Maddog Salamander

Getting the Word Out There

2011-11-13T15:30:00.002-08:00

Last week we had some difficult news come our way. Our doctor raised a concern over the asymmetric manner in which my son's head is growing. He used a big word: craniosynostosis. I looked it up on WebMD (http://www.webmd.com/hw-popup/craniosynostosis-craniostenosis), and did not like what it had to say. What I really disliked was at how this big medical word attached itself to my son. This condition comes about when a baby's skull comes together too early. When the sutures seal too early it causes the baby's head to grow in a mis-shaped manner. The brain can find growing room in such a skull a premium. To be short, the condition results in a life of pain, developmental delay, and seizures.

We set up an appointment with a pediatric neurologist for next Friday. I hope that we will find some answers to questions that I did not have before this week. Ok- to be honest I hope that my doctor's concern, though well-founded, is wrong.

I just want to invite my friends and family out there to say some prayers for us as we prepare for Friday. We can use all of the faith, prayers, fasting, love, and support that our loving family and friends have to offer.

ANGER MANAGEMENT

2011-10-10T13:27:00.000-07:00

I can’t really pinpoint when it all started. I have my theories, most of them stemming from semi-abandonment issues that I may have developed after my little brother, L, had his accident. I’m nearly certain that it all didn’t happen until after that event. I can’t even really narrow my memories down to the first time that I let it happen.

Oh yeah, you heard me correctly, I “let” it happen.

I have always had a temper, but I managed to hold it in for a long time. Not at home, mind you, I would go off at home. However, sitting in class I would not have let out the beast that simmered just below the surface of my public emotions. I do know that certain people became regular targets, and others would never be the subject of my violence. Really, if I could find Doug Moe, Jason Ernst, Shawn Moore, J.P. Guerra, Mike Christy or any of the other people that felt terrorized by my lack of anger management skills, I will do anything to show them how sorry I am for it.

You see, I hit people. I choked them. I genuinely wanted to hurt people. That is just not nice. These are not the acts of a confident person. That is not how my parents taught me to act. That is not how society bred me to comport myself.

Sadly, I will have to wait for the afterlife to apologize to Dan Moe…he has graduated already from this mortal sphere. I can, however, say that I am sorry for being an ignorant mess to my friends who knew me.

I’ll start here: Andrew, Anj, I am so sorry.

MAGIC HAND OF FATE

2011-09-30T12:07:00.000-07:00

Most folks never know
What magic has done
They walk with their eyes closed to the stars.
Most people ignore,
When they walk out their door,
The influence of Jupiter or Mars.

But for the few chosen souls,
Aligned with the Earth’s poles,
Each day is an unfolding mystery.
They see facts very clear,
Just as a nose is not an ear,
How arcana has shaped our whole history.

How does a boy of small stature,
The son of a lowly thatcher,
Walk a path that leads to a throne?
With an enchanted sword,
A well-spoken word,
He claimed royal right as his own.

Behold the great and wondrous works of man
All guided by a hidden magic hand.

This one is for Justin Olsen

2011-09-13T09:16:00.000-07:00

NO MORE A GUN VIRGIN

2011-08-18T10:07:00.001-07:00

I have to make this confession. I have to do it now while I have the nerve to do it. It’s always hard to admit these things. I mean, I’m an American, I live in Colorado—it’s not like I haven’t seen this sort of thing on the streets, in my father’s bedroom closet behind his church suits, on television. I know that my friends have had experience in these things for much longer than I, yet I would just laugh along at their stories as if I knew the titillating thrill of which they spoke.

Well my days of pretending are over. I am now a man of experience—at one with the ways of the world. I know the secret passion that I had always longed for but was just too timid to take. I am no longer a gun virgin.

Oh, don’t think that I haven’t dabbled. I’ve experimented as a teenager—who hasn’t? But I never really went “all the way” when it came to firearms. I have looked down the barrel of my dad’s .22. I’ve seen them, touched them, and always wondered what it would be like to fire one. I played a mean Duck Hunt on the Nintendo NES. One time, when I was 15, I shot a black powdered rifle. I learned just recently that it had powder but no ball.

No ball--are you kidding me? I shot an impotent gun!

Last weekend, in the summer of my 41st year I went to Cherry Creek State Park where I ended my secret shame. I went with some friends to celebrate a 40th birthday and shot 12 gauge rifles at some poor, unsuspecting clay pigeons. In 25 shots I hit 13—not bad

Now I will take measures to ensure that I don’t miss out on the fun any longer. I am shopping for a shotgun of my own. I am researching guns, prices, and testimonials. I plan on renting a few before I buy. I am even looking into the law—so’s that I don’t go breaking it or nothing’ like that. (Sorry, my inner-redneck just woke up from a long slumber.) The law in Colorado is surprisingly more lax than the media reports.

Now I know what it is like to walk in the sun for the first time in my life. My step has a spring in it that I have never experienced. I’m going to take my wife shooting on Labor Day—she should share in this, up until now, forbidden passion with me. What a great day to be an American!

The Highland Wizard

2011-08-01T09:25:00.000-07:00

He travels the hills by day
collecting roots and twigs and grass
he wanders across the valley
searching the wide morass.

He passes by no fungus
and covets every spice.
His skills at potion brewing
have earned a handsome price.

He seeks to help the widow
with the useless withered arm.
He packs a fragrant sachet
for a bridal good luck charm.

The mountain people seek him out--
they travel from miles away
to find the old White Wizard,
and no one refuses to pay.

The Truth About Mermaids

2011-06-02T09:50:00.000-07:00

Gossipy little mermaids
Swim in their clicky pods
They speak in whispered voices
And give their judging nods.

So pretty from afar they are
But distances are concealing
When you swim in for a closer look
Barbed tongues they’ll be revealing

To your face they are your friends
But once you take your leave
They lean in close to giggle and jibe
About your bad hair-weave

They act like you’re an equal
And maybe share a tale of hate
But rest assured that once you’re gone
Your reputation is on their plate.

A Sprite at Tea Time

2011-04-02T08:50:00.001-07:00

If you wish for the crazies to stay far away
never have tea with a sprite.
For they only will hear every third word you say
smirking to just give you spite.

"How are you this fine day? Have you had a good trip?"
you might say as you first meet.
"But you know that I bruise like a peach over ripe.
Do you have honey to eat?"

"Have you fallen my dear?" concern hangs on your voice.
"I see flowers are budding, it's spring."
"Yes I know that its spring-- never mind, take a seat."
"Takes? My dear no-- not such thing.

"It gives green to the world with a bright shiny smile.
That is the beauty in life."
Though she just came around, and the tea 's yet to pour,
she cuts your wits like a knife.

"And your mother, I trust, fares she well in these days?"
Maybe politeness will win.
"There's a plan, so I've heard, to raise up her rates.
My but three gold seems a sin.

"And for what, dare I ask, do you get for three gold?
Babies and children we are not!
But her fares she will raise, and of course we will pay--
My what a lovely honey pot."

And you see now, you do, why I gave my advice:
Tea time 's not time for sprites.
Though a lovely guest she would seem right at first
Always tea ends up in fights.

Researching Workout Programs for People Suffering with Multiple Sclerosis

2011-03-11T08:26:00.000-08:00

Losing weight, as it turns out, follows a law of thermodynamics: eating fewer calories than burned results in weight loss. However, fitness involves desire followed up with determined action. Whereas for most people this may be merely an issue of self will, a person living with relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis (MS) will find that achieving fitness goals beyond just losing weight a difficult prospect at best. The Rocky Mountain MS Center relates MS as a progressive and unpredictable disease of the central nervous system. This disorder causes the immune system to attack the myelin sheath (the insulation that assists the nerve fibers in transmitting signals to and from the brain.). Over time these attacks can destroy nerves entirely, leaving behind lesions, or plaques, in the place of the functioning nerve.

“The damage from lesions disrupts the transmission of nerve impulses from the central nervous system to the rest of the body causing a variety of symptoms. Common symptoms include visual changes, muscle weakness, problems with balance, fatigue, numbness, and emotional and cognitive changes but there are many others. MS has periods when the disease is quite active known as exacerbations. During exacerbations symptoms can be more pronounced, but usually subside and sometimes go away after an exacerbation” (Rocky Mountain MS Center, 2010).

A person suffering from this type of malady must carefully regulate any activity that requires physical strength or endurance. Managing an exercise program to achieve fitness goals resembles a walk on a tightrope: building and maintaining new strength without sacrificing the already low reserves of energy such a person possesses. To achieve this intricate balance, one must maintain vigilance to select carefully a workout routine. Researching and comparing the workout programs outlined in Bill Phillips’ book Body for Life with low-impact aerobic workouts will help the MS sufferer to choose the best fitness options available. To complete this research, one may go to the public library and check out the book Body for Life as well as take advantage of the library's online database.

Body for Life and Aerobic Workout
Bill Phillips, in the Body for Life workout program outlined in the book by the same name, uses what he calls the High Point Technique. This is a rating system for the energy that a person exerts.

“On the low end – at level 1 – you’ve got the intensity of sitting on the couch and watching TV. Level 2 would be standing; level 3 might be walking; level 4 might be carrying a couple of bags of groceries in from the car; level 5 might be carrying those groceries of up stairs; and so on, up to level 10, which is an all out, 100 percent focused effort” (Phillips, pg. 60, 1999). To

maximize the effects of a 20-minute aerobics workout, Phillips (Phillips, pg. 66, 1999) has designed a system that will have the body burning fat for hours after leaving the gym. Two basic rules to follow: do the exercise while fasting, and do not eat for an hour after completing the circuit. The 20-Minute Aerobics Solution works by starting at intensity level five for two minutes. This acts as a warm up level only, and it is meant to be a self regulating level of activity--whatever the individual believes is his or her personal capability. Next the workout increases slightly up a notch to reach a level six effort for one minute. For next three consecutive minutes the plan calls for an increase in intensity one level for each minute, until the person exercising reaches an intensity level of nine. This is a minute of purely pushing the body as hard as stamina will allow but not quite at the point of all out physical exertion. Then the exerciser will retreat back down to a level six intensity “a relatively moderate effort” according to Phillips (Body for Life, pg. 66, 1999). Repeating that pattern three times, but at the peak of the final circuit the exerciser must reach for a level 10: maximum effort. End the workout with a minute back at level five. A person need not limit himself by what kind of workout or machine he uses, or to following a group’s level of intensity.

Although the plan appears flawless, one may question how much of this intense workout someone with limited energy reserves can endure. This calls upon the individual to monitor how much is enough, and when it is too much. This is a personalized system, made to follow the individual’s abilities, which makes it perfect for a person suffering from MS. A person need not pigeon-hole himself by what kind of workout or machine he uses, or by following a group’s level of intensity. Placing this system in service a person can use gym equipment such as a stationary bike, rowing machine, or participate in aerobics that require no equipment such as shadow boxing, or tai chi—the effort will equal the same calorie burn when done correctly.

Body for Life and Anaerobic Workout
The Body for Life workout plan of weight training allows the exerciser to listen to his or her body and perform up to potential. Switching between upper and lower body, and targeting different muscles each workout should keep the muscles in a constant state of confusion. To maintain a workable level of energy throughout the week, a person with MS may feel the need to back off on the intensity of the workout by supplementing the weight training with different anaerobic exercise techniques. Using a band workout in the place of weights will not decrease the effect of the workout, but it will allow the muscles more time to recover strength--which is never an easy prospect for someone who faces chronic fatigue.

Body for Life Eating Plan
More than just a workout plan, the Body for Life plan also offers nutritional counsel to help build the body. Phillips offers an overview of the program found on page 98. The system requires three meals daily balanced with protein, carbohydrate, vegetable, and fruit. Furthermore, the plan calls for three high protein snacks positioned between each meal and one after dinner. The plan also prescribes topping meals after seven p.m. The one unique quality of the plan is the “free day.” That is, a day when one can eat or drink whatever he wishes without negatively affecting the regimen. Phillips endorses such a day as a break from the body: both from diet and exercise. By allowing the body to recuperate on all levels, a person can expect better performance throughout the other six days of the week. Furthermore, by allowing a day of sweets, pizza, soda, or whatever else a body’s taste buds may desire the natural craving tendencies that follow such plans have no place to dwell.

