Friday, September 4, 2009

40th B-Day is Around the Corner

In case anyone was wondering, in case it crossed anyone's mind, I will turn 40 at the end of November. I know that everyone will be busy with Halloween and Thanksgiving. I get that the Christmas shopping season will soon thrust itself into our tight budgets. Still, so as not to put things off until the very last moment, here's a simple list of what I would like this year for my birthday.


The list is in no particular order. I have rated them with pretty self exlpanatory star rating system from **** GOTTA HAVE IT down to
* I WON'T TURN MY NOSE UP AT IT.





Not to make things more complicated...but if you can't read it just click on it to enlarge.

Monday, August 31, 2009

CONSEQUENCES (PART II)

When I went to court for the parking lot mishap, I sat down with the Assistant District Attorney. The ADA didn’t think that I was actually guilty of leaving the scene of an accident. She couldn’t prosecute me for having no insurance (the law had no effect on private property at the time, and Lakewood High School’s parking lot qualified as private property.) She dropped the unregistered vehicle (it wasn’t my car) and reduced the 16 point moving violation to a 3 point ticket. All I had to do was pay restitution.

Heck…I had brought all of my $27 fortune with me. How much could it cost to fix a tiny little scratch? At least that was my thinking…until the judge set the restitution at $200.

$200?

That was just crazy talk. $200 dollars might as well have been $200 trazillion…I was never going to have that much money at one time in my life. I lived occasionally with my mom, worked a minimum wage job sporadically. I really only chanted nam-myoho-renge-kyo for world peace and hung out with my friends—and that didn’t pay much at all.

Still, $200 was the court’s assessment. I worked hard in those six months to earn the money. That is to say that I worked two or three days in those six months to raise the money. When I returned to the courtroom I had a list of excuses to accompany my empty pockets. Before I could deliver up any of my half-assed rehearsed excuses, a new judge stepped up to the bench. Apparently my regularly scheduled judge was on vacation, and this guy was just postponing court dates for six more months. I had another chance to find the money.

I had left (or rather been encouraged to leave) my job in the mountains, but still had no job in the city. I didn’t see where working at McDonald’s was ever going to earn me the money that I needed. It was really just a waste of time…and I would smell all greasy. No, I needed a high end office job, but no one was hiring me. I went to a few interviews and told them that I was a writer who needed to pay the bills.

What did I write? Poetry, letters, the beginnings of some short stories, stunted novels.

I lowered my aim to apply for jobs behind store counters. I found a couple of opportunities to sell art at private parties, or china in people’s homes, or cutlery. But to really thrive (after the training session) I would have to buy the products and then resell them. I really do feel that I could have been a good art dealer (by “art” I mean limited edition lithographs and silk screens) if I had the $15,000.00 to get started.

Oh well.

The china seemed the best bet, but no one wanted to buy my china. I’m sorry that I didn’t have a nice car, or nice clothes, or bathe regularly, or short hair…I just wanted the china to sell itself. The training people said that the product did practically sell itself.

I worked for my grandpa for a couple of afternoons planting garden beds at the apartments that he managed. I got paid in lunch at the Ogden St. South. It wasn’t actual money, but the gyros there are pretty dang good. So it was worth it. I got to enjoy those flower beds for only a couple of weeks as a big hail storm came and wiped them out.

At five months and twenty-nine days I started to feel the pressure of my lack of monetary worth. I woke up that morning thinking that I must have something worth $200. I gathered my scanty belongings and canvassed some pawn shops. Here is about what I was worth in August of 1990:





This was it. This was all of the wealth that I had in the world, plus loose change on the floor of my beat up Subaru: twenty-three dollars and no more. Even written out, it didn't look like much money.

Now I know that many would say that I could have sold my car…but my girlfiend’s stepfather had just given it to me so that I could get to Buddhist activities all over town. It represented the physical benefit, the proof that chanting was working, so I had to keep it.

I had learned a lot in that year about quasi-hard work and my own worldly value. I didn’t make the $200 exactly, but I was pretty sure that the judge would be pleased by my personal growth. Maybe in another six months…

I drove myself to court the following morning. I was early on the docket, just one case before me. Some guy was following a family around with a video camera, and they wanted a restraining order put on him. He sure did talk back a lot to the judge. He got that old judge worked up into a tizzy. I mean, one really should not talk back to a judge like that…even I knew that.

The bailiff took the guy to jail (oh, yeah, the judge gave him two days in jail for contempt of court), and they called my case. I stood, and it went like this:

“Mr. Justus…where is the $200 you were ordered to pay a year ago?”

“I don’t have it, your honor.”

“So you’re telling me that in an entire year, you couldn’t make $200? What have you been doing?”

“Well I tried to pawn some things, but I’m not worth that much. I worked some day labor jobs, and tried selling stuff door-to-door, but it wasn’t really enough to cover my small expenses. I worked for my grandfather, but that was mostly just service stuff for lunch. I just don’t see how I’m ever going to make that much money.”

“You have had a year to pay a very small fine. The ADA dropped some charges which, frankly, I don’t agree with. You are disrespecting me and my court—“

“No, your honor, I am not—“

“Did you just interrupt me?”

“I...uh—“

“I could throw you in jail for contempt of court: contempt for interrupting me, contempt for disrespecting my court. I could put you in jail on work release until you pay off that fine. I’m sure that a couple of weeks of county labor jobs would pay the $200. Is that what you want?”

“Actually…uh…no…but it would pay the restitution.”

“I’m being serious here. Why won’t you take this seriously? For not paying the $200 in the past year, I find in you in contempt and fine you $500—“

“Your Honor, it don’t think that‘s a good idea. If I can’t find the $200, than I doubt that I can pay $700.”

“Mr. Justus, I have a plan to help you find the $200: you will stay in the Jefferson County jail facility for no less than 10 days while you think of where you can find that money. NEXT CASE!”

I only remember that repartee so well because I played it over and over in my mind as I lay on my concrete slab, dressed in my scratchy orange jump suit, and missed preseason football. Still, the solid walls echoed so nicely when I chanted for my early release, great fortune…and world peace.




