dark, gut-wrenching, heart-breaking movies.

Knowing that a good story requires dramatic tension, and that movies, even as entertainment, need to sometimes show a little of the dark side of human nature so as not to become celluloid syrup, I knew I could not just write about the comfort of a perfect pillow.

But I could add hope, couldn't I?

Sunset Boulevard is considered a classic. It has a tragic ending.

[Question from audience] -- "Does your script have a tragic ending?"

Or, in the words of one brother to another in the violent, sad, tragic movie Adaptation:

"Are you a former Fulbright scholar?"

No, to both.

I, have a moth in my ear.

(photo: Walking the dog on a hot summer night in Durham)

Bran New Day

Casserole calls for: macaroni, ketchup, kraft singles, graham crackers

Muffin Break

Rhonda's famous bran muffins are doing their job. Almost too well.

It didn't help matters that I ate three of them. One of these colon-scrubbers is usually all it takes, but I couldn't resist. This time we had added homemade buttercream frosting to the tops.

(Actually, I was really only after the frosting, but had to eat the muffins to temper its ultra-sweetness).

Since we are talking poop, or at least things that make you poop, I should mention that there has been a winner to my contest.

I must stay true to my word, and that means an article on the subject matter of the winner's choice...

Alaska Backpackers Inn has chosen for me to write about a fish named Jackie O, and the fact that it 'poops' on its owner's salad.

What does this mean? We will find out together in a future post.

Additional News (& Faux Casseroles)

• New Orleans Saints are 3-0. I have been on waiting list for season tickets (they have been sold out since 2006), but if they continue playing like they have, I may never get them.

• Eagerly following this morning's news about the earthquake/tsunami in Western and American Samoa. Early reports mention deaths on southern side of Upolu, near where Rhonda and I spent some time...Hoping to hear that Tapu and family are ok.

• I had some passing interest in my writing recently. Was asked if I might take on free-lance work about 'food'. It got me thinking about my father's quote: "Some people eat to live, I live to eat."
  

Watching my father eat was amazing!

He could hold a conversation at a party while simultaneously scanning appetizer trays and drawing you into how excited the food was making him without missing a beat of what you were saying.

At his memorial a friend even mentioned there had better be lots of food wherever he was.

I will leave you with something my father inadvertently left me:

There is no bad food. A faux-casserole, scraped together from all corners of the cupboards, is a gourmet meal when you've just clawed your way out of a storm.



(photos: Bran muffins with buttercream frosting; Crab-cake, taught to me by my father's mother)

The Good, Bad, and WTF

Midnight. Second bowl of homemade chicken soup. Dog asleep at my feet. Eye twitching due to lack of sleep, though all I do is sleep...

So.

I seldom talk politics in the blog. And I am trying to refrain, but I am riled...

First, This Message

Most of what riles us isn't worth a breath.

It begins in what we read in the paper and online, or what we hear and see on the radio and television.

Meaning, we don't get the real story.

'Unbiased non-fiction reporting' is fiction.

Even when the writer is trying their darnedest to get it right, they have filtered it unintentionally. Tweeked it to put it on top of the pile.

Editors fit to available space and advertising. And tweek it to sell.

Over time, the reader, listener, and watcher can learn to read between lines, use the text as a guide to a general belief or emotion, and give over to becoming entertained or riled.

Police Reports

The most accurate stuff to read in 'non-fiction' are police reports.

Maybe movie times.

Art, food, and movie reviews are a somewhat safe bet, because even though they are only truly accurate for the writer, they aren't going to get the reader in much trouble for taking them seriously.

• For movies, you are going to eventually see it all anyway in this age of Netflix. The good, bad, and WTF.

• For food, the accompanying photo is often worth the price of admission. And food reviews are entertainment. Who cares about the writer's inner-life, tell us about the melting butter!

• Art, like life, is subjective and changes with experience. What we don't understand one day, we will the next. What we don't like, we will come to love. What we held on high, we eventually crucify.

The comics are good for a distraction.

Classifieds have real purpose.

Sports pages usually retain a consistent audience...As do letters to the editor, op-eds, and (I hate this next word) obituaries.