Low-Impact Aerobics Options
Low-impact does not have to mean low intensity. Using the database library that the University of Phoenix makes available to students and faculty, one will find ample articles and academic papers that provide information necessary to make an informed decision. In an article written for the Canadian Journal of Health and Fitness, Mike Broderick suggests that one can “add intensity by making the moves more deliberate. Use your legs to move your body up and down with each move, make your arm movements large and strong, and feel your heart rate go up” (Broderick, pg. 104, 2007).

The problem with the low-impact workout comes with the individual’s ability to sustain the activity. Most people with MS complain of fatigue, and also with balance issues. These issues rule out many popular workouts on the market bases on martial arts, dance, or anything that requires a high degree of perpendicular movement. One way to erase these barriers is to move the aerobics routine into the water. In the Canadian Journal of Health and Fitness, aerobics expert Tanya Rouble touts the benefits of a workout which she calls Aquafit. This workout consists of low-impact aerobics in a neck deep pool. “Neck deep water supports 90% of your body weight and relieves stress on knee and hip joints.” She goes on to say that the buoyancy of water decreases the risk of injury because of falling and provides natural resistance no matter what direction a person moves in the water (Rouble, pg. 84, 2008). A drawback with any such low-impact workout remains the amount of time that they take to complete. This goes beyond just a scheduling conflict, but creates the issue of maintaining a balance between keeping fit and keeping energized. Unlike fatigue that the average person will experience after any such workout, the energy well of a person with MS does not replenish quite so easily. So a person with MS concerns himself very much with possessing energy and keeping it.

Conclusion
In comparing the two options of working out, Bill Phillips’ program outlined in his book Body for Life and low-impact aerobic routines farmed from the university library, one can see that both offer value to a person with MS, and both also present disadvantages. Both of them can produce results when done consistently and correctly. The Body for Life plan empowers a person to take charge of the workout. The activity level portion of the plan allows a day of increased energy, or for one of decreased proportions. With the low-impact aerobic solution, one must first find the right instructor or class. One must have either facilities or access to a DVD for instruction. Finding the right fit in an instructor, one who understands the limits of one with multiple sclerosis, may prove a difficult task. Perhaps through a local MS Center, such as the Rocky Mountain MS Center, a person may find such a situation. DVD’s prove to display little sympathy for the abilities of the person exercising, and so it may spend more time on pause, and in the case than doing much good. Ultimately a person with MS must formulate his or her own plan, with the help of a knowledgeable doctor or physical therapist, to choose which is right for the individual. The hope remains that a person can gain more energy through exercise, even while battling a debilitating disease.

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References
Phillips, B., & D'Orso, M. (1999). Body for life. New York City, NY: HarperCollins.

Rocky Mountain MS Center. (2010). MS: The basics. Retrieved from http://www.mscenter.org/education/ms-the-basics

Broderick, M. (2007). Getting the most from low impact. Canadian Journal of Health and Fitness, (295), 104. Retrieved from http://web.ebscohost.com.ezproxy.apollolibrary.com/ehost/pdfviewer/pdfviewer?hid=113&sid=b2b612c3-9a42-4273-ba64-b35cf1d3d5ca%40sessionmgr115&vid=3

Rouble, T. (2008). Aquafit deep water workout. Canadian Journal of Health and Fitness, 305(), 84. Retrieved from http://web.ebscohost.com.ezproxy.apollolibrary.com/ehost/pdfviewer/pdfviewer?hid=113&sid=af8c363e-51f4-4166-a720-d0240cf47fac%40sessionmgr104&vid=3

Self-Portriat

2011-01-30T11:16:00.000-08:00

This is a self-portrait of...well...myself. This is based on my results from the Briggs-Meyers Type Inventory. Now the career goals, interests, and the values all came from me.

A Very PhD Nativity Season

2010-12-08T10:22:00.000-08:00

The Color of Danger

2010-09-28T08:04:00.000-07:00

A dragon’s hue, if it is blue,
Has electricity in its veins.
With that said, if it’s red,
It will bathe the world in flames.

Green dragon’s spit, in a hissy fit,
And poison spews all around.
A frigid white, on a cold summer’s night,
Spreads its hoary frost on the warmest ground.

But fear the black, for they will attack,
It will gnash with teeth and swipe with tail.
Should these attacks miss, beware its hiss--
For acid breath will always prevail.

The Necrinomicon - Wrong, Wrong...and oh so WRONG!

2010-09-17T08:52:00.001-07:00

So by now everyone who has a television has seen the great uplifting commercials put out by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints promoting the Book of Mormon, the Bible, and just being good Christians.

Can the Necrinomicon be value based and still raise the dead?

Reading Boy

2010-09-16T19:36:00.001-07:00

Troy loves his books. He loves to flip the pages, and read like mommy and daddy. He points out which animals say "moo" and finds the kitties in his animal book. He loves to show us which "wild thing" is Max.

Such a smart boy...

Reading about the wild things.

Oombah-lah

2010-07-22T12:56:00.000-07:00

Oombah-lah
Oombah-lah
Oombah-lah-lay
sings of the musical ogres
As they travel on their way.

Oombah-lah
Oombah-lah
Oombah-lah-lie
hums the musical ogres
‘neath the star-spilt sky.

Oombah-lah
Oombah-lah
Oombah-lah-loom
chants the musical ogres
while sweeping up the room.

Oombah-lah
Oombah-lah
Oombah-lah-ite
roar the musical ogres
as they enter into the fight.

Sir Xander the Long-Lived

2010-07-16T12:13:00.000-07:00

Next up for Nanny Togglebottom's diary of monsters is the tale of a knight who just didn't find the heroic end he once sought. Not very monstrous, I know, but all monsters need a knight for glorious battle. Sometimes the dragon wins, but what happens after the knight has won so many battles the he is left a lone victor on the field of glory? Some knights live to tell the tale...if they can remember.

Sir Xander the Long-Lived

Old Alexander Mann, the old snowy-haired man, was once a knight of the realm
Sir Xander they called him then when he quested
with gilded shield and
with golden helm.
He never expected he’d see the days grow long with a rocking chair as his steed.
He’d always only ever wanted to die with reknown
with honorable acts or
with courageous deed.
Long years have passed since he had heard the alarm and answered the call to fight.
Little of the world’s turmoil reached his attention
in lovely Lady Pell’s Home
for a tired retired knight.

Truth be known he could hardly recall the day when he’d strap on buckler and sword
and charge in with a roar of heroic delight
against nasty trolls
or a raging goblin horde.
Little of the days of his valiant youth ever cross his ancient mind;
but on rare days he’ll regale and eager young page
with wild tales of adventure
and it’s tight, hair raising, bind.
Long had it been since he’d heard the alarm and answered the call to fight
Little of the world’s woes were allowed
in Lady Pell’s Home
for a tired retired knight.

Plato was Right

2010-06-28T09:57:00.001-07:00

Back in the 70’s and 80’s my dad kept the only television (a black and white 15’ deal) under wraps in his bedroom. How could a growing boy, living in an age when not only did everyone have television in their homes (color no less), but most of my friends had a couple of TV’s, cable, and Atari—how could a boy survive? Oh, I survived. I read. I read a lot. I went outside and played. I had action figures (not “dolls”). I even had a couple of friends (but they lived on the other side of Kipling Street, so I didn’t get to hang out with them very often.) I also wrote stories of my own, and listened to a lot of radio.

That was when radio was king…a dying king with the usurper MTV emerging from the shadows. I used to listen to The Who’s “Behind Blue Eyes”, and I used to think that they were singing about me. Hey, I had blue eyes. I had reason to be sad: I didn’t have TV, my dark hair didn’t shine like the blonde tresses that my brothers and sister had, and I would never reach 6’+ height range that my younger brothers would enjoy. No one could possibly understand the sad man behind my blue eyes.

Yeah, how cool was that: The Who singing about me? I guess I never really listened to the rest of the lyrics back then. I never got how much non-sense rock stars could live with when they just wanted to sell records. They just gave up on language sometimes. When I listen to the old stuff, and then the soundtrack of what we will all one day call a “classic”, “Dr. Horrible’s Sing-a-long Blog”, they just don’t compare. The songs in Dr. Horrible waste no words. Not only music with content, meaning, and flavor…but FUN-NEE! These tunes stick to my brain as if held there by Dr. Horrible’s freeze ray technology.

It makes me long for the days when I didn’t rush home to my DVR life-- where if I didn’t record it…that’s because I can catch it On-Demand. A life where sit in front of my 74’ screen, with my laptop on my lap, and watch Barney and Friends with my son while updating Facebook, and downloading new music to my iPod. I would say that I’m wired up for technology…but of course I’m actually wireless. I went from the imposed stone ages of my father’s house, to an enlightened renaissance prison of my own virtual design. Now my soul feels dead…or just radiation burned by the LCD screens that mesmerize my brain.

How Platonian I have become. Is Platonian even a word? Oh well, I’ve queued NCIS up on the satellite…so who cares?

Oil Spill Madness + US' Tendancy for Bad Journalism = XKCD

2010-06-09T07:31:00.000-07:00

Here is the ultimate worse case scenario, as supplied by the stick figure genius that brings us XKCD. I wasn't too worried about the oil spill. Oh, I know that it's bad, I realize the peril to the environment, and I don't discount the billions of dollars that Congress will fleece us for in the name of cleaning it all up...but I knew that we'd pull through.

But after this...I'm not so sure.

(I realize that the picture may be too small to see...so here's the link.)
http://imgs.xkcd.com/comics/worst_case_scenario.png

Hexelplex (revised version 1.2)

2010-05-25T08:44:00.001-07:00

His two green eyes are glowing lights of doom
(we love it when green doom dispels dark gloom.)
A doom that sounds soft like a waterfall,
and looks like a green alien baseball.
A doom that's fuzzy to a child's touch,
and smells of roses, lilacs, grass and such.
A doom that tastes sweet like hot chocolate
(far sweeter than a dragon will admit.)

He's dwelt under your beds since he was young
poo-pooing cocao's taste to his forked tongue
(but why must dragons' tongues be long and forked?
why not, instead, spooned, or knived, or sporked?)
Tarnations! Child of what do you speak?
A spooned-forked tongue makes for an odd physique.
So odd that he would not be fit to say
"So sings sweet Sally's sister songs that sway."

The smoky black dragon of happiness
so softly sleeps atop his glittering hoard...
Huh, what? I failed to mention the gold bed
that's worthy of a hulking dragon lord?
They're nuggets dear-- that fill your cavaties--
the golden stuffs that dentists like to use.
Old Hexelplex will nab your fallen teeth
while in the darkest night you snore and snooze.

Though Hexelplex seems scary in our youth
in truth he is the fairy of the tooth.

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

Okay, this is revision two...and it's a modified sonnet (so to speak.) I'm still not quite sure what final form it will make. I will craft it as a villanel next, or maybe a ghazal. I just know that it's getting closer, but some lines will have to go to make room for my important new idea: the tooth fairy is really a smoke dragon.

I'm not thrilled with the last stanza. It broke the rhyme scheme of the first two, and really came out like a train wreck. Well...I guess that's why I call it "a work in progress."

FATHERHOOD PART II: Waiting for It

2010-04-19T09:19:00.000-07:00

So after trying, testing, and getting some disappointing results that I just don’t want to talk about…

Jen and I decided that our best bet for parenthood came down to adoption. Of course we wanted the whole experience, not just to pick up some kiddos in the middle of their childhood lives and go on from that point. No, we wanted to be there from birth to as long as we all lived. Yeah—still with a bit of the selfish streak…I know. There it was though, adopting an infant or nothing at all. Of course many people have heard that, for the longest time, we thought that the option that we would have to live with was the “nothing at all” option. For nearly five years we waited on the list of LDS Family Services, hoping to hear that a birthmommy had chosen us…but no word came. As my wife came closer to 40, we thought more and more that it just wasn’t going to happen. We made up our minds that if we didn’t get a child placed with us by the time she was 40, then we would be a childless couple who traveled the globe and lives lonely lives…like Julia Child.