Thursday, August 27, 2009

CONSEQUENCES (Part I)

(In 1989 I had a job working at the Media Business News up in Genesee, Colorado as a file clerk. I use the words “job” and “working” loosely, as I had no car to get from Lakewood to Genesee, so my attendance at work turned out to be sporadic at best. I usually hitch hiked up the mountain and grabbed a ride home from one of the staff writers…but that is a story for a different day. This is the story [true story I might add] of one of the times when I actually made it to work…)

I ended my workday early, so that I could get back to Lakewood High School by three o’clock. I had borrowed the car from my girlfriend, Marla P, and wanted to have it back to her by the time that school ended. I also needed to check on something, follow up on a little bit of business that happened earlier that day.

You see, while backing the white Ford Escort out of the parking spot, I nicked the shiny red truck parked next to me. I had left a note on the windshield, after trying and failing to locate the campus security officer. I needed to check into that and make sure everything would be all right.

Pulling into the parking lot, I knew that things were far from “all right.” Two police cars were parked in front of the school, and a buzz of activity filled the grounds. I got out to see what was going on—

“THERE HE IS!” someone pointed me out with an accusatory finger.

Suddenly I was in the eye of the maelstrom. A cop put his hand on my shoulder and directed me to the back of his cruiser.

“You had a little accident this morning?” he asked.

“Yes, I was coming to make sure everything was all right.”

“You should have done that before you left a note on the other vehicle and drove off.”

“I had to go to work.”

That pretty much ended all conversation. He wasn’t interested in my little job, or my little life, or my desire to make things all right. By the end of my long sit in the back of the police car I had a 16 point violation:


  • Unsafe backing

  • Failure to comply with the compulsory insurance law

  • Leaving the scene of the accident

  • (the day was late, so the officer didn’t want to get into the whole lack of car registration issue.)

Mind you, the minor’s driver’s license only had 12 points to lose, so I found myself owing the DMV four points. Dang…that sucked.

(To be continued...)

Thursday, August 13, 2009

PRESIDENT FROM KENYA



I was born next to a river.
My father is from the moon.
My mother was just a little girl,
but I could be president soon.

A nice old man called Doh
witnessed the whole event.
He only went to catch a fish
(at least that was his intent.)

Ma Tiddly Bo-Diddly,
my sweet, sweet mother dear
What she was doing at the riverbank
was never very clear.

Ultra Poobah Marooh,
an extraterrestrial kahuna,
had only come to Earth for a bite:
a Coke and a can of tuna.

Somehow they met that fateful day
under Kenya’s November sun
They made a doll from mud and twigs,
and now they have a son.

I was born next to a river.
Like its current, I must roam.
But still, I could be President
and sleep in the great white home.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Deme la Luna


If one has any doubts at all about how I feel, let me dispell those doubts with this entry: the moon mystifies me. I can stand beneath her for hours on end, and look upon her landscape. That is, until I fall over. I recently answered a question on questions.yahoo.com that went something like this:

What kind of thoughts flash through your mind when you see the Full Moon....?

I always stop and stare. I wonder how early man reacted to a big, bright moon standing out among a backdrop of stars would react. Did they stop and stare? Did they dance? Did they worship the moon?

Then I think at how we've touched it, walked on it, and how will will do it again some day.

Then I fall over because looking up makes me dizzy.


That is entirely, completely, and undoubtedly true.

So, to celebrate the fact that last night (July 7, 2009) saw a full moon grace the sky over Colorado...I will one of my poems that I have written to, for, or about the moon:

MOON GHAZAL

Steady on her course she runs
Through the dark sponge of the night sky

Her pale glory grins into every heart
The sparkling smile of the night sky

Stars dance-- marking her trailing swath
An amusement park of the night sky

She waxes and wanes and waxes again
Fulfilling her arc of the night sky

Branding my soul while she quietly crafts
Her indelible mark of the night sky


Tuesday, July 7, 2009

The Effect

I first saw The Effect play at the Homecoming picnic in 1987. It was my senior year of high school, and they were 4 decent players…but one of them sang off key and made up words to La Bamba. I thought to myself: “Man, I should sing for those guys…and we would rock!”

A week or so after that I was leaving the vocal music room, past the band room, and ran into three friends of mine having a conversation about what to do…they needed a singer. These three friends, Alan B, Pat M, and Paul R were three of the four members of The Effect. They needed a face man, and I needed a gig…why not see if we fit?

So we got together in Paul’s basement (he was the drummer and that’s where he kept his kit.) They had a school dance set up in December, so if I was going to sing, we had to put together a set list of songs that we all knew.

We put together some standards that we all knew: Sunday Bloody Sunday, Sunshine of Your Love, Should I Stay or Should I Go?, Message in a Bottle, and Just Like Heaven. We hit Budget Record & Tape to flip through 45’s and get some new material…well new to them (it was all new to me.) We gathered, we rehearsed, I sang in more places than the shower, and our playlist grew.

The night came, and we set everything up for the show. We tie-dyed a sheet to hang behind us. Alan even arranged for a local talent agent to come and see us play. Hey, if he could book us some shows for money…cool after school job!

It was one of those nights that still remains clearly in my mind…even 20 years after the lights went out. Though we never heard from the agent again, we had a good dance. In all reality, I feel most comfortable on a stage. Any inhibitions that I may have fade away, and I can freely express myself. If it’s a play, the character channels through me easily. If it’s in front of a band…ROCK ON!!

We set up a gig at a house party in February…the night of the Sadie Hawkins dance. They paid us with a keg that they set behind us. Now mind you, that didn’t mean that we were the only ones who got to use the keg, it just means that we were allowed to play in front of the keg. We rocked the house. Hands down it was the best party that I saw in my high school days. That night also convinced me of how lucky I was to have never thrown a party while my Dad was gone…that house was trashed.

Summer came, and it should have seen my exit from the band. Pat (bass) and TD (keyboards) were both off to school. Alan (guitar) and Paul (drums) were both underclassmen, so they had at least one more year left to play together. Me…hell I was a loser with no plans in life. I just wanted to hang out with my friends and not worry about the future. Even though I had graduated, I stuck around and sang with the band.

We had a Labor Day concert set up to play at the Lakewood On Parade. We grabbed a guy that, as it turns out, was a pretty great keyboard specialist (I want to say that his name was Mike….) As more than half of the band had left, we changed the name from The Effect to Boxer Probs.