I already worry enough about death. Don't remind me.

I Have Refrained

When riled, refrain from knee-jerk tirades.

Writing the paragraphs above gave me some breathing space. Like punching the fridge or chopping wood (instead of another human being) when you're angry.

I no longer feel the need to launch into a tirade over stories I read in the news.

Avoid the news.

Exercise, eat well, and always...

Love your dog.



(photos: Wtf? It's a view from the Girdwood handtram as two packrafters get ready to roll; Dog)

Roasting The Grind

Roast beans, roast your friends

The Grind in Girdwood

Gator has an affinity for all things Star Wars.

He is the owner of The Grind, a coffeehouse in Girdwood, Alaska, which shares space with the local bookstore -- and he dedicates as much space to R2D2 garbage cans and Darth Vadar telephones as he does the muffins and pastries.

Gator carries Ravens Brew coffees from Ketchikan (delicious, with packaging artwork by Ray Troll) and makes a solid Americano. He has trained his employees to do the same.

Gator charges a lot for Americanos.

But that is only because he thinks highly of himself.

Of course, I pay his price. Because I like his coffee, as well as the atmosphere of the place.

Otherwise, no way.

The interior is small and cozy, sharing space with Girdwood Books & News. This makes it somewhat difficult for serious screenplay writing, but wonderful for conversation and browsing the paper.



And the conversation is always good.

Everyone steers clear of politics and religion so that we may talk about religion and politics.

And jumping-in is common. Something will eventually be said that an innocent eavesdropper cannot resist.




If Gator and I are both present he will undoubtedly try and bait me. Squirming in frustration when he can't get me to bite.

But I will bite.

I mean, it's his place. I have to give him the pleasure from time to time.

Meanwhile, I derive my pleasure caffeinating while interacting with both the local and out of town crowd.



And the regulars are growing. Familiar faces appear with each visit and, frankly, it's comforting.

Did I mention the entire staff makes great coffees?

That would be Tracey, Kyla, and John Michael O'Leary...aka Gator.




(photos: Storefront; Your friendly barista; Motorcycles brave rain for coffee; Amy & Brandon from Girdwood Alaska Backpackers Inn; Gator frightens another customer)

Oakland Raider on a Motorcycle

Here's a football and motorcycle fan treat!

Tom Keating of the Oakland Raiders on what I believe is a Honda CB 750 (could be the 550, but he was a defensive lineman).

And those smiling brats? My brothers, sister, and me.

Panama, circa early 1970s.



Photo Contest

I usually wait until the end of the post to describe the photos.

In fact, I think only once before in the history of Barnyard Devil the blog (not the novel, or poem) have I addressed the photos directly in the text of the post itself.

Here is what I will do. For the first person who can find at least two posts, not including this one, where I specifically describe a photo in the post itself, I will post on a subject matter of your choice!

Go ahead. Start reading my entire blog from start to finish.

As for the photo above: Me playing Pee-Wee league in Ketchikan, Alaska -- circa 1970s.



Big Ben Davidson

There are some great photos of Mr. Davidson's bone-crushing, helmet stripping hits on the web...But I'm not sure I have permission to post those.

So, from my family's own vault, this beauty of both Mr. Keating and Mr. Davidson pausing for some lemonade during one of their annual Central American motorcycle trips.

In this photo you will also notice a beautiful Honda motorcycle (circa 1970s) and some other dude whose name escapes me, but I am sure my mom remembers as she was the one who remembered that we shared lemonade with the two Oakland Raiders.

Circa 70s!

I was going to title this section 'Three Items', or 'Three Final Things', or 'I leave you with these final thoughts'.

They are all horrible.

Here are three thoughts I will leave you with:

1. This is not sports journalism.

2. My friend Phil, who is working in Antarctica for the next six months, is the only one who might actually have the time to read through my entire blog, and thus will win the contest.

3. The point of this post was to show off our roadside visit with the two Raiders and one of my favorite motorcycles ever (I hate that they are currently being bought up around the country and chopped into Cafe-style throwbacks).

3 1/2. I just realized where my love of football and motorcycles stems from...The Circa 70s!