We were in Hawaii in August of 2009, for Jen’s 20th high school reunion, when we received a call from LDS Family Services. A special young lady, her boyfriend, and his mom were coming in to choose a couple to raise their child. For many reasons, none of them important to this story, they would not be able to keep the child. Though they didn’t really want to do it, they were faced with the choice of either giving the child up for adoption, or risk the state social services taking the baby and putting it in a foster home. They chose the option of hand-picking the baby’s parents. We were among the few from which they would choose. About a week after we returned from our vacation, we heard that they wanted to meet with us.

On our first meeting, the birth family had a tiny request to make: they wanted us to name the baby Jesse…after the birthdaddy’s brother who had recently died. We felt their plea, and appreciated the sentiment, but after years of dreaming and hoping, we already had our heart set on a name. This was a name that no one had taken from us for their own children. This was a name which we coveted because it was a) fairly common; b) not so common that he would share it with seven kids in his class at school; c) the name of all of the best football players. We wanted to pair this name with my first name, thus branding him as my firstborn son. Because of our shared Hawaii connection though, we promised to give the boy the Hawaiian equivalent of “Jesse” for his second middle name. We didn’t want the English to Hawaiian translation, because it was largely phonetic, and didn’t convey the meaning of the name. The name “Jesse” is Hebrew for “The Lord Is.” That is a name of testimony, of conviction, and of a love for God. We chose the Hawaiian name Kahaku. We decided that we had waited long, and he rated at least four names.

The birthmommy used to live in Hawaii, Jen grew up in Hawaii, I loved Hawaii…it was a match made in some island paradise. By they time we left that happy meeting, we knew that she chose us to parent her coming soon baby boy.

Yes, we were pretty certain that the baby would come out with boy parts. Were we 100% certain? No…but who is? We moved forward with the idea that all of the doctor’s data pointed to a baby boy, and we bought blue things. We prepared the baby’s room with planets, stars, a crib, a changing table, a book shelf with his own copy of Where the Wild Things Are, and The Very Hungry Caterpillar (among other titles.) We had showers that provided play pens, car seats, strollers, clothes, diapers, and more clothes. I had nothing but dreams of watching him play sports, teaching him to read, taking him to the zoo, and going camping. I had embraced the idea of fatherhood, but with no practical experience. But first and foremost I had to get the boy in the house.

The birth mom called us a couple of weeks shy of her due date and told us that her water had broke. By “a couple of weeks” I mean to say five weeks. That was the beginning of the adventure. We hoofed it down to the hospital (coincidentally, the same one where my mother had birthed me back in the day), and sat down to wait. We listened to his heartbeat on the monitor, and listened to the doctors while they read a litany of complications which they expected: underdeveloped lungs, downs syndrome, complications brought on by the birthmommy’s epilepsy, birth stress taking its toll on the baby’s tiny, underdeveloped body…

The list went on and only caused my anxiety to grow. So…this was parenthood. I knew that every moment wouldn’t have glamour and joy…but I had hoped for a little glamour and joy before nausea set in for the long haul. The baby’s heartbeat monitor, though never strong, had strong moments before slowing down and fading…only to come up strong again to start a new cycle. For eight hours I sat worrying that neither baby, nor birthmommy, would survive the day. Finally, after having the poor girl labor on her hands and knees for hours (to relieve the stress on the baby)…after the sun had given up and went down…after most of the night had passed into memory…the doctors decided to go in and take the baby before he sustained more damage.

At five a.m., on October 4, 2009, Troy Robert Kahaku Justus came into the world. My first impression was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy. The birth family chose us for multiple reasons, but I feel that the baby made his choice before he came into this world. He chose his birthparents, and he chose us to be his parents to raise him, care for him, teach him, and nurture him. In one moment I ditched the last vestiges of my anti-parenthood sentiments. I looked at him, stared at him, wondered at him…I knew that I would never be complete if he were not my son.

So began the last part of my journey from wanting to be a parent, to waiting for fatherhood, to becoming his father for time and all eternity.

FATHERHOOD PART I: Wishing for It

2010-04-06T10:49:00.000-07:00

Growing up I probably felt the intense responsibility of fatherhood, and therefore never looked for it in my life. In fact, I had always planned on not being a father. That would mean PTA meetings, Boy Scout camp newspaper drives, signing parent permission slips, and really more stuff in my life that didn’t have to do with taking care of myself. Ok, admittedly I displayed definite selfish, if not narcissistic, tendencies. As I moved through my 20’s I maybe found a little more time to look outside of myself. I also always said that I was not the type of man to take a wife…and took her I did. Still, fatherhood seemed like more than I wanted to bear.

I had nephews and nieces that came along and lit up my life. I treated them as an uncle should whenever I saw them: I sugared them up and sent them home. My friends had kids, and they all told me that “it was like nothing that I have ever felt” to be a father. Sure, changing diapers and wiping strained peas off of a kid had to bring about many a tender moment. Somewhere along the line, though, I developed the urge to be a dad. I can pinpoint three such times when I nearly ditched my anti-daddy position and jumped over to the dark side: on my mission, working in the nursery, and standing in the middle of Walmart one day.

God has a sense of humor, and He here is a little joke which He liked to play on me: every time I found myself sent to a new area of work, the Branch Presidents (missionaries all of them) assigned me to the Primary orginazation. Yes, I had the assignment in developing branches of the church in the south west part of the Dominican Republic to look after the Primary. For those that don’t know, the Primary organization is basically Sunday School for kids from age 3 to 12. I always thought that God had me work this area because I am really just an overgrown 10-year-old, and I fit in quite nicely. I suspect now that He had it in His all-powerful mind to break down my wall. On Sundays I went to the room with the kids and we sang together about trees that grew popcorn, musically gifted waterways, and how Jesus wanted us to become sunbeams. We talked of Christ, we learned of his divine mission, and we all came to love him for what he did for us. When people grow their testimonies together, they come to love one another, and every time I received the call to move on to another town, it was with a heavy heart. I left little friends behind from Las Matas de Farfán to Santo Dominigo. Now those kids are all grown up, and they may not remember me from any other gringo that wore the black name tag in their towns, but I remember all of them.

Upon coming home and getting married, God continued His assault on my anti-parenthood stance: He kept calling me to work in the nurseries of every new ward that I attended. I got to share goldfish crackers, talk about being grateful for Jesus, and read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to many a little 1 1/2 to 3 year old child. I remember one such Sunday, at the end of the meetings when all but one parent had come to retrieve their child, I sat with little Sidney Barton reading about the caterpillar. Her daddy came in to get her, and she jumped up and ran to him. I sat on the floor, in the middle of the big story telling blanket and watched them leave. Then, she turned, ran back to me, and gave me a hug before leaving with her dad. I always called it the best calling ever…and I always will.

But the final assault, the attack that successfully breached my defenses, came quite unexpectedly in my mid 30’s. I was in the Walmart, moving from the food section to the electronics to browsePS2 games. I passed by the baby center and stopped to look at a dress for an infant girl. For some reason that moment struck me hard. I wanted to buy that dress for my daughter. I had no daughter to wear that dress. What had I done in squandering my youth away on myself, when deep down I had the makings of a family man? Was it too late to make up for lost time?

Wishing for fatherhood does not make it happen. Even though my wife and I had not taken measures beyond the first year of our marriage to keep from having children...no children had come to us. I did not worry overly much, but now the worry gene had activated. I had migrated from anti-fatherhood, to enjoying being around kids, to wishing for the blessing of daddy ship to come upon me. Hopefully it had not completely passed me by.

What I Gained by Losing

2010-03-18T10:03:00.000-07:00

Something happened over the past twenty years. Not overnight, or all of the sudden, or in the twinkling of an eye…no it took place slowly, unnoticed at first, until one day the realization came to me: I weighed 278 pounds. I had gotten fat. For a long while I walked around harboring that knowledge, hoping that no one else noticed. I ignored the looks that I got when I had to ask for handicap seating at the Pepsi Center because the designers did not factor in my keister when they built the arena. I turned a deaf ear to suppressed comments when I squeezed past people in the movie theater. I was sure that I hid my bulk well under my oversized sweaters and baggy pants. No one could possibly suspect my shameful little secret.

In the process of gaining all of the weight, I lost a few things as well: self confidence, and pride in my own presentation. I had dreams of being an actor—and not a fat character actor. No, I felt that my dashing good looks could land me a leading man role…or at least a leading man’s good looking, yet goofy, friend. I sang in a band and thought that we could make it big one day. Though I expressed them outwardly, I threw away dreams of stardom. On top of all of that, doctors diagnosed me in 1999 with multiple sclerosis—with the loss of co-ordination, feeling, and strength to my legs I could never sustain a rigorous “Biggest Loser” workout regimen. I had no chance of losing the weight.

In March of 2009 my younger brother, Larry, met with the counselors at Slimgenics (formerly Slim-4-Life). I went to talk with the counselors because I didn’t want anyone taking my brother for a ride and stealing his money. I had secretly tried it all, anyway, and nothing worked. I failed at Adkins. I flunked out of Weight Watchers. I sunk the South Beach Diet. I proved that Body for Life did not work on the average guy. I was sure that whatever fake-food diet that came along would ultimately fail, so I came to listen and decline on my brother’s behalf.

After a 30 minute question and answer session, I had the feeling that this might work for Larry. Even if he only lost 70 or 80 pounds, it might be enough to build up his confidence. I came out of that meeting thinking that Larry really needed what Slimgenics had to offer, but he couldn’t do it alone. So I selflessly offered to do this program with him for a while to help him get on-plan and get healthy.

Over the first 6 months I followed the plan and stubbornly clung to my belief that this diet might work a little bit for Larry, but it wouldn’t work for me: I had gotten too big to ever be “skinny” again in my life. I watched the scale inch its way downward. Then one morning, six months into the plan, I woke up and did the math: 70 pounds. I didn’t starve. I couldn’t work out consistently. I had done nothing to lose so much weight except keep the plan as the counselors at Slimgenics had taught me. I needed new clothes.

I went from wearing a size 48 waist to a size 38. I could buy off the rack, and things actually fit. I walked around with a smile on my face and in my heart. Unlike getting fat, the skinny seemed to happen overnight, all of the sudden, in the twinkling of an eye. And that quickly I had gained the confidence that I had previously lost. I wanted to wear nice clothes again, comb my hair, and shave my face more than once a week. I cared what I looked like when I went out in public.

Over the rest of the year I went from a size 38 to a size 32 waist. I looked in the mirror and saw the guy that I was in high school…a little older, but still that same guy. The scale said that I weighed 173 pounds…a 105 pound weight loss. From October 2009 to February 2010 I had switched gears from a cynic, to one of the faithful…to a downright believer. I know that by following the plan a person will lose weight. Not just myself—but any person who keeps this plan will lose the weight that they want to lose. If a person wants to lose weight, prove their own inner strength, and improve their over all health, gain self confidence, learn about nutrition and how to care for his body…that is what one can gain by losing. The best part of doing this plan has been the knowledge that I can now pass on to my family and the desire to help others lose what I have lost…so that they can gain what I have gained.

Hexelplex Part Deux

2010-03-03T10:38:00.000-08:00

I gotta say that I'm not entirely thrilled with how Hexelplex worked out for me. I used an exercise in a book to write it...and it reads just like I used an exercise in a book to write it. I did, however, get some material that I will use in the rewrite (which, I guess, was the whole purpose of that exercise.)

So I am deep in the rewrite process with that poem. To anyone who might anxiously await the next installment for Nanny ToggleBottom's little book...it ain't comin'. Still, here is a litle bit of a bard's tale told from our Guy's Nite Out group (see the 'links [not patties?]' to your right.)