We added some new songs like Spirit of Radio, The Wall, and our first original piece Come to Jamaica. We had an hour on the afternoon stage. We played strong for the hour, flirted with cheerleaders from the high stage, and basically ROCKED THE PARK.

That’s when I screwed it all up. I mean, it’s not like I was going places anyway. I should have just stayed. Maybe I succumbed to the wily pressures of the Nichiren Shoshu Buddhists that constantly surrounded me. You see there was this retreat in the mountains with some Buddha Big Wig…an invitation only event. I had the invitation, and I knew that I would have to bolt right after the concert to make the retreat.

How was I supposed to know that the act for the next hour’s block had cancelled? The event organizers came to us. They liked our sound, the crowd was moving, and they wanted us to keep playing. I felt the pressure from the band, the pressure from the Buddhists, the pressure in my head.

I sang a couple of songs and dove off of the stage into oblivion. Alan did all that he could to make me stay and finish the show. I don’t blame him a bit for any of the steps that he took. If I had been thinking straight, I would have stayed for the whole thing.

Instead, I dove off of the stage, out of the band, and deeper into oblivion. We can’t go back and fix the past. Who’s to say that it’s really broken anyway? Regretting what we have not done takes time away from doing. Regretting things that we have done equals wasted strength that we can never recover.

I am glad to know that Alan still jams after all of these years. Now that I am learning to play the guitar, I realize the incredible talent that these guys had to hear a song, pick out the tune, and play it as tight as they did. Lyrics are relatively easy…most of them are printed in the liner notes. Mind you, this was in the pre-web days when guitar tabs weren’t just a Google away.

I hope that Paul is playing hard somewhere. Flat out he is the best drummer that I have ever been around. That’s probably not saying much as I have not been around too many drummers. Still, if I had my choice of anyone to play drums for me…anyone at all…I would choose Paul.

I ran into TD and his wife one day while I was working at Haaga’s Mattress Factory. He could put together the music on the keyboard after a few spins of the 45. If you didn’t catch that…I can’t help that the music industry has deprived you of singles and then bemoaned the digital download age.

I want to say that Pat is in law…or running from the law…or doing something legal—I don’t know. I just know that we really missed his baseline when he went to college. He helped provide the power that drove the band. I hope that he’s still slappin’ the beat—or something hip like that.

Me, I sing to the captive audience of the shower. My wife gets the benefits of my silvery voice and impromptu lyrics. We both have a habit of altering lyrics for our own little effect. Some of it has to do with our love having melded us into one being…but mostly we are “ew.”

Ladies and gentlemen…

…from the shadows of the Rocky Mountains…

…I give you…THE EFFECT!

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Primary Posters

It isn't often that I will use this forum to move data. However, this is one of those times. Jen, here are the posters that I worked on the Primary Day Camp. They are a little different each one, but it gives you (as a presidency) a choice.

Collage Format:



Traditional Style Format:



Revised Collage Style:



Ok, Jen, it's up to you...or do you want something different?

Monday, June 29, 2009

The Beginning of "I Love You…"

“We don’t know the moment when love begins,
But we always know the moment when love ends.”
-Harris Telamacher
(L.A. Story)

If you haven’t seen the movie, do yourself a favor and see it. That’s it. That’s my plug for the film “L.A. Story.” I won’t say anymore about the movie. I would like to address this quote, as it is one of many that this movie offers for those who listen while watching movies.

Since I first heard Steve Martin’s voiceover lay down these words, I thought that they contained infinite truth and abundant wisdom. That was before I fell in love with Jen. Now I know that with some love, one can mark the beginning, and hopefully never the end.

I had seen her, watched her talking with friends, and I couldn’t help but notice how she looked in her pink jumper. What can I say but that I had a bad case of the smitten kitten? But that was not love. Smite, even deep smite of the heart, does not equal love. Only love is love…accept no substitutes.

I remember the time and place when the smittenness of my heart morphed into love. It was across a Subway counter in Littleton, Colorado. Jen worked there, and I had a part time job hanging out and watching Jen work. Now before you call me a filthy stalker, let me just say that we were dating, and I had to spend as much time with her as I could because I had plans to leave the country for a few years. So it’s cool…simmer down…she was ok with it.

Like I said, she was working and I was watching her work. In a lull, a brief moment, we leaned across the counter to sneak a little kiss. It was a peck on the lips, nothing more, but it unlocked a new world. Everything changed, and I realized it at that moment. As we parted, I wanted to tell her that I loved her. I mean I really loved her and I knew it.

Before I could even draw breath to give power to those words, she said it first. I was relegated to an “I love you, too.”

It felt lamely given, but held no less truth than the phrase “I love you” without the “too” attached to it. That was it. That was the beginning of the “I love you…more” war. Though my “more” came out strangely sounding like “too”, it was true.

“We don’t know the moment when love begins,
But I do know, Jen, that I love you more.”
-Bob Justus
(Just now…this blog)

Monday, June 15, 2009

DOGS

“Outside of a dog, books are man’s best friends.
Inside of a dog…it’s too dark to read.”
-Groucho Marx

I count this as one of my favorite quotes. I love books. I love dogs. What’s not to like about the quote? I spend a fair amount of time thinking about my favorite books. I have provided a list of the top five, which has remained firm for the past decade, on the right margin of my blog. I fear that I have neglected my loving companions on this forum.

No longer…

I hereby submit to you a record of my doggie friends. I will give them in a chronologic order…as I find it impossible to list them in order from least to greatest or vice-versa.

BUSTER
My first memory of a dog…any dog…is Buster. I suppose that he was my dad’s dog before he married my mom. I was a little over a year old when they married and we moved in with him to the house on 835 Lee Street. I thought that Dad named him after Buster Brown shoes…and that’s why he always bought me those kind of shoes. Kids draw weird lines in their heads between two different things. He was a brown dog, big to a little guy like me, who lived in our back yard. I had asked my dad about Buster’s breed once, about that time of a kid’s life when he learns that there are names for different kinds of dogs.. Dad called him a “purebred mutt,” and I happily paraded my dog’s breed around school.

