I'm about sick of it

Must be time for a media fast, again. I have been keeping up with the news and it is making me grumpier and grumpier. The best one so far was the McGyver Muslims that were to (alledgedly) mix up some common household chemicals and blow-up, not dolls, but airplanes. I am not a chemist, outside of rolling my own cigarettes, yet I am a wee bit curious, so I did a bit of reading on the subject and I discovered that this plot is about as fruitfull as my poor daft Uncle Bill, who planted his vegetable garden on a strip of rock. No matter how much he watered----. So, it gets me to thinking about fear. Certainly, I am just as gullible and spineless vis-a-vie my own fears as the Great Unwashed Masses (when did I shower last?).
Anyway, I hear that they are limiting what you can bring on board an airplane to dampen any terrorist enthusiasm for airborn chemistry experiments. That will keep them from being disappointed when they find out that they should have done a few dry-runs on the ground the day before martyrdom.
Of course, I can't wait untill Homeland D-fence uncovers a plot of Gay Muslim Bombers who would smuggle sticks of Dynamite in their, hum, well, you can only imagine where. Guess what! Good news! Everbody gets search in hindsight! Well, you got to play it safe.

It feels like Fall. A couple of days ago, I woke and it felt just like Fall to me, there in my cozy bed. I confess, I liked it. I was kind of excited! No worry, it wore off quickly. It is getting to that time of year when I can actually rise with the Sun! Yeah. Before too long, I will be beating the mighty orb.

My show of "I-CANS" will be happening this Saturday. I am getting ready now. I am trying to have about fifteen done by then. The taskmasters assure me that their whipping arms are strong and their resolve intact. The workers will be urged to the task!! A glorious goal has been set!

on the road to hell (ena, Montana)

I helped move my friend Tom this weekend. He moved to Hell ena, Montana. What a Pit that place is, though better now that Tom is there. I can't help but think that he won't last long and the Cavalry is occupied elsewhere. Tom, watch your back. You are in the pit of vipers. A single drop of rain in a vast and thirsty desert.
Needless to say, I do not have fond memories of Hell ena. My first impressions rapidly faded to a grimace, a toleration at best, a smile that hides a grim churning in the stomach. The place oozed desperation and a palpable deterioration of not only the infrastructure, but of spirit; a resignation and forlorne stand against the invasion of the culture snatchers. History replaced by pop culture, identity with fake names and logos stamped on every crappy plastic bowl and synthetic fiber shirt. It is the future, my friends, and it looks like the party is over. Only the hangover remains.
Montana is the Spanish name for Mountain. They have plenty of those, there. The very western part is absolutely stunning. It is the bleedout from Eastern Idaho, the mistake made when arbitrary boundries were drawn. Idaho should have gotten the whole Mountain range and Montana should have been called Plaintana. The towns of Kellog and Wallace were stunning. In the winter they probably are a frosty hell, sunk deep into a crevasse between sun-blocking mountain ranges. In the summer we search for firewood, the cold is coming all too soon. These are old mining towns and typify the American tantrum of nature destruction at-all-costs, damn the consequences. The ground and streams are hopelessly contaminated for hundreds of miles and as each day passes, with every drop of rain, this contamination spreads downstream, a slow disaster that will plague generations to come. Can you say C-a-n-c-e-r?

The trip was all business. Three hard days of driving with two nights of vague sleep in nondescript hotels. The best part of these hotels will always be the way they look from the outside. It is better to look good than to feel good, haha. I have of course stayed in some bad hotels in my travels, beds with vicious poking springs in dungeon-like rooms, mean and awfull, cheaper than plastic forks at Wallmart. I got what I paid for, though. If you want charm you have to avoid the Interstates and stay out of Macdonalds.
Talking to my friend Ed, he mentioned to me that he went to Tacoma, a place I knew well, as I spent ten years in exhile there. He had a hankering for a real milkshake, the kind that was honestly served in a mom-n-pop store in years past. He searched and searched without end. All these places where you could start a leisurely conversation, where time stood still instead of being money, are now gone, like the dinosaurs. Instead we have settled for efficiency and economy. Our wallets squeeze out good sense and good manners. I saw grinding poverty in Mexico, but only in the cities did I see squalor, viciousness and hunger.
What did Tom say? to paraphrase: They might not come from the gutter, but by God, if you treat them that way, they might as well have (come from the gutter). Goodbye,Tom.