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

The Gathering of the Intrepid Three

A typical story, in a typical time,
Of caverns, and monsters, laid out in a rhyme.
A story I’ll tell you, for it happened to me,
A story I’ll tell you, of the Intrepid Three.
For this piece I choose to make a verbal collage,
And to my fellow bards I pay this homage.
And though to you this may seem folly,
I choose the voice of Thomas Babington MaCauley…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Vasha sent out the summons,
Calling adventurers by the score,
The Orb was not in grasp,
And she could abide that no more
Brave men moved to assemble,
As she sought the best of the best.
Men with scarred faces,
Of various races
To send on a mystery quest.
The strange and beautiful Vasha,
Whose motives remain obscured.
The bold and glorious Vasha:
A spirit confident and assured.
To a small village inn,
Great adventurers were invited…
She chose the rockman Sk’orn,
Dark Eeyen, and Thanis of Stelaborn
Three souls of the world united.

“You three are the ones I have chosen,
For your have talents separate and fair.
Sk’orn for the stone, Thanis to charm,
And Eeyen for all else you would dare.
Outside of town is a cave,
A cavern of perils uncharted.
I invoke upon you bravery,
For I deal not with the fainthearted.

“In that cave, deep in the darkness,
A treasure lies underground;
An item to behold,
Of value greater than gold,
Its vast power untold,
Waiting to be found.
Go forth with power and glory.
Seek out with stealth and care.
Though I may seem unkind
Its purpose I must bind
Or the treasure you will not find
Its magic unusual and rare.

“’Tis called the Orb of Denithor,
Its source of power unknown,
Seek ye out this ancient magic
‘Neath the mountain of stone.
Power hides the Orb,
A veil that shrouds the site,
For if you know its purpose
The cave is sealed tight.

“Go forth and find this bauble
Return with it to me
Keep all else you find there
As payment of your fee.”

Sent out by noble Vasha,
Sent on an Herculean chore.
Rode forth the Intrepid Three,
Right anxious were they to see,
The Orb of Denithor.
A task given to their utter glee—
Off on a mysterious charge
To find a treasure at large
A job designed for the Intrepid Three.

Hexeplex

2010-02-16T12:01:00.001-08:00

His green eyes, the glowing orbs of doom--
…and who doesn’t love a little doom?
Doom that sounds soft like a roaring waterfall.
Doom that looks hideously hilarious in a smock.
Doom so soft to the touch.
Doom smelling of roses and lavender.
Doom that tastes sweet like warm buttermilk--
that sweet taste that smells of acid and fire.

Hexelplex lives in the darkness under beds,
and buttermilk falls sour on his forked tongue.
Why do dragons sport forked tongues?
Why not, instead, spooned tongues?
Tarnations, child!
A beast with a spooned tongue
could never fit under your bed.
But dems is da berries, as they say.

The smoky black dragon of happiness
sleeps softly on his hoard.
Shall I mention the pile of gold and gems,
the bed upon which he soundly sleeps?
He sleeps, he giggles, he bathes, he plays
in deep piles of the lovely lucre.
“But Nanny” the children all ask,
From where does he get his gold?”
“The gold will come from your mouths one day,
My little poppets” I answer.
They all laugh maliciously at the thought.

Make no mistake,
Hexeplex will come from under your bed
and steal the gold fillings from your teeth.
“Asi es la vida.” He will say,
and only your nightstand will see
his bat-like wings shiver as he sneaks.
But the image of his green eyes
will forever burn in the darkness of your dreams.

Matt at the Alex English Rainbow Talent Search

2010-02-12T13:52:00.000-08:00

(This has nothing to do with my current project. This is just a shout out to my cousin, Matt, in recognition for an awesome night 20-some years ago that I still remember well.)

Matt taught himself.
Toiling alone
at the side of the single-wide,
following fingering charts.
Ascending and descending
he learned every scale
his saxophone could wail.
Twenty-three keys
and a bubble-gum flavored reed
gave him freedom
beyond the trailer park.
He framed the invite,
the honor lie in the asking,
he drilled his skill with reason.
He would play under the lights
in front of the big crowd
and win Coors college cash
at the Alex English Rainbow Talent Search

Not jazz per se
no one in that crowd understood.
They didn’t listen to the likes
of Charlie Parker
or Miles Davis.
They heard Kenny G
and they thought jazz.
Though it hurt
he let “Songbird” flow
from the tenor sax.
Better from a soprano—
but no one sold those
second hand.
Only the rainbow mattered.
The sacred scry for talent.

Others played
The same song
from better instruments.
All colors of the rainbow
fizzled flatulence
out the bells of the horns.
He heard their squawks
he cringed at their squeaks.
His wallet weighed down
would feel good.
Lights made to fade
as the star emerged.
Like Venus
in the western sky,
Alex English rose
to bless meager musicians
with that mana
that gives such subsistence—
cash baby…cash.

He passed by Matt
not even a nod
no respecting wink
for all of his hard work.
He boxed Matt out
with his six foot seven frame.
He scored no points
that night...
barbarous Nugget!
The squeaking, squawking,
screeching winner
took his $100 check
and bought a latte
at the college of his choice.

MORE POETRY FOR NANNY TOGGLEBOTTOM'S HANDBOOK OF MAGICAL CREATURES, MYTHICAL MEN, AND OTHER FANTASTICAL FAIRYLAND FRIENDS.

2010-02-03T08:14:00.001-08:00

Here are the latest entries for the book:

PEACOCK PARADE

Sloppy sweet saccharine
sighs slip softly
from lading lounging languidly
along Lembas’ longest lane.

Knights nod knowingly
with nonchalance,
while horses hoove and hie
their haughty highness

Plumeria petals plummet from
perched parade-watchers,
as wily warriors wend westward
to wage and win a war.

DRAGON BARDS

Dragons have no sense of time
when they sits on their horde
and singing funny rhymes...

...that is to say...

That they have no brevity
in their levity

and finally...

GREGORY GRYFFON

His beak so strong,
his claws so sharp,
his wings spread wide and sure.

His glassy gold eyes
are windows to see
his heart so noble and pure.

FREEZE OUT

2010-01-27T14:37:00.000-08:00

“Honey c’mon! I go the car loaded and ready to roll!” Ron yelled into the house from the carport. He shut the trunk in the black ’99 Altima and walked around to the driver’s side door. As he squeezed his six foot seven inch frame behind the wheel, he wondered again why he had given up on the argument for a larger vehicle. His dark curly hair brushed against the ceiling of the car, and he took a moment to check in the rear view mirror to see if his hair-do still passed muster. It would do.

A short round woman in lime green knit pants and a pink top exited the house. She tested the front door to make sure that she had locked it and waddled over to the car and squeezed herself into the passenger seat.

“Honestly, Ron, I don’t know why we don’t get a bigger car.” She complained in her nasally voice. He let that comment go… she knew perfectly well why they had bought a sedan and not an SUV, mini-van, or any other family sized vehicle.

“Are you ready for your surprise?” He asked as he started the car and backed out of the driveway. “I wanted to do something special for our anniversary.”

They left their neighborhood of two story homes all poured from the same mold. Their route took them past a vast park comprised of 12 soccer fields. The crowded park had a game on each field, with parents cheering on their kids. Ron drove slowly down the street, keeping an eye out for wayward children and pets.

“So where are we going that is such a big surprise?” Jan’s voice snapped Ron out of his cautious reverie.

“We are going to drive up to Colorado Springs for some ice cream.”

“Down, honey…it’s down to Colorado Springs.” Jan’s voice took some pleasure in correcting her husband.

“What?”

“Look on a map. Colorado Springs is down from Denver, so we will drive down to Colorado Springs for some ice cream.”

“Technically speaking, Denver is 5183 feet above sea level and Colorado Springs is 6008 feet above sea level…so…” Ron let the trivial tidbit hang, and headed in a generally upward climb towards Colorado Springs.

“That can’t be right. Denver is the Mile High City, and a mile is 5280 feet. Why are we going to Colorado Springs for ice cream? We have a Dairy Queen over by the highway.”

“Trust me…can you just trust me?”

In a stinging coincidence, they passed by a Dairy Queen as they got onto I-25. Parents and children clamored for soft serve treats. Ron paid more attention to the scene than Jan.

“I talked to Toby, at work; he gave me the card of the agency that he and his wife used.”
Jan looked at Ron. “He said that it’s really easy, we just fill out a mountain of paperwork and wait for the call.”

Jan found something very interesting about her hands and gave them a thorough inspection. Hearing no answer from her, Ron turned on the radio to an AM station that played big band music. Jan gave him a side-eyed glance and waited for a few minutes before changing the radio to the FM band and hitting a preset to land on light rock station. Ron flexed his hands on the wheel, and kept driving. What else could he do? They drove in relative silence for a while.

“That’s three…” Jan said as they passed the last exit to Castle Rock.

“Three what?”

“That’s three Dairy Queens that we passed.”

“I don’t want us to go for a massed produced soft serve ice cream. I had in plan something special. When we get to Michelle’s you’ll see what I mean.”

“Who’s Michelle?”

“It’s the name of the place. They have home made ice cream and sandwiches, and it isn’t so crowded.”

“One minute you gawk at all of the kids in the neighborhood, and the next you drive a hundred miles just to get away from them.”

“I just wanted to take you someplace special this weekend. I thought that you would appreciate a place like Michelle’s.”

“And a pretty, tall, blonde named Michelle works the counter I’m sure.” Jan turned her face away and watched the Colorado landscape slide past.

Ron huffed once, catching words in his throat before they made it out of his mouth and caused real damage. He chose his next words carefully.

“I don’t know the name of the girl who works behind the counter. It’s just a place that my dad used to take us when I was a kid. I found out that it’s still in business and I wanted to share it with you.”

“But she’s tall and blonde then, right?”

“Who?”

“The girl behind the counter…she must be tall and blonde to get you to drive all of the way to Colorado Springs for ice cream.”

“Look, I can turn around, we can go to Dairy Queen, and you can have the same old ice cream that we always have. Is that what you want? If that’s what you want, we can go back down do Denver and be home in time for lunch.”

“Up.”

“We do not live on a map.”

“No, we live in Colorado where our car is too small for our lives, where Denver is up and Colorado Springs is down, where the ice cream is ‘mass produced’ and the girls working behind counters aren’t pretty enough for you.” She never turned her head away from the passing landscape as she spoke.

“I think that I will get a banana split with extra chocolate syrup and whipped cream.” Ron felt that it was time to navigate the conversation to safer waters.

“Do they have vanilla ice cream…no nuts, no syrup, no toppings of any sort?”

“Why would you want to go to an ice cream parlor and just get vanilla ice cream? Don’t you want something special?”

“I just like vanilla. I don’t need anything more than that.”

“I’m sure that you can get plain ice cream if you want. No one can force you to put toppings on your ice cream.”

“No, I suppose they can’t.”

They exited off of the highway onto Academy and drove the rest of the way in silence.

NANNY TOGGLEBOTTOM'S HANDBOOK OF MAGICAL CREATURES, MYTHICAL MEN, AND OTHER FANTASTICAL FAIRYLAND FRIENDS.

2010-01-18T12:32:00.000-08:00

I have been writing, in my little (off-line) notebook, a series of poems. I call them "Nanny Togglebottom's Book of Magical Creatures, Mythical Men, and other Fantastical Fairyland Friends." Initially I wanted to write a book about dragons, but that thas expanded to a series of children's poems about all of the wonderful magic that enters a child's mind.

I have already posted one of the poems (The Ballad of Wallace Thaddeus Linkletter posted in April 2008), and as I move poems from my old-school notebook to my Encyclopedia Bob, I wll post them as well. For now, here is Nanny Togglebottom's Invitation:

I have seen dragons
crossing the noon day sun—
Have you?

I have seen leprechauns
with their gold on the run—
Have you?

No? Well…

Inside my head
fairies fly,
monsters grumble,
and unicorns cry.