Buster was the best dog ever. He came when we called, played fetch the right way (without making us chase him), ran around the mountains with youthful abandon, and loved me unconditionally. Of course most of my memories of him are clouded in the blissful rose-tinted lens of time.

I do clearly remember getting up late one wintry night, sometime between Larry and Darin’s birth, to noises in the kitchen. I went out in my one-piece footed PJ’s to investigate and found Dad in his green Army khakis rubbing Buster down with a towel. Buster was an outdoor dog, never allowed in the house…but here he was dripping melting ice on the kitchen floor. Dad had brought him in out of a raging snowstorm to keep him warm. He never said it, but I kind of already knew that this was something that mom didn’t need to know about. We sat with the dog for awhile, and I think that I actually fell asleep on the kitchen floor with my head on Buster. I woke up the next morning in bed, and Buster was in the garage.

We had Buster for a good long time, and I am sure that he was an old and wise (albeit “purebred”) mutt by the time I said good bye to him. Actually, he never died…at least not in my home. He didn’t run away from me…he ran away from Larry. Larry’s hobby after returning from the hospital after his accident was throwing things at my dog. One day, after one-too-many-rocks hit him in the head, Buster had enough. He jumped the fence that he never before had to jump, and took off for a retirement away from the strife we called Larry. I saw him from the front yard and called after him. He stopped, looked at me with his wise old brown eyes, barked and gave a short whine, then ran down the street and out of my life. I knew that he really didn’t want to go away from the only home that he could ever remember. I know that he loved me, and even thought for a short moment about staying with me. In the end, he could not stay.
I miss Buster. I hope to see him in Heaven and let him know that I would have come with him if I could.

PANCHO
¡Ah…Pancho! ¡Ah…Cisco!

Actually he was “Ponch,” after Erik Estrada’s character in the hit TV serried “CHIPS.” Pancho came home with Greg one day while Greg was in high school. He was just a little puppy…and cute as could be at that. He was a German Shepherd/Doberman mix. “CHIPS” was on the TV when Greg came home with the puppy…and the name came naturally and unanimously from all of us kids.

It turns out that Greg picked up the pup without consulting Dad, and Dad was not too happy. Still, we couldn’t turn the poor guy away. We all loved him and played with him, and Pancho grew quickly. In a matter of months, he had grown to the point where his playful puppiness more or less resembled vicious attack doginess. He took over the backyard, having grown physically huge, but remained a puppy with harmless intentions in his head. The only two alpha’s he accepted in his life were Dad and Greg. He saw everyone else as a self-propelled chew toy.

After less than a year, Dad took Pancho down to the Denver Dumb Friends League. He felt (and rightly so) that Pancho needed different pack and a different situation. However, just as Greg didn’t consult Dad when bringing Pancho into the pack, Dad did not consult Greg when taking Pancho away.

Both Dad and Pancho are gone, but it’s a touchy subject still today with Greg.

On his way home Dad picked up a new friend for the family, and the next canine friend in my life…

SPUNKY
Now there was a great little dog. I don’t say that much about small dogs, but this little terri-poo was my buddy. He had black hair, usually matted because we couldn’t be bothered to brush him regularly. Dad would shear him annually, and his hair would look like a little poodle rug with a body, arms, legs, and neck.

I would play with him in the yard. We would wrestle in the living room (he let me win sometimes.) He would snooze in my lap while I watched “East of Eden” or “Rebel Without a Cause.” I missed him most of all when I moved out of my Dad’s house. He always came to me so excited when I came by for visits.

Spunky had grown pretty old by the time I left on my mission. He still showed his excitement when I came home…but it looked a lot like incontinence. Jen and I had only been married a short time when Spunky succumbed to his many years of happiness with our family, and died in Brad’s arms. I miss that little squirt (the dog…Brad’s still around…he’s my brother.)

TOBY
Brad missed having a four legged best friend, and so when he was 18 he went down to the Denver Dumb Friends League and picked up a 2 year old yellow lab named Toby. This dog had one word going through his mind 24/7: PLAY. He was curious, and ran away a lot, but always came back home…after we found him, leashed him, and dragged him all of the way back to the house. He did like to fetch though. Brad moved out, moved on, but Toby stayed at Dad’s house. Dad got married and moved out, but Toby stayed with Larry and Darin. He lived and played there with us for 10 years, and then one day he laid down for a nap under the tree in the back yard, and woke up in Heaven…

BELLA
That brings me to my current doggy friend: Bella. She is a beagle/blue healer mix. Jen got her for me last year, knowing that I love dogs. She is not as easy as I remember a dog being inside the home…but that just follows the tried and true equation:

TIME + MEMORIES = LIES OF A BETTER YESTERDAY

Bella stays mainly downstairs with Larry and Darin since my surgery last fall. I walk her often, and play with her every day. She has taken to some training that Greg taught me. She brays beautifully, and I have provided her a big back yard full of wonderful things to sniff. I love her. She’s my doggy.

We are going to have one heck of a pack in Heaven…when dogs, cats, birds, crayfish, and all other pets that Jen and I have ever had, do have, or will have will live in happy peace together. I will read to them from good books...because in Heaven the lighting should be just fine for both dogs and reading.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Oath Breaker

This is a rough draft of a story that is percolating inside of me. Right now it's mostly clichés and a bad use of Spanish. Still, I think that the idea that I have behind it will develop into a fun story. Enjoy...

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I don’t want to have to do this…” his voice trailed off as the gangly young man advanced towards him with his curved sword drawn. The determined look in the boy’s face made it clear to Alain: he would have fight.

Nearly a decade had passed since the end of the war, and still many farm boys sought to make something of their lives by challenging Alain for the reward money that followed him wherever he traveled. Sadly for them, none had ever collected. He would have to do something about that reward one day, but right now Alain had some business to tend in the Southlands.

He pulled the short sword from his hip, leaving the long word on his back in its scabbard. He would only need the smaller sword for today’s work. Crouching slightly, keeping the weight over the balls of his feet, Alain waited for the boy to advance. He focused on his opponent, and shut out the crowd that gathered at a safe distance to see the fight. In a few measured breaths his training took over to handle the boy’s challenge.