Vampire Rotisserie

This is part three of a series, please start two entries back:
Turning a vampire is a delicate operation. The Hunter, after having located the Quarry engages in a "dance" with the Vampire, juggling states of mind and emotions so as to draw the Vampire into a trap. The vampire, confused by the repelling field of the Hunter, drawn by "blood lust", is slowly drained of energy. This internal combat appears mundane to the casual observer. The two might appear to be "just sitting around", the Hunter stoic and the Vampire going through mood changes, moaning and groaning as his energy drains away. This process could take up to two days to complete. The Vampire will become listless and consume his own life energy to the point of death, unless the Hunter intercedes. At this point, the Vampire can be turned. If the turning is successfull, the Human Being can recuperate and quite possibly become a Hunter after extensive training. If not, the Body remains, a shell still functioning, without an essence.

Vampire Hunters

This is a series-Part II
It is the fear that the Vampire induces and feeds on that is his greatest liability. It is by way of sensing the fear induction field that the Vampire can be traced. The Hunter carefully senses this field and moves in the direction of its' center, the physical location of Quarry. This requires great skill, as the Hunter must do several mental and physical things at the same time. He must sense the field and evaluate it, keeping his own mind and body absolutely calm. He must generate the camouflaging field in proportion to his nearing the quarry and finally, he must search into the possible futures to catch a glimpse of any problems that might arise as he nears the Quarry. Depending on the skill and age of the Vampire, anything less would lead to the destruction of the Hunter.
Traditionally the best Hunters came from Tibet, where the training received as Monks made them prime candidates for Hunter training. Others would be individuals who survived some rigorous calamity, so as have to totally reorganized their mental outlook and make-up. They are the perfect blank slate that the Hunter training is carved on. Needless to say these individuals are rare and difficult to find. It is extremely important to the survival of the Hunter that no cause for remorse or depression remain in their psyche.
There are many kinds of Vampires, some fairly easy to locate and neutralize, others, those with ages of experience, difficult to impossible. The oldest have learned to keep their fear lust in check and having built a reservoir of emotional energy, do not require gorging to live. These are next to impossible to "turn". They are savy enough to not create emotional chaos on their environments. They feed on the residual fear of the population without creating fear-situations. The most destructive are the new-formed, who are in a feeding and power frenzy. They create an extremely destructive environment and must be turned or neutralized quickly. With care, they can be made into Hunters. Because of their inexperience, they are easily located, trapped, turned or neuralized.

There's vampires in my closet

The modern vampire has learned to use instant tan lotion to comouflage his stark white skin tone. He is truly a sight to behold. Skin deceptively thin and pearlescent. His veins move under the surface, undulating and yearning for the victim, alive like black snakes or worms. If you get the chance to see this, your life is at great risk.
His teeth are for show only. He doesn't actually drink blood, rather a long, long sipping of a finer substance: Fear.
Nor is he vulnerable to garlic, crosses or stakes in the heart. These are metaphors for the survivors, those who did battle, willingly, with the elusive vampire. Garlic stands for a stench that a certain state of mind generates. It is noxious though not debilitating to the vampire. It merely gives the hunter an edge of distraction in the quarry's mind. The cross refers to a confidence that must be grown, like armor or some tall place to stand. A stake in the heart is necessary to keep the hunter humble and cautious. It is the hurts already suffered that give some immunity to the primary assault from the vampire, as he attacks with depression, doubt and overwhelming remorse.

in-2-it

I should have listened to my feelings!! Ever said that to yourself? Of course you have. The question is how to know for sure. What ifs all over the place. A What If here, a What If there--- WHAT IF WE JUST COMPLETELY TRUSTED OURSELVES???
Oh yeah, that's a tuffie.

I don't know where to start on that one. That's all.

lo-tech, hi-tech

It occured to me that there is an interesting pair of playgrounds here in La Conner. One, the obvious, is the official woodchip carpeted, fenced and secured junglegym kiddie park below townhall. The other, which I call the "sliding rock", hunkers off park street, at the foot of the capital "L", which is the birdseye shape of "the hill". I often ride by the sliding rock and admire it every time. I have yet to utilize it for more than an eyestop.
These two artifacts are a world apart. One is ages old and I like to think, has a long history of patient shouldering of playing children. I imagine that the shiny patina, polished by bellies and butts of giggling children, climbed on and over for hundreds of years, is looked upon with nostalgia by stoopback grandfathers, who yearn back to times of unlimited energy and frolic.
There he sits, wrinkled and furrowed, like an old-time coal miners' face, moss like ground-in coal dust growing in the cracks. Lichen clinging precariously on his sun-baked back. Waiting. Waiting. I imagine he smiles.