I will open my stories,
I will open them wide.
For the price of your company
I will let you inside.

40th B-Day is Around the Corner

2009-09-04T14:15:00.001-07:00

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.

CONSEQUENCES (PART II)

2009-08-31T10:14:00.000-07:00

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.

CONSEQUENCES (Part I)

2009-08-27T07:22:00.000-07:00

(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...)

PRESIDENT FROM KENYA

2009-08-13T13:35:00.000-07:00

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.

Deme la Luna

2009-07-08T09:47:00.000-07:00

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

The Effect

2009-07-07T10:37:00.000-07:00

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!

Primary Posters

2009-06-30T10:31:00.000-07:00

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?

The Beginning of "I Love You…"

2009-06-29T11:07:00.000-07:00

“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)

DOGS

2009-06-15T12:52:00.001-07:00

“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.

Oath Breaker

2009-06-10T14:33:00.001-07:00

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 too 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 you 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.

There's Nothing New

2009-05-15T14:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Who is the Top?

2009-05-07T08:33:00.000-07:00

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.

Dr. Bob

2009-04-27T09:30:00.001-07:00

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.

BRONCOS FAN

2009-04-22T12:29:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2009-03-10T10:58:00.000-07:00

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!

ANGST RELAPSE

2009-02-19T09:10:00.000-08:00

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…

VALIDATION

2009-02-05T21:03:00.000-08:00

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

T.P.*

2009-01-25T17:35:00.000-08:00

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.)

The New Year

2009-01-01T15:13:00.001-08:00

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

Hawaii 2003

2008-11-03T20:11:00.000-08:00

My MIL took this video and I messed with it on my new laptop. Oooh...fun stuff.

Dang...it's been too long...

2008-10-30T05:29:00.001-07:00

So I am actually preparing for November. I am going to participate in the National Write a Book in a Month deal-a-ma-bob. I will post every day a chapter that I write. Let's see how it goes...

Judeo-Christian Buddhist

2008-09-26T16:53:00.000-07:00

Like many of the Buddhist meetings that I attended, I sat at the feet of one of our leaders and listened to him teach. Unlike many, this man was the leader for our entire organization in the United States of America. I am not sure of the name that his parents gave him at birth, but his Japanese countenance and accent told me that it was not George M. Williams.

Sensei…that’s what I called him.

I was with a small group of young men in the brass band practice room of the Denver Culture Center. He asked us what we were reading, it was important to always be reading. I was reading Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina at the time. I had to hold back from mocking the answers that others gave: Shakespeare. Shakespeare didn’t write to be read…he wrote his plays to be seen.

(Obviously some guys were just trying to impress him. I later confirmed that none of them knew the difference between “Romeo and Juliet” and “The Taming of the Shrew.”)

At any rate, we were sitting and he was teaching. He asked me directly how my chanting was going. I told him that I tried to chant every day, but some days were harder than others. An honest answer, which is what I thought he wanted.

He nodded briefly, harrumphed, and then came out with a remark that has stuck with me for 16 years. “You must just ignore the distractions of the world and chant. Otherwise you are living a half-hearted religion, and not true Buddhism. You are, now a Judeo-Christian Buddhist.”

They all laughed at this intended stinger. I blushed at the assumed insult and thought a lot about what it meant to be a “true Buddhist” as opposed to a “Judeo-Christian Buddhist.” Well, I wasn’t in a monastery living a removed existence, so I would have to agree with my sensei: I was allowing myself to be distracted by the opinions of the world. I believed that the soul was internal. I knew that the universe worked on a cause and effect basis…thus karma. I chanted, but I wanted to get off of my knees and “do” things as well. Besides a commitment issue, what other things would spin my Buddhism in a Judeo-Christian slant?

Well to qualify for the Judeo part I would have to believe that I was a part of God’s own chosen people. I would have to follow the 10 Commandments and look forward to a Messiah. I would have to follow a diet prescribed by God himself. Circumcision? Yeah, that too.

Christianity would require, first and foremost, that I believe in Jesus Christ. That would mean that I believed in God as well, the Bible, prophets, the Holy Ghost, prayer, baptism, and serving my fellow beings as if I were serving God himself. I would have to love God and then love my neighbor.
That was some time ago, 17 or 18 years, and my religious life has come full circle.

As a young man I shied away from my family’s religion, Mormon, because I didn’t want people to think that I was “weird.” I was afraid that someone would ask about my “golden Bible”, or want me to tell them about Joseph Smith. Someone might ask me why coffee and tea are evil, or why I didn’t dance. Someone might even ask me if I had my tail and horns removed at birth. I had a mohawk, pierced ears, wore make-up, sang in a band, hung out with actors and artists, lived in my car, and begged on the streets for handout change…but I didn’t want anyone to think that I was “weird.”

Weird.

Now, when people inquire about my religion, I tell them that I am a Judeo-Christian Buddhist. I could tell them that I am a Mormon, but that invites stereotypes that are neither fair nor true. I could say that I am LDS, but so very few people know what that means, and it forces me to further clarify by saying that I am a Mormon…back to the unfair and untrue stereotypical thinking.

As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints I know that God’s Plan of Salvation is based on cause and effect: “what we sow, so also shall we reap.” I know that our spirits are eternal, and that this life is just the mortal portion of our existence. I know that God chose Abraham and his family to bless the world…not just to receive blessings that no one else could enjoy. I am a descendant of Ephraim (the grandson of Israel himself) and thus a part of God’s chosen people. I strive to keep the 10 commandments. I keep the Word of Wisdom by abstaining from tea, coffee, tobacco, alcohol, and drugs while eating small portions of meat, grains, vegetables, and fruits in their seasons. I am baptized. I pray. I read the scriptures and seek guidance from the Holy Ghost. I pay to heed the words of the prophets. I serve others whenever and wherever I can.

A good Mormon is the best Judeo-Christian Buddhist around.

What NBC Didn't Show from Bejing This Year...

2008-09-11T19:37:00.000-07:00

I gotta Say that this guy has my respect...at least for his physical strength. I have to rescind that respect however due to the pink ribbons in his hair.

HOT PEPPERS

2008-09-11T19:30:00.000-07:00

23 May 1994

Nobody likes it when others laugh at them, or think of them as “unmanly.” In our foolish pride (is their any other kind?) we set out each day to “prove ourselves” to a world that does not even know we exist.

Oh vainglorious pride!

Oh the pains we inflict upon ourselves!

This morning, Elder Rowley and I stopped into a colmado for a cool beverage and a banana. As we stepped into the store we interrupted a conversation…ABOUT ME. I had gained a reputation in the small town of Las Matas de Farfán for my love of the picante (#). There at the counter four men had gathered to talk of the "gringo' who ate picante," and my walking in at that precise moment proved a dream come true for them. Instantly they came down on me: could I eat the ají piquenó?

Could I eat the ají piquenó? I scoffed at the challenge. I can eat anything hot that this island has to offer. Not that it wouldn’t hurt…but I can eat it. So I quickly puffed out my chest, strutted my strut, and in the place of crowing gave a loud and proud “Que si!”.

I had eaten the ají piquenó before, our maid Laura had brought some in for me to try. It hurt. I won’t lie to you that little pepper had a sting that made my eyes water for a day. It hurt worse than wasabe, worse than kimshe, worse than the jabañeros of which my Tex-Mex friends are so proud. It had a thermonuclear kind of heat that I can’t describe...except to say "thermonuclear." Still, I had eaten one before and knew that I could eat one for them at this time.

The man threw down three ají piquenós on the counter.

¡TRES!

I scooped them up and calmly ate all three. I could not back down…I was the "gringo who ate picante." Quite a crowd had formed (by that I mean one old woman who wanted to buy some talapia,) and I was eager to demonstrate my manhood to a few people who didn’t really care. They just wanted to see a gringo in pain...

Oh vainglorious pride!

Oh the pains we inflict upon ourselves!

Counting myself, I impressed exactly zero people with my manliness. No one sang praises and hails to my name. Instead they laughed at me has I turned red and tried chuckle away my pain. When is it that I will learn? How much more pain will I allow myself to endure? Did I not climb that loma* searching for the respect of a bunch of teenaged boys? From that I gained nothing but physical and emotional anguish. Now I once again put myself though physical pain…and gained nothing.

My prayers are that I can learn from these experiences and leave the pride of men here in (©)Las Matas.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(#) Dominican food, though yummy in it’s own way, lacks a certain spice that I like when I eat my beans and rice.
(*) Stay tuned for an upcoming post telling the story of “La Loma”
(©) I didn’t quite leave all of it behind…some of it has stayed with me through the years.

I Hope that My Sister Drops by to Read My Blog...

2008-09-01T20:25:00.000-07:00

Living with MS

2008-09-01T15:57:00.000-07:00

I remember going to school at Dennison Elementary…the 2nd grade. That year our school held a read-a-thon to benefit the National MS Society. In the school assembly they told the worst case scenario for a person with MS. Oh, then they followed it up by telling us that something like 20,000 people a year are diagnosed with the disease.

20,000 people…are there that many people in the world? I was 8…what did I know? The whole thing terrified me so much that I read every book that I could find as if my reading alone would provide a cure. I was sure that all of us were going to have MS and suffer in a wheel chair our whole lives.

Fast forward to the fall of 1998 I found myself working as a contractor up at IBM in Boulder, CO. I was going to school, working full time, and helping my wife deal with some serious anxiety attacks. I was sure that my nerves had to be pinched, shot, and bungled…so I wasn’t too surprised when I lost all of the feeling in the right hand side of my body. I endured it quietly for about a month before I told my wife. Jen called both my mom and her mom to see what we should do (they both have medical backgrounds.) Her mom was calm; mine berated her for not looking after me, told her that I had obviously suffered a stroke, and called an ambulance to pick me up at work.

Like anyone at that sprawling campus knew who I was. The receptionist stepped into a high level meeting to see if any one of the managers attending there knew me. They searched the campus until my manager finally led the leading minds of IBM to my desk.

I love my mom...I really do..really...I do...

Yeah, it wasn't a stroke. The numbness faded, and moved over to the left side...then the right...then the left... I really thought that I had some seriously stressed out nerves (probably due to my mom.) Then the vertigo hit…and it hit hard.

I was in rehearsals to play Mayor Shinn in “The Music Man” when I very suddenly could not tell my ups from my downs. I’m not talking “oh I’m a little queasy” dizziness. No, I am talking about the world spinning for weeks on end. I even felt it spinning when I tried to sleep. Anything that I ate bounced back up like a big red rubber ball on a four-square court. It went away, only to come back a few more times.

I finally worked may way into a permanent job with AT&T and got a real good family doctor for Jen and myself. I made the appointment for a complete physical (not having had one since before my mission in 1993.) It was complete…more so than I ever wanted to be…

...oh the shame...

I talked with my doctor about my recurring numbness and vertigo. Dr. Drex (cool name…eh?) set me up for an MRI to see what was bugging my brain. It turned out to be about 30 lesions. He referred me to Dr. Ronald Murray at the Rocky Mountain MS Center who had another MRI study done of my cervical cortex…it was twice as bad as the first MRI.

MS was tearing away my synoptic functions. Truthfully, when my doctor diagnosed me with MS I felt releif. It wasn't a tumor about to take my life. It wasn't something completely foriegn. I had been keeping track of the research on this disease since 1976.

So in 2001 I started with the shots. I began with Rebif three days a week. I started out injecting myself, but decided to include Jen on my treatment. Dr. Murray left the MS center almost right after I started, and it left me neurologist-less for a while…that is until I found Dr. Cynthia Blake. I kept up the injections, but I still suffered from at least one exacerbation a year. I had to do more than I was doing.

In 2003 I started pushing myself to exercise more often. I lifted weights and even started running (such as it was)…I even made it up to a mile and a half on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Early one morning in the summer of 2003 I was at Sir Isaac Newton Middle School running when my left leg decided not to work as well as the right. I started losing strength, and having a hard time keeping balance.

Apparently exercise wasn’t the key to beating MS.