The boy came in slowly, and then sped up the last few steps as he swung the sword from low back and around to attack from a high position. Alain sidestepped the blow and prepared to end the challenge quickly. Much to his surprise, the boy didn’t lose his guard by overextending his reach. Instead, the boy kept his sword up and spun around quickly to move out of the short sword’s reach.

The boy quickly moved in again, this time with some caution, and kept his guard high. The high guard, or the ‘Eagles Perch,’ was thought of as the best form in this region of the country. Many had adopted it to much success. It allowed for the fighter to slash downward with force, and block effectively without fighting the weight of the sword.

Alain was a veteran of many wars around the world, and had seen many different forms. While the ‘Eagles Perch’ had its benefits, but he could beat it – he had done so many times. The boy swung with both hands on his sword. He conserved his motion, and thus conserved energy and strength: signs of some training the veteran thought.

They parried and studied each other’s form. Alain attacked with a thrust, or a slash, and watched how the younger man parried and blocked the small attacks. After a few exchanges Alain felt that he knew the proper form to use to beat the lad, and he held no remorse in ending the fight.

Using the small opening the boy gave him, Alain forced the younger fighter off balance, and maneuvered his way to the boy’s flank. He quickly swung his short sword high with the blade pointed diagonally down and thrust with both hands in the ‘Scorpion’s Stinger.’ The boy abandoned his ruse of being off-balance and quickly spun out of the way of the strike while batting the short sword near the hilt with this own blade.

The short sword flew out of the older man’s hands, which forced the man to retreat briefly to pull the long sword from this back. He felt a fool to have regarded the boy so lightly. The boy kicked the short sword away to keep it from coming back into play and advanced again on the older man.

“I commend you,” the older man said as the younger fighter advanced, “You have skill, and you have been taught by someone with skill. I might’ve spared your life had you pled for mercy, but now you force me to deal with you harshly.”

The boy silently advanced and took up a new form to attack…the ‘Heart Attack.’ He fought with one hand instead of two, and kept his body at a maximum distance from his enemy’s weapon. He struck from his hilt starting at the center of own his own chest, and thrust with speed and accuracy to his opponent’s heart.

The older man parried and countered, edging the duo in a tight circle. The boy had taken such an offensive posture, that it left little room for the older man to mount a decent attack. He kept up his defense until he had angled himself to within 20 feet of his short sword where it lay on the street. He then knocked the boy’s sword hard and away to give him a brief moment to reach out his empty left hand towards his fallen sword.

“Venga!” He shouted.

As soon as he spoke the strange word static rippled up his arm. The boy stopped in shock as the hairs on his own arm stood on end. The short sword that lay twenty feet away jerked and leapt across the air into Alain’s outstretched hand. The boy knew now that the fight would end. He had counted on keeping only one sword in the veteran’s hand, but with two swords…with two swords the ‘Hawk and the Sparrow’ would spell his doom.

Alain advanced in a sort of dance. His knees moved high, the swords swung in a rhythmic motion that held all who watched in a horrified trance. The boy waited, his sword held straight up with both hands, the hilt at his sternum. He touched the flat of his sword to his forehead briefly and muttered a quite prayer while the older man advanced.

“Parete!” Someone called from the crowd. The voice was old, but still powerful. “No se maten.”

Alain stopped in the middle of his dance of death. He let his hands drop to his side, with the blades crossed in front of him. He could not resist the power in the ancient words spoken. The magic in those words bound him to stop…and not kill the boy.

“Who speaks to me that way?” Alain demanded.

“I am Zarten, the boy’s grandfather.” An old man replied as he stepped from the crowd.

“You put him up to this? You would sacrifice your own blood for the chance at some coin?”

“No, not that,” Zarten replied as he stood at the younger man’s side. “I heard the rumors that one who resembled Alain of Syrek had passed this way…I had to know if it was really Alain, or an imposter living on someone else’s legend.”

“You were looking for me to speak the words, and I have obliged you. What do you want, old man?” Alain demanded.

“Not many have ever heard the ancient language, and fewer still had ever had the opportunity to learn it. Alain, you and I were once allied in Kain’s army. We fought a common enemy, until Forked River. The survivors of that day pledged our honor to each other. Alain, I have need for you to fulfill that pledge.”

“Your grandson has given me dishonor in disarming me in public. Our comradeship cannot take away that insult. What will you have me do?” Alain said flatly.

The boy dropped to his knee and held his sword in front of him with his head bowed. “I beg forgiveness. I knew that I could disarm you, but I also knew that if you were Alain of Syrek, then I would die for such disrespect. I offer you my own sword to take my head.”

The Pledge of Acquiescence, known by few and spoken by fewer. It took Alain back for a moment to hear them coming from the young man. He would make the choice of killing the boy, or keeping him alive as a bondsman.

“Te perdono, hijo.” Alain answered in the ancient language as he sheathed his swords. The boy remained kneeling with his head bowed offering his sword. “I accept your pledge, stand up.”

The old man put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet. The boy looked confused. He stood awkwardly before the old veteran whom he had just fought.

“Do you understand what I said?” Alain asked the boy.

“No.” he said shaking his head.

“Forgive him, he cannot speak.” Zarten said to Alan. “He is, however, gifted in many other ways.”

“He cannot speak? He does not know the Ancient Language? But his skill…” it was Alain’s turn to be amazed.

“He was born to the metal, not the magic, Alain. He uses the sword as an extension of his own being.” Zarten explained.

Alain took a moment to look at his new young bondsman. The boy had not yet completed growing, and would fill out one day to an imposing height. His short brown hair, cut to the style of the younger generation in the Southlands, made him look younger than his years; still Alain did not judge him for more than 16 summers.

“Do you understand the vow that you have made?” Alan inquired of the boy.
The boy nodded and bowed to Alain, holding his tongue.

“We both understand that he and his entire family are now bound to you.” Zarten said, and then he too bowed to Alain.

“Then let us retire and speak of your need, Zarten.” Alain said. “Sheath your own sword and give me a name that I may call you.” Alain said to the boy.

“You may call me Xander.” The boy replied, sheathing his blade.

Friday, May 15, 2009

There's Nothing New

I thought that I had them over a barrel. I thought that finally, for all of the sensationalistic "news" programming emanating from their Ted Turner endorsed minds, I had CNN right where I wanted them.