I tried acupressure and acupuncture, but outside of some bruising (I bruise like a peach) and counterproductive needle holes…no changes came of my condition. My left leg kept getting weaker and weaker. My hands kept losing feeling.

I read somewhere once that playing music helped to build neural pathways. I needed some of them neural pathway thingies, so I started taking piano lessons from my MIL. That included some performing (man, I do love performing) and lots of practice. I also took up painting pewter miniatures (fantasy of course) to help improve my motor control.

Still, I suffered about an exacerbation year. I had to endure a week's worth of infusions (Solumedrol) followed by another 10 days of Prednesone . For some reasons the exacerbations usually came around Thanksgiving or Christmas. One of the great side effects of Solumedrol is that it makes everything that passes by my tongue taste like tin. That included candied yams, turkey, cranberry sauce, cornbread stuffing, sugar cookies, and most likely tin would taste more like tin.

Yuck…

Dr. Blake lasted about a year and she decided to move on her career…move on without her patients. So I was less-than-neurologist-ful again. I implemented the internet and my health insurance provider to find my next brain doctor: I can’t even remember her name. I liked her, she was competent, but she didn’t like the paperwork that came with corporate America. I was still receiving infusions annually, and needed my wife to help me on those times. My doctor didn’t like working with my wife’s employer to get FMLA approved. Jen almost lost her job…I fired my neurologist after about 18 months.

In 2006 I started seeing a chiropractor, Dr. Mike Pesta. I went to see him weekly, and he did some miraculous stuff with my spine. Also, I ran into a supplement called Kalawala. Now I will tell you all right out that I am never averse to trying something new. I take my vitamins (extra B complex, Lecithin, Vitamin D, Calcium, and Magnesium) regularly as well as the ever mysterious Sunrider Quinary (secret Chinese herb and mineral blend for optimal health.) I tried Malave (which I call “mala fe”…it’s only funny if you habla español) but I found myself in the .01% of the population that can’t stand the taste of the Açai berry.

But Kalawala…magic in a capsule. I take my shots, take my vitamins, exercise (as much as my bum leg lets me), take my Kalawala, and see my chiropractor on Saturday mornings...and live a surprisingly normal (if not somewhat gimpy) life.

My new neurologist, Dr. Kelts, inherited an older and wiser MS patient. He see’s beautiful MRI’s with not only no new lesions, but improved areas where old lesions had become “black holes” on my brain and cervical cortex. I have, through the efforts of Dr. Pesta, received much of the strength back in my left leg. I walk my dog every day, eat right, and relax when I can.

I learned that life with relapsing/remitting MS does not mean that I am disabled. I work, I play, I write, I go to school, I care for my wife and family…I am in control of my life. I define my MS…it does not define me.

MAKING DUMB DECISIONS (PART I)

2008-07-28T08:59:00.000-07:00

I guess that I should say a little bit about my teenage years. I can sum it all up by saying: we all make mistakes. I won’t say that every move that I made was a mistake, but of all of the decisions that I made, most have been more difficult to live down than others. It’s kind of like NFL Draft Day: lot’s of coal with a few rough diamonds thrown in the mix.

A mature man would say that he has looked upon all of his mistakes, and learned from every one of them. But I made a lot of bad decisions…too many to remember. So I will sum up with some of the most spectacular decisions, both good and bad, and share what I have learned from each of them. Here are a couple, I will add more in future articles.

Becoming Buddhist

It’s not how it sounds…

…okay, it’s exactly how it sounds. After 18 years of living life as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, keeping the Law of Chastity, keeping the Word of Wisdom, going to early morning seminary, performing Aaronic Priesthood duties, and just trying to be the best Mormon that I could be…I threw it all into the fire and joined myself with the Nichiren Shoshu Buddhists.

It took five years for me to find my way back home. When I say “home” I mean a place where I am comfortable with myself, a place where I can share with my family and loved ones the things that are most important to me. “Home” is where the heart it…and my heart resides with God.

Part my desire to become Buddhist had to do with my own search for “truth.” I wanted to know the deeper mysteries of the human spirit. I wanted to understand why I did the things that I did. I wanted to be aware of things beyond my physical world. Of course these count as only a minute sliver of why I chanted Nam-myoho-renge-kyo…mostly it was my desire to spend more time with Marla P. In the end I learned that Marla and I had no ultimate intertwined destinies. In fact, we were no good from the get go…my hormones blinded me to that one truth.

I did learn, though. I learned a very important lesson about why God gave us the free agency to choose for ourselves what paths we will take. Because I walked through the stinky morass of atheistic culture, I came to know some of the deeper mysteries of the human spirit: I am a spirit child of God, and my spirit wants to return to Him. I became aware of a spiritual world beyond my own physical being: I could feel the spirit of God urging me to do what is right, and the power of the devil trying to hold me down in a ditch of misery.

I still don’t really understand why I do all of the things that I do.

The Night of Incredible, Yet Sober, Stupidity

Yeah, there’s no other way to explain it. It was a wild, crazy, stupid night of fun. It was an insane January evening. Andrew M’s future in-laws (they were just his girlfriend’s parents back then) had left town and he was house-sitting for them. He invited some of us out for an evening of joy riding and photo taking in the city of Denver.

On the way downtown, for reasons that I could not then express, I felt the need to jump up on the roof of the van. I roof surfed down the street until the cop came up behind us. Yowza…that’s when I realized how bad an idea I had. Not because they caught me on the roof of a vehicle driving down the street…but because I had a 7 inch knife that I carried to feel cool and dangerous. *

I managed to ditch the knife in a snow bank as I came down from the roof of the van. The cops didn’t see it. Andrew got a ticket for reckless endangerment…I started singing the “COURTDATE TOMORROW” song in my head. How cool did I feel?

We got through that moment, and made our way down to the Design Center at Broadway and I-25. Andrew and Chris H. (a friend) set up their cameras for some black and white photos. I, for reasons that I could not then express, started climbing the Crinkle Fry. If you have never seen it (and I have included a picture so you can finally see this monstrous monument to Ore Ida frozen potato products) the Crinkle Fry is a 50 foot (at least) structure made out of yellow concrete beams. The temptation to climb it overwhelms me still to this day.

About halfway up a cop came along, and told me to get down, I asked if he was going to arrest me, and he said that he just might. I figured that I should go to the top if I were going to jail. The wind was cold and strong that night. Somehow I lost my shirt and jacket, maybe it was the knowledge that my friends were recording the moment on film. I ended up not going to jail, but my dad did get a phone call from the cops. I took that opportunity to tell him that I was going to spend the night with Andrew at his house sitting job.

What did I learn (besides that it is smart to keep clothed on a cold winter evening?) One, that I could have been killed during the van surfing incident…if not the monument scaling. Two, I learned that when I go to court, it’s good to have a lawyer (the misdemeanor charge of “reckless endangerment” was reduced to “unsafe passenger” thanks to Andrew’s Uncle Lyle.) Three, I learned that even though authority figures aren’t around (Andrew’s future in-laws) that doesn’t give me the right to go doing stupid things.

Also, and maybe more importantly, I may have gained some important insight into my motivation for stupid actions. One of the van’s passengers that night was a redhead cutie named Kyrie. My antics had to impress her…though I never saw any signs that they did.

Girls: my teen age addiction.

____________________________________________________________

*Being a man, when I say 7 inches, I really mean 2 inches.

Home

2008-06-24T08:04:00.001-07:00

The word “home” carries with it such comforting connotations. After a hard days work, I just want to go “home.” After a long and adventurous vacation, I just want to get “home” to my own bed. When I sleep at night, in my crazy dreams starring my wife and family, friends, and the occasional special guest star (Alan Alda has appeared more often than any other) and myself, I dream of “home.” While I lived in the Dominican Republic my waking and sleeping thoughts often led me to my “home” with my father, brothers, and sister.

Oddly enough, the “home” that I see doesn’t reflect my current living situation. Even though I love my house, my wife, my cat, my birds, and my brothers, I dream (as in asleep and dreaming) of another home. I dream of a home in a quiet neighborhood with a drive-in theatre at the top of the street. I reminisce about the big tree in the backyard where I could climb up high and escape the world below. I see the home with a dog in the backyard, and many lost Star Wars action figures under the big bush in the front yard. I dream of the home where I grew up in Lakewood, Colorado.

More than ever I find myself daydreaming over this home. It wasn’t just a three bedroom, one bathroom house that six kids and my dad occupied. This structure served as a person factory: a place that manufactured six responsible, mature, adults…okay maybe two or three, but a 50% success rate is pretty high in the research and development field.

My Dad started the mortgage on his house back in 1968. Real estate back then showed a different face than it does today. Though his monthly rates varied, they never topped over $100. As our family grew from four, to five, to six, to seven, and eventually to eight people, we learned to make do with the limited space. Two bunk beds sat in one bedroom, and two beds in the other (Anna’s room). The brother who slept in the room with the baby (Anna) was the brother who had to get up the earliest. I had a paper route for a couple of years, so I occupied that bed for a while.

When my Dad and Mom split, all six of us stayed with Dad. Mom told us that Dad was crazy possessive about the house, and didn’t want her changing a thing about it. During the 1980’s and 90’s he had a couple of opportunities to remarry, but when talk turned to selling the house to make room for the new additions to the family he called off the engagements. I always thought that he was over-attached to the house; I didn’t know that he made a salary of $12,000.00 a year—and that made us poor.

When Dad did remarry in 1999, I questioned whether or not he would actually make the vows. I asked him what he planned on doing with the house. He said that Larry and Darin would live there, and he would move into his new wife's house. That’s when I knew that he had really decided to get married: to leave his home—unthinkable.

I know the reason why I think so much on this home these days: I am selling it. My dad died last October and I have the dubious honor of being his chosen representative for the estate. Brad came down from Alaska and put a lot of time and energy into cleaning up the house. We had it on the market for less than 72 hours before we got a good bid. I accepted the bid and now we are working towards closing the deal.

I have mixed feelings: on the one hand I've had a lot of stress dealing with the end-game of my father’s financial life. I know that we need to sell the house, and I am relieved to see that it has gone so quickly in this slow real estate market. On the other hand, this is the home of my childhood. I stand at the base of the big tree and wonder that I ever dared to climb so high. I look at the yard and think of all the fun of playing with the dogs of my life, and my Star Wars guys. My kids will never know the joy of this home…so I will have to teach them the joy of our home—the home where we live. Hopefully they will base their dreams in that home.

Still…I am going to have the bushes removed in the front: I want my Star Wars men back.

The Courtship

2008-06-09T08:02:00.000-07:00

I had known for some time that I wanted to marry Jen. We both, in fact, knew for a long that a happy marriage awaited us. We only had a few obstacles that kept us from kneeling at the altar: about 3000 miles and the time it would take to finish our missions. I left for the Dominican Republic in November of 1993. Jen left for British Columbia in September of 1994. I would be gone a total of 24 months, while Jen would return in 18 months. Let me save you the calendar math: I would get home 3 months before her. Spending the time apart had its good points, but it also had some stark drawbacks.

We only had two weeks together, in person, face to face, before I left. We knew how we felt, but we didn’t really know each other very well. Sure we tried to fill each other in on our lives real quick-like, but it was a lot of information to disseminate in such a short time. It wasn’t until we started writing letters that we really learned about one another. I knew that she was from Hawaii, but I didn’t know that she lived on the north shore of Oahu, that her dad was her bishop for most of the time that she lived there, and that she spoke a strange language called Pidgen. I knew that she had only sisters, but I had really only met two of them (maybe three) before I left. I knew that she liked country music, but I didn’t know that it was a relatively new fad for her.

She knew that I had not been active in the church for long, but she didn’t know that I had once counted myself a Buddhist. She knew that I came from a big family myself, she even had met a brother or two of mine, but she didn’t know just how cool my family would treat her. She knew that I had played the part of rebel through my teenage years, but she didn’t know about the punk rock band and Mohawk.