Towards the end of last year I started seeing a segment on CNN called "What the...?" during the noon time broadcast by Kyra What's-her-name. At first it merely annoyed me, as I had than name for my website since February of last year. Not that it's a domain that I bought, but it was my original idea. Here was this shiny, pre-packaged, cheap tabloid on cable television flaunting my idea like it was theirs.

Oh, I would make them pay...oh yes I would.

First I would give them enough rope, then I would let them dangle by the neck with all of the proffered slack. I sent a "courtesy" email stating that I had just noticed the segment, and asking how long it had been on the air. I cackled as I pressed anticipating the response. I was sure they would admit to 6 months or so...and then I would spring into action.

They came back with the answer that Kyra Bottled-red-hair had been doing the segment for about 5 years. I came up from my pouncing position long enough to scratch my head in perplexed. 5 years...huh? Then I grew incensed again. I wouldn't take their word for it. No, I went to the foremost authority on useless informational crap. I went to the internet and searched on "What the...?" to see what it had to say:


What the...?

A virus?

I have to say that it wasn't what I wanted to see. I've been called some not-so-great things in my life, but saying that my website is viral...it's actually kind of cool.

But no, that couldn't be it. I would have vindication! I entered the security password...a couple of times because they are hard to read...and finally came up with the results that made me feel all room temperature inside:



The closest that I came to was a band that had been around for longer than I have drawn breath, and a Marvel comic parody that I can't recall ever hearing about (which is odd, I should have known about the comic book thing...)

So, my righteous anger petered out to a slightly gassy sensation. I put away my barrel (no one would go over it this day), and I decided that there was nothing new under the sun. Since Solomon coined that phrase about 5,000 years ago in the book Proverbs (probably paraphrased by the time he said it), I felt the need to give it my own spin. I like astronomy, I would come up with something new-ish under this sun, or one of the visible planets between Earth and the sun.

So, to sum up:

1. Still not a fan of CNN
2. Kyra stole from others, not me
3. If it's not new under the sun...it's just as old under Venus.

So here is the inaugrial blog for my newly dubbed website...which I still refuse to pay to call my own.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Who is the Top?



I'm not quite sure what it means to be "the top." I don't know if it is a height thing, or if it has something to do with spinning...or what. I just don't know. I can say that there are a few things that I do know about the top...but most of those things I learned from the Cole Porter song. If he thinks he was pathetic when he waxed those words poetic...yet he thought it best to get them off of his chest. I am not just parading by my own serenading in a pretty little ditty thus expressed:

Jen's the Top! She's the Coliseum.
Jen's the Top! She's the Louvre Museum
(pronounced LOOVE by the way.)
Jen is the melody from a symphony by Strauss.
She's a bendel bonnet,
a Shakespeare sonnet,
(I won't say that she's Mickey Mouse...though it does rhyme with Strauss.)

So I can't say enought about my wife. I know that it's not our anniversary, or some special day that I should remember (at least I "think" that I know these things...) I just had an enormous outpouring of emotion for her, and I had to say:

Jen's the Nile! She's the Tow'r of Pisa.
She's the smile on the Mona Lisa.
I know that I'm a worthless check, a total wreck, a flop!
But if I'm the bottom, Jen's the top!

Jen's the Top! She's Mahatma Gandhi
(just with better cuisine tactics.)
Jen's the Top! She's Napoleon Brandy
(non-alcoholic...'cause we're Mormon.)
Jen's the purple light of a summer night in Spain.
She's the National Gallery; she's Oprah's salary,
She's the Spaceship 1 plane
(I had to update these lines because the original's have been "topped" so to speak...)

Ok...that's enough of that. The song goes on and on, and frankly is outdated by quite a bit the further on that it goes. I am sure that some of the comparisons are still timeless; but who knows anything about the Whitney Stable or the moon over Mae West's shoulder anymore?

So, with the graphic that I included you can plainly see that I am the speck hiding behind the smallest blade of grass at the bottom...and there, above even the guy dropping the cat off of the top of the known universe, is Jen. Click on it if you need to make it bigger. I got it off of this great site called xkcd.com....it's great and you may want to check it out for yourself.

She is the top.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Dr. Bob


Back in the sporadic moments of my young childhood when we had television, I watched Jim Henson’s “The Muppet Show.” This was vaudevillian entertainment at it finest! Puppets doing stand up comedy routines, sketches, tap dancing, juggling fish, cooking segments…it even had hecklers. Man…that was entertainment.

Some of my favorite characters of that show were Dr. Rolf (a surgically minded dog) and Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, the scientist (incomplete without his laboratory assistant Beaker.) They always made me laugh…but since I was always on the verge of giggling back then, it couldn’t have been too hard to make me laugh.

I guess what it really came down to is that I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted people to call me “Dr. Bob.” Now my particular area of expertise narrowed as I understood the gross things that a doctor had to do to patients. Dealing with unsavory body fluids of sick people just didn’t appeal to me. I thought that I could become a veterinarian…but I quickly realized that it involved the unsavory body fluids of sick animals.

Ew.

So I took medical “Dr. Bob” off of the table. I thought that maybe a doctor of psychiatry or psychology would fit the bill, but they deal with crazy people. I already had my brothers, sister, and parents to work with…and that required no advanced degree. Granted, I wasn’t their doctor or anything, and I did not treat them in any way (in fact I may have contributed to their individual psychosis), but I knew from experience that I would not have the leather couch and charge $300 an hour to listen to people talk about their fears and anxieties.

I could have moved on to a research doctor, but as I didn’t even know what research was, I never explored the option. I figured that Dr. Bunsen Honeydew was a doctor of medicine (remember, I was a kid…what did I know?) Also, we had no cool shows like “Mythbusters” back then, so I never considered how cool science could actually be for me. Had I known that doctors could also play with explosives…well I may have overcome my fear of numbers and gone into physics.

No, I settled into the idea of a PhD in some academic field. Most likely “Dr. Bob” would write papers and books on other people’s papers and books. What’s more, I could become a teacher and teach my obscure thoughts on the punctuation practices of John Milton and William Shakespeare. I could wear turtlenecks and tweed jackets with leather patches at the elbows and keep an unlit tobacco pipe in my mouth. I would get summer vacations, Christmas breaks, and make millions as a famous doctor of English.

Then I grew up…

Becoming a doctoral candidate takes time, can grow boring quick, and the world has no shortage of useless PhD’s living off of government welfare programs. I understood that in working towards an academic doctoral goal, it was so important to choose the right school when doing my undergraduate work. I chose the School of Hard Knocks for my undergraduate degree program. I learned that in that school we had no sports teams, no school spirit, graduation day never came, and no one appreciated my level of education. Also, it all programs were kind of a dead end programs: no other schools took students of this school for post graduate work (since students never graduate.)

Don’t get me wrong, I tried to transfer my credits, but other institutions were loath to accept my college’s accreditation. Something about it neither being nationally, nor regionally accredited…I should have looked into it before I applied for admission and started paying the tuition. I did take some tests and get credit for “real world experience,” but schools just don’t transfer my credits one for one.

I still, however, persisted in my education. I secretly enrolled (so that the administration of the School of Hard Knocks wouldn’t find out about how I explore my options) in various college programs. I did earn credit for these programs (accept for CollegeAmerica—I don’t want to talk about it…) but I never finished any undergraduate work with them.

Today I feel that the academic experience, as we have been raised to seek after it, is bullocks. Even if I were to complete a degree program, pursue post-graduate work, and become a doctor of Philosophy, English, History…whatever...I don’t see that it would matter either in my own life or the course of the world. Sure, the planet Earth would have a few more books getting dusty on shelves in school libraries. Yeah, the United States would have one more person educated beyond any usefulness in the workforce. Granted, the human race would have one more talking head to ignore. But what will any of that matter when the world economies fall and Jesus comes again?

That is not my dream of “Dr. Bob.”

So I compromised and bought one square foot of land in Scotland. I am now Lord Robert of Lochaber. Not a PhD…but it sounds just as cool and the certificate on my wall is just as useless.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

BRONCOS FAN

When does one truly know that they have become a fan of something?

These days we have the benefit of Face Book to show what date we became a fan of something. But before we had the benefit of the internet to state our fan-hood, when did we know? I like to think that I was born a football fan, specifically a fan of the Denver Broncos. I doubt that my media frenzy or parental upbringing contributed to my Orange Crush fan-dom. On some serious reflection (brought on by a question on Yahoo Answers…on the internet) has me thinking that my fanatic attitude sprouted from a two week period in 1978…the build up to Super Bowl XII: Denver vs. Dallas.

Ms. Beckwith’s second grade class lined up dutifully to go to the all school assembly. We walked with proper 8 year old decorum to the gym and took our places near the front. We sat on the floor with the other kids in grades 1-3, the 4-6 graders got chairs. They were old and soft, and we didn’t want any of them breaking a hip or something getting down on the cold gym floor.

January in Colorado was cold. I don’t care what kind of heat bill a school district is willing to pay, nothing can warm up the parquet gym floor. Mr. Fieldman, our gym teacher, had out his portable turntable and spun some 45’s while we walked in. One of the songs was used on a Mazda commercial at that time…something about a great little car…it’s all I could think about while that mod tune played. Once we were all in the gym the faceless man that they called the principal addressed us and told us the great news: the Denver Broncos were going to the Super Bowl.

“Ya rootin’ tootin’ sidewindin’ lily livered…Broncos Fans!!” came a yell from the back of the gym.

Mr. Belf, the science teacher, marched up to the front of the assembly dressed up in blue and white Cowboy chaps. He had stars on his boots! He had a white leather gun belt. He had more tasseled fringe than the entire cast of “Fame.”

“You’re not gonna beat my Cowboys!” He shouted as he shot caps in the air from his shiny silver six-shooters (replicas).

The crowd boo-ed him and mocked him. Me, being the young paladin that I was, I pitied him, and took his side. You see, I had never really paid attention to football before. We didn’t have a television, and it seemed more fun to play football than watch it on t.v. I wouldn’t know a Bronco “D” from hole in the wall. (Well, actually, as Greg and I were rough-housing youngsters…I was quite adept at recognizing a hole in the wall, and shifting blame to others when I found one.)

For the next two weeks I touted up the Cowboys. I told people that the Cowboys were going to win and there was nothing the Broncos could do about it. Secretly, I began to repent of my Cowboy crush, but I had committed myself to a course and I was dead set on staying that course.

January 15, 1978 came along. Dad, Greg, and I went across the street to Joe and Cheryl Murray’s house to watch the game. This was the first game that I ever had watched from beginning to end. Keeping true to my form, I rooted for the Cowboys. As the game went along it became very apparent to me that I had chosen the wrong side. You see, I liked the team that I thought was the underdog…and the Cowboys weren’t it. Sure we had Red Miller, Craig Morton, Lyle Alzado, Otis Armstrong, Steve Foley, Randy Gradishar, Rob Lytle, Riley Odoms, Bob Swenson, Billy Thompson, Rick Upchurch, and Louis Wright. But most of these names I had heard because of the build up to the game. None of these great players ever made the Hall of Fame. The Cowboys had Tom Landry, Roger Staubach, Tony Dorsett, Randy White, Mel Renfro, and Tony Hill…most of these guys are in the Hall of Fame!

Yeah, Denver lost 27-10, and I never felt so badly in my life. That’s when I knew that I was not a Dallas Cowboys fan…but a full fledged fan of the Denver Broncos. It explained why my blood was blue and orange whenever I cut myself. I finally understood why sunrises and sunsets were so awesome: God is a Broncos fan, too.

I wondered how I would save face in front of the entire school when I rooted for the Broncos from that point. Fortunately, we switched schools before the next football season started. See…God is a Broncos fan.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Um...this is really a "What the...?"

So there was a city council meeting...somewhere (I think the city is called Medina), and they were just going about the business of running a town when...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jrBaV5MvX_4&eurl=http://www.fox8.com/wjw-news-medina-fart,0,2761320.htmlstory&feature=player_embedded

OK...so it's lame. You're going to have to copy and paste it...but I promise you that its worth it!

Thursday, February 19, 2009

ANGST RELAPSE

Have you ever been to a party and thought that it really wouldn’t matter if you weren’t there? Have you ever felt like an spectator…just an observer who does not take part in society? Do you stand on the outside looking in? Do you even want to be included?