Mostly we both were able to learn about how we felt about the Gospel of Jesus Christ. As we each learned something new from the scriptures, or had a testimony affirming experience in teaching the gospel, we didn’t hesitate to share it with each other. We also reaffirmed our love, often, just to let the other person know that we had never fallen out of love.

Those were the good points. Here is the formula for the bad stuff:

(Distance) + (Bad Communication) = “Dear John”

Yeah, that’s right; I got the “Dear John” with only 8 months left to go on my mission. To be fair, I prompted the letter with a poor-pity-me letter of my own that did not communicate well my emotions. She thought that my feelings for her had died, and did not want torture herself with continuing a unrequited relationship. I tried to write “Dear Friend” letters, but that was not how I felt. In the end we just stopped writing. The last quarter of my mission sucked. It just sucked.

I returned home, went on a date or two, but just couldn’t get Jen out of my heart. We had some unfinished business, namely eternal marriage. After being home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and not hearing from her for what seemed like forever, I did a no-no: I got a phone number for her and called her. We made small talk, and acted like we had no 900 pound gorilla sitting on the loveseat between us. Finally, as were about to say our good-byes, she did what I could not: she said that the letter had been mistake and that she wanted to come home to me. I could not agree with her more: both letters were mistakes and she should come home to me.

On March 28, 2006, on her birthday, she came home…to me. The night she came home I proposed. We weren’t exactly rich, so I bought her the best ring that I could. If you held it up to the light, squinted a bit, and looked real hard, you could see the tiny diamond in its loose setting. We married in June of 1996.

I knew that I wanted to marry Jen. I knew it.

All I Wanted Was a Kilt

2008-06-03T14:22:00.000-07:00

Is that such a horrible thing? Is it so wrong to have wanted to wear a kilt to my wedding? I'm part Scottish, don't ya know...

Let me flash back to the blessed day. No wait...I will have to go further back still. Let me go back to when we met. No wait...she didn't like me then. So we will have to speed up a bit then to November 25, 1993.

By this time in my life I knew a few of things for certain: 1) that it was my birthday and I had just turned 24; 2) that in a couple of weeks I would be off to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, UT to learn Spanish and prepare for missionay work; 3) I did not want a girlfriend while I was on my mission. Guys who pined over girlfriends were lonely losers and I didn't want to be one. Besides, the only girl that I really liked thought that I was annoying.

Only really cool people can laugh at their own jokes...

So there I was ready to embark on a great new adventure. I had one date to go on before I left, it was more of a friend thing than anything and I almost cancelled. I went because there was talk of lasagna...and I am a sucker for lasagna. While we ate the phone rang, another friend of ours was "sick." Partly out of worry for our friend, and mostly because dinner was over and I only wanted the same for the date, we offered to take her some food.

The "sick" turned out to be a surprise birthday party for me. Lots of people were there, some of which I actually knew, and one of them being the only girl that I was interested in at the time. That is the night that it all started...still, I did not want a girlfriend.

Now flash forward two and a half years: June 29, 1996. After writing that girl and pining for her for two years -- After I finished serving my mission and she had even come off of a mission of her own -- we had set the date for marriage. We would marry at the Denver Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. She would wear white and I would wear a tux.

No, not a kilt, but a tux.

So that you all know: we did not fight bitterly over my attire. No, I would not celebrate my Scottish heritage by wearing the costume of my forefathers and eating haggis. I would stand and beam lovingly at my new wife, marvel at the beauty of her in her white lace wedding gown, and wonder how I got to be so lucky to get to marry Jen.

Maybe I will wear a kilt at our 50 year Anniversary. Happy 12th anniversary, baby!

To Be a Teacher...

2008-05-29T08:13:00.000-07:00

A large part of me really wants to teach. I loved my two years in the Dominican Republic as a missionary. Truthfully I served as kind of a “wandering teacher” of sorts. Not only did I teach the Gospel of Jesus Christ, but I taught people how to read, and how to speak English. Sometimes though things happen that are so reprehensible in the teaching profession, that I am loathe to join the ranks of the public school teachers…

Young Alex Barton, 5-years-old, has had some issues in school. A small part of it is because he is just in kindergarten…a hard first year for kids. The major reason why he acts out has to do with Asperger’s Syndrome—an autism spectrum disorder. His parents know that these issues exist: they search actively for answers on how they can help their little guy. The school administrators know that these issues exist: they have special resource teachers in the class to help him a “couple of times a week.” Then why does Wendy Portillo, Alex’s teacher, feel that she has to destroy the child to build up her power base in the class?

Wendy Portillo held a “town meeting” and a “caucus” in the class. She had each child speak in turn, with Alex standing in front of them, and tell what they didn’t like about Alex. Finally she had them all vote on whether or not Alex “deserved” to stay in class with them. They voted 14-2 to oust Alex out of class.

Did she teach them that the Constitution of the United States of America gives Alex the right to an education? Did she tell them that the same document denies her the power of class dictator, as well as denying them any voting rights as to whether or not Alex “deserved” to exercise his constitutionally granted rights?

No.

That does not even represent the most heinous abuse. When she asked Alex where he would go, now that the class had rejected him, he said that he would go to the office and sit with the principle. She then informed him that the office didn’t want him either. Not only did she take it upon herself to deal direct damage to a young child’s psyche, she dealt untold damage on the other children of the class. She has emboldened future bullies, and maybe shamed children into making bad decisions based on what the crowd around them does.

Here's a link to the news story that I found...
http://www.redlasso.com/ClipPlayer.aspx?id=dbf1f64b-7187-4bbe-a3e4-ae567c2f0cc9

The fact that the school’s administration did nothing punitive to teach this “teacher” the limits to her rights in that classroom sickens me. Usually I will not use the precious space of my blog for venting, but this behavior cannot go un-vented.

Do I want to join myself to administrations that condone such monstrous behavior? Will my tiny actions be noticeable in a morass of ugliness? I may not be able to change the entire educational system, but I can make a difference in the life of one such child like Alex Barton. I can dig a little deeper to find the patience to help him. I can challenge myself to nurture such a child. If my teaching can change just one kid’s life, then it is worth the effort to be a teacher.

With a Gleam in My Eye

2008-05-19T11:10:00.000-07:00

“I remember where I was when Kennedy was shot.”

That’s a line that everyone from the generation before mine says with a faraway look in their eyes. Even if they voted for “the other guy” they all remember that day in November when an assassin’s bullet killed our president. I can’t say it, because I was not even a dream in the back my young mother’s mind on that day.

We that the media calls “disaffected Generation Xers” weren’t born back then and don’t have any president’s in our memories who suffered death from the hands of crazed fanatics. Isn't it always the "crazed fanatic" who enjoys our freedom to bear arms a little too much? As a result, we all have to stretch a little to get our eyes to gleam while thinking of the leaders of our days.

Here is my short list of eye gleaming moments…

Anwar Sadat

On October 6, 1981, I was in the 6th grade at Eiber Elementary School. We had strange weather that day, strange even for weather in Colorado. The day started nice, got cloudy, dark, and eventually the sky turned a surreal shade of green.

I was in the “D” wing where we enjoyed art, bemused over science, and endured 6th grade English. I learned that day that the “D” wing had a great design flaw: the north facing walls were floor to ceiling windows. Not bad on a sunny day, but scary in a hail storm...and worse during a tornado.

I remember looking though a microscope that day and trying to figure out why the inner membrane of an egg had no cell structure. The air raid siren on top of our school went off, and Mr. Pecorelli (our oft-time brilliant yet mostly cranky teacher) ordered everyone to crawl under our tables. He brought down a small black and white television and turned on the news.

A tornado had touched down not far from our school and was making its way toward us. As if that news weren’t pressing enough for us, they local news cast was cut off by the national news service who announced that Anwar Sadat had been shot and killed during a parade in Egypt.

At the time I couldn’t even tell you who he was, what he had done, or why he was important enough to ruin a parade by killing him. That night I looked him up in my Dad’s encyclopedia set that we had just purchased. He was the president of Egypt, sought peace with Israel, and shared a Nobel Peace Prize for doing so.

I remember where I was when Anwar Sadat was shot.

Ronald Reagan

It was the hey-day of my bowling career. I, as a young 10-year-old, went from the last place team in the league in my first year of bowling fall/spring league to the 2nd place team in my second year. I credit my private coaching, lots of practice during the week, and switching teams.

On one such day, in March of 1980, I was with my Mom, brothers, and sister at Holiday Lanes getting in my practice. We bowled in the lanes just opposite from the bar, so we had access to the televisions. We were in between frames, waiting for my brother Greg to wipe down his precious ball, when all action on the bowling alley ceased.

Someone had shot Ronald Reagan while he was walking out of a hotel in Washington D.C. I knew who he was, even as a 10-year-old boy. I knew that he was the President of the United States of America. I knew that my parents had voted for him. I knew that he had only recently become president. I just didn’t know if he would live.

Of course he did live. He lived to become, arguably, the greatest president ever (in the eyes of the current GOP regime.) He somehow slept through the taint that was Iran-Contra (of course he wouldn’t need to dirty his hands with that muck.) He brought about the end of Soviet Russia (well, it made for a cool Roger Waters show at the Berlin Wall.) At least we can all agree that he had great hair (which is all that mattered in the 80’s!)

I remember where I was when Ronald Reagan was shot.

HEARTS

2008-04-29T08:56:00.000-07:00

There’s a trick to playing Hearts…it involves paying attention.

In 1989 I spent 10 days as a guest at the Jefferson County Criminal Detention Facility. Saying it fancy makes it seem less like jail. The reason why the judge invited me to stay has no real importance right now, let’s just say I did something stupid and followed up with even more stupidity.

Anyway, in the common room of the module, at a table strategically situated near the bathroom, four men sat and played Hearts. The played everyday…all day long. When the time came for lockdown or lights out, they would place whatever they had in their hands face down and go to their private cells. As soon as the time came to resume activity in the common room, they would take their positions at the table and continue the game.

No one knew when the game had started.

The only way to get into the game was through an invitation from the group. The only time a spot came open was when one member of the table got his walking papers and left the facility. They allowed no substitutes or sit-ins.

Early during my stay I wondered what would happen if somebody switched the hands, or messed with the cards on their way to lockdown. During my first trip to the chamber of near-death (otherwise known as the basketball court on the roof) I saw what would happen to an individual who tried such a thing. The game deteriorated into a mosh pit with an orange ball bouncing around. The offender had to be helped off of the court. The guards had nothing to say about the rough game…it was just cell block politics.

On day eight, a member of the table went home just as I was coming out of the bathroom. A man that was not quite as large or tattooed as the average Maori warrior told me to sit and play. I measured my five feet eight inches up to his better than six foot frame…and decided that I could learn to play Hearts.

In the first round I learned that I had to avoid the Queen of Spades at all costs. I didn’t want to take any hearts in my hand, either. I had to keep my points down. Sometime during the second round I learned that if a guy could take all of the hearts and the Queen of Spades in one hand, he would get 0 points and the rest would have 26. For some reason the other players who lost that hand blamed me for not taking the Queen when I had a chance.

Stupid me…how selfish could I get?

The last hand of the night gave me the opportunity to take all of the point cards, and deal everyone else 26 points. The reaction was better when I had blown the same hand earlier in the day. The call came for lights out and the other three men grumbled that they shouldn’t have asked me to play.

Apparently no one could rescind or reject the invitation to play. So when we came out of cells in the morning I took my spot and no one said anything. For the next two days I paid close attention. I won some hands, sacrificed when I needed to sacrifice, and lost enough hands to maintain a status quo. Day 10 came quickly from there, and I soon received my walking papers. No one said “Good bye” or “Good luck” or “Have a good time out there.” They just called someone else over to play.

I see now that Hearts gave me a social education of corporate America that I refused to learn outside of jail. I’m sure that the game goes on to this day. I hope that everyone is paying attention.

MOTORCYCLE

2008-04-24T09:05:00.000-07:00

“It’s getting dark.” I said to Fa as we exited Gloria’s house. “We don’t want to get caught in the jungle after dark. You know what happens after dark, don’t you?”