These are the queries of my teen-aged angst. I walked around with thoughts like these in my head every day until I was in my twenties. I can recall going to high school, and maybe some select highlights, but mostly its more like a dream I had that I just can’t quite recall. It seems more of a halluciniation than reality today, as they tore down my old school and rebuilt a new one. I can’t even go back to the old hallowed halls and prove to myself that I once went to a place called Lakewood High School.

The new school looks more like a shopping mall than the old red bricked schoolhouse.

I went to my high school reunion last year. They had the obligatory slide show with various yearbook pictures and photos from my senior year. I sat through the show several times…how could I not have any pictures in that show? I was there. I was the manager of the football team in my sophomore year. I was on the speech and debate team during both of my junior and senior years. I played Sonny LaTierre in “Grease.” I played Judge Warwick in “10 Little Indians.” I sang in the choir as well as the show choir. I was in a rock band that played a dance in the fall of
1987. I was on the literary arts magazine staff for three years. I was there.

But I can’t prove it. Sure, I talked to people, but I had to remind most of them of who I was. I have become a stranger in my own life. It’s crazy. I feel like a spectator who watched, but never participated. I could just leave this party and no one would notice.

Here comes the angst again…

Thursday, February 5, 2009

VALIDATION

I ran into this short movie a couple of weeks ago...and it is great. Sure, it's 34 minutes long. Still, take the time. I love it.

http://www.flixxy.com/validation-short-film.htm?a=0

Sunday, January 25, 2009

T.P.*

The dark doesn't last as long, maybe that was the allure of the Summer Solstice. We started doing it on a whim, barely even prepared for what was about to happen. The first night wasn’t bad, just a couple of us and a few packs of Angel Soft was all it took. We hit two houses, right across the street from each other. Lazy really, that’s all I have to say about that.

Really that first night was just a practice run. John and I needed to get our communication down. We had to know what we were saying without actually saying a thing. Quick, quite, and disappear into the night…that was the only way to t.p. a house.

Yes, I said t.p., as in toilet paper. We were young (well, he was young) and the summer solstice loomed at the end of the week. How many houses could we hit on the shortest night of the year? That’s like asking how many licks it takes to reach the center of a Tootsie Pop. The answer hinged an a couple of variables: how much t.p. did we have? How close together were the houses? How many people were involved?

John and I went out the first night just to get his feet wet. I had some grand plans for the night of the solstice. We would go to 6th Avenue West Estates to hit a fair few houses: K-- family, R-- family, and the two S-- families. The dry run went well…except that John had to brag (or aplogize) to the people we hit. Man…keep it quiet.

That was a Saturday. The following Friday was Solstice. We set out with a band of merry men and women: Brad, Larry, Anna, Molly, John, and I. Adam King was a last minute add-on, but one more wouldn’t hurt the trip. We had some t.p., but not nearly enough for the night. We gathered more rolls and met up in the Estates. Brad, Anna, and Larry had already done one S-- family, the smaller home, by the time we caught up with them. Brad and I left the others to cover one more house while we hit the “impossible” target: the R-- family. Brother R-- claimed that his home was unassailable by t.p. standards. Those words sounded like a challenge…and I was up for it.

I went around back via a dried out ditch, and Brad stayed on the street in the front yard. We each had four rolls of t.p. I launched mine from my position, which was nearly eye-line with the roof as soon as I got out of the ditch. Brad launched his and we traded back and forth for about 15 minutes.
Quick, quiet, and out…just like the plan said.

On our way over to the K-- family’s home, Brad and I walked in front of a house with a bedroom window open. We heard what sounded like an aerosol whipped cream can and giggling. What was going on there? We had no time to investigate, the K-- family’s two story tudor awaited.

Cul-de-sac’s are not my favorite locations for doing this sort of thing, they offer limited escape options. I took a small crew to the backyard to hit the fruit trees. Brad and the rest tackled the front. We had t.p. and plastic forks for the lawn.

We had toilet paper dripping from every branch of every tree. The slight breeze of the evening lifted the t.p. ever-so-gently…it was beautiful. When we came back around to the front things had degenerated into pure vandalism. Oh the trees were draped with t.p., the lawn bristled with plasticware, but they had found that the bricks were loose on the front porch and pulled it apart. I looked up at the house and saw the ghost-like figure of Brother K-- looking out his window…watching the whole thing. I sounded the alarm as the front door burst open. We scattered like cockroaches when the lights turn on. Rhys and Quinn gave chase, thowing rocks as they went. We had to abondon the S-- house, the mansion on the hill, but we all got out without many bruises.

We cut down our crew and decided to hit a few homes in other neighborhoods. Travel time would cut down on what we could do, but we had to try. We saran wrapped a Saab, very carefully so as not to set off the car alarm. Then we hit the coup de grace: the D-- home. This family, mainly the oldest boy, had a reputation for such nights of mayhem. It was like challenging Michael Jackson to a dance-off. We emptied all of our remaining t.p. stores on that last home. By the time we were done, it looked like Christmas…if Christmal looked like a mummified house. As we threw rolls of t.p. to roll across the balcony and back down, we heard ruslting. The girls were sleeping on the balcony.

Again we were caught, but all managed to escape.

Except for John. Oh he could have ran and hid like the rest of us, but instead he gave himself up to the girl that he was infatuated with. He claimed that he thought it was me and stopped. He said that it was dark and he couldn’t tell who it was. Sure, my 212 lbs. could easily look the same as a 16 year old athletic girl's silouhette.

One night, three neighborhoods, five houses…that’s how many homes a crew of seven could hit on Solstice 1993.

*(Names of the victims have been changed to protect the guilty.)

Thursday, January 1, 2009

The New Year

The new year, 2009, has come along. Some things are different, some the same... I heard from someone that the big rock at Waimea Bay is off limits now. What, no more jumping?



Norma is getting remarried. Ralph is a nice guy...he's not my dad, but Norma deserves to be happy in this mortal life until they are together again.



And these fun little things keep coming. So changes aren't all bad. Shanahan being fired is quite a big change for us in Broncoland...but we'll get past that too.



Happy New Year