“What?” Vuna Fa sounded a little incredulous. What would a 300 pound Tongan have to fear?

“Bad things man…bad things...” He and Glover lived closer to the beach than Corry and I did. Our house backed up to the river, and beyond that jungle. “You don’t hear the drums at night?”

I started moving towards the road, which lie in the opposite direction of the shortcut that went through the jungle directly to the river behind Enriquillo.

“I’m not green, Justo, I don’t get scared by that crap.” Fa said…not moving towards the road.

“Haitian Voodoo magic goes on in the jungle at night. They beat the drums and don’t invite any intruders.” So far I had said nothing to convince him. “A year ago Gloria’s husband came home from town after dark using the river trail…they haven’t even found all of his pieces yet.”

Fa didn’t take too long in thinking about that last statement, and he caught up with me to use the longer route back to town. We worked as missionaries in and around a small town called Enriquillo on the southern peninsula the Dominican Republic. Our official attire made us stand out among the local gentry: white shirt, tie, dress shoes, and slacks. We wore black nametags with our names, and the church that we served…though not that many Dominicans could read them to see who we were and why we were there. Still, they served their purpose. Everyone in town knew the four of us as “Los Mormones.”

We got to the dirt road and started double-timing it down the mountain. We were barely out of sight of Buena Vista when we heard a motorcycle come up behind us. We stopped to let it go by us and watched the driver slow down to talk to us.

“You don’t want to be out here at night.” He said in Spanish.

“We know,” I replied, “we didn’t pay close enough attention to the sun, so we are running back to down.”

“Hop on; I will take you both into town.” He said, scooting up to sit on the gas tank.

This was not the usual Honda Cub 50 bikes that we usually see around here. This was a Yamaha 300 series: practically a mini-van by Dominican standards. Still, with Fa at 300 pounds and me at over 200…conventional wisdom would scream “DON’T GET ON THE BIKE!”

Not much conventional wisdom makes it to the Dominican Republic.

I climbed on behind the driver, and Fa held on to me at the back end of the bike. We started down the winding road, gaining speed as the driver gained confidence in his ability to carry the load. As we dipped down and then back up in the hilly terrain, the sometimes paved road gave way completely to dirt. Then, as we topped a small rise to go straight down the mountain, the power to the motorbike cut out completely. No lights, no power brakes, and no control over the speed…as Jim Lovell said: we put Sir Isaac Newton in the pilot’s seat.

Initially the ride proved scary, but manageable. As long as Fa and I combined for over 500 pounds of weight, we wouldn’t lose too much control. But soon the road went from smooth dirt to washboard. Then it went from washboard to insane erosion. Despite the efforts of our weight, we bounced around quite a bit.

Fa fell off of the back.

With the driver sitting practically on top of the handlebars, what control we would have had
diminished almost completely. He did all he could to keep the wheel straight and not send us end over appetite down the hill. With me riding on top of the driver…well I wasn’t much help at all.

We started taking serious air. Every rut we hit sent us flying with no control over direction or speed. Every rock I saw seemed to have my name on it. I saw a lot of big rocks. What seemed like forever to me ended abruptly when the driver’s best efforts failed and we flew over the handlebars.

I rode the driver down the hill for a while, and then I fell off of him.

I rolled to a stop, and lay on the ground to wait for angels or something to come along and lead me to my final destination.

“Justo!” The only angels I heard sounded like Fa. “Justo, are you all right?”

Until that point I had felt no pain. Death has no pain, and if I had survived a 200 hundred yard fall down a mountain…then I should feel pain. Therefore, I must have died. At least those thoughts percolated through my mind as I lie in the rocky and rutted dirt.

Then the pain came. My leg hurt a little, a bit of throbbing just above the knee. Yeah…that was it. No pain beyond what felt like a soon-to-be bruise on my leg. I sat up as Fa reached me. He had some dirt on his white shirt…no blood, no guts, no bones sticking out where they should not.

“Yeah Fa, I’m alright.” I said as he helped me up. “I lost my watch, and the sole of my shoe is
holding on by a thread…literally. How are you?”

“I’m ok, just a fall ya know.”

Yeah…I knew.

“Where’s the driver?” I asked as I surveyed the wreckage.

Bits and pieces of the motorbike littered the road. We had nearly passed all of the way through dusk, and we couldn’t even find all of the pieces. In the middle of it all, face down in the dirt and unmoving, lay our driver.

“Fa…I think I killed him.” I said as we ran to his aid.

I learned from countless first aid classes from Cub Scout to Boy Scout that you never move an injured person for fear of turning a minor fracture in the head or spinal cord into a major (even deadly) break. Fa came from the school of Tongan first aid: slap him until he comes around.
It must be an island thing, because it worked. Fa had the Dominican on his feet in no time at all.

We moved around the road picking up pieces of bike and gave them to the driver who tried to put it back together like some motorized Lego toy. The whole time the driver mumbled about how the bike was his brother’s…and his brother would kill him.

Finally, night upon us, the driver kick-started the bike and it roared to life. He revved the engine and turned on the lights. The bike worked like before the accident.

“Do you want a ride?” The driver turned to us and asked with a smile.

CRISTO REY

2008-04-09T14:00:00.000-07:00

Take a walk with me down a street that has seen me ambling down it so many times in the past. The people here call this barrio, or neighborhood, Cristo Rey. My shirt sticks to my back too…it’s the enfeebling combination of heat and humidity. You’ll get used to it. Let’s get moving.

Don’t let the noise alarm you, here in Santo Domingo drivers lean on the horn. They honk when they speed up, they toot when they slow down, and they beep when they turn corners. Small engine motorcycles, just a step above mopeds, zip in between cars on the jammed street. On the street level, soot and dirt cake the buildings, only allowing a smidgen of the once bright colors to bleed through the filth. Lift your eyes to the second level of the buildings and they reveal their intended colors: sky blue, hot pink, bright yellow, any color that both attracts and repels the eyes at the same time.

This street, Calle Trujillo, cuts through the city drawing a line between the various barrios of Santo Domingo. Most corners house music stores. Of course in this part of the world a man with a dual cassette tape recorder and a pile of pirated audio tapes constitutes a music store. They lounge on empty crates with audio tapes mounted on a piece of plywood behind them. Music down here plays from every doorway. Different music but the same sound: meringue. Horns play in staccato unison, and the voices of everyone’s favorite merenguitos (that would be people who sing meringue) battle for sound wave supremacy.

Let’s head down the street. The pharmacy to the left smells if lilac powder and a scent that Elizabeth Arden calls “Sunflowers”. The owner doesn’t sell the perfume; he just employs it to pull people in off of the street. How Elizabeth Arden managed to jam sunshine in a diffuser, I will never know. Pharmacies down here carry more than aspirin, toiletries, and Alka-Seltzer. Here pharmacies also offer bolts of bright cloth, machetes, books, 5 gallon bottles of water, Malta India, and anything else that you will ever need to buy.

What’s Malta India you ask? Ah…Malta, the magical (non-alcoholic) elixir brewed by beer companies for the discriminating South American palate. Malta gives a thick taste, like a very dark beer, then follows up that heavy flavor with a sweet molasses aftertaste. Put down 8 chilled ounces on a 95 degree day, and the magic comes to life.

Ahhh…Malta…

Grab a Malta and cruise towards the limpia botas: a group of young boys with shoe shine boxes. Put a foot on the box and let the boy apply dark polish to the shoe. The rich smell of the polish intoxicates, and the feel of the rub removes the walking sores. If it’s an older boy he may work so vigorously that you get a foot massage along with a shoe shine.

Go past some of the street vendors and see what fries in their vats today. Most likely you will find smashed green plantains, fried like thick potato chips. Or you may find empañadas with some sort of mystery meat tucked inside (have you seen your favorite stray dog today?) On a good day you can smell the mondongo: a much better application of tripe. The tube meat fries in fat, writhing around with the heat and popping with the oil. Find a vendor that you trust and pick up a little something to eat. Will you try the salted plantain, roll the dice on the empanada, or go for the big prize. I promise that mondongo’s soft texture will treat you right, just watch out for the bitter aftertaste. If you don’t like liver, then I don’t recommend it.

At the end of the street we reach our destination: Helados Bon. Come on in from the furnace of the street and get some ice cream. Here you choose from both flavors: vanilla and chocolate. The appeal of this spot does not necessarily include a wafer cone. No, stand here for just a second and wait for the shiver. It takes a concentration of frigid air to keep the ice from turning into soup in the Caribbean. Choose whatever flavor you like…I’m buying.

The Ballad of Wallace Thaddeus Linkletter

2008-04-04T08:22:00.000-07:00

Wallace Thaddeus Linkletter
dreamed a brilliant little plan:
he would slay himself a dragon
and become a famous man.

He reflected on what he’d buy
with the dragon’s golden hoard:
a gazillion room mansion
and the title of Sir or Lord.

He would keep the finest stables
of the purest breed of stallions
and wear a snappy uniform
adorned with gold medallions.

His servants would all dress
in livery of the finest style.
His floors and walls would gleam
in designer mosaic tile.

Wallace Thaddeus Linkletter
could see his future clearly:
the world would know his deeds
women and children would love him dearly

Men would sit in bars and pubs
and regale his fell exploit.
Songs would praise his mighty glory
from Istanbul to Detriot.

The Queen from her mighty throne
would grant a holiday for his feat.
They’d march a parade in his honor.
down the city’s broadest street.

Of course the grandest mark of fame
a sign that there can be no one bigger
is when the stores stock their shelves
with the Linkletter action figure.

Wallace Thaddeus Linkletter
is still dreaming of his fame,
and that is why ‘til this day
you have never heard his name.

Phantom

2008-03-12T09:48:00.000-07:00

After thirty-eight years, I still daydream. I used to dream of acting in cool and good looking parts, stuff that James Dean or a young Marlon Brando would have landed. I saw movies and TV shows and thought, “I can do that.”

Lately, those daydreams have changed to meaningful and ugly parts, like the Phantom of the Opera. Sure, I don’t have a Michael Crawford voice; likely I am still too young for the role; and no one wants to see a short and fat Phantom. But angst…I have moved on from beautiful teenage angst to middle aged, living in the dark sewers of Paris angst…

…and I think the mask is pretty cool, too.

CLOWNS

2008-02-28T09:10:00.000-08:00

What is it with kids and clowns? Adults think that kids love them. The circus banks on the fact that kids care about the manic strangeness of masked maniacs. Rich parents always have to hire a clown to entertain at kids parties. What is it with with these made up, macabre, merry Andrews?

Most kids hate them.

Even before the television adaptation of Stephen King’s IT, Batman fought his evil clown enemy The Joker. Each child builds up their phobias in their own way. As for me and my phobia, it started well before “Poltergeist” came along.

I don’t know whether to blame my father or my mother. One of them (and they stand united in blaming each other) hung a picture of a clown over my bed as a child. Crafted with cut pieces of felt in vibrant primary colors, the clown’s big head and shoulders took up most of the frame with its wide eyes and huge grin. The guilty artist even put a distant circus scene in the background. Such a happy little scene alone would not have caused my heart to skip beats.

Add a little glow paint around the eyes and grin…

Bedtime did not come easy at my house. I knew that going to bed meant being alone with my two greatest nemeses: my older brother and that clown. My older brother never hurt me, per se, but he would have watched gleefully as the glowing eyes and wicked grin crawled out of the picture frame and devoured me in minutely painful nibbles.

I always fought the call to go to bed. I spent as much time brushing my teeth as I could. I became very picky about which pajamas I should wear to bed. Would the blue horses protect me better from certain fear? Or would my Snoopy fuzzies (with feet) be the answer? I tried to get my mom and dad into the habit of reading to us before we went to sleep…but they thought that reading the Bible or War and Peace would take away from whatever havoc parents raged after their children go to bed.

Eventually they would turn out the lights and close the door…leaving me to my own feeble defenses to pass the night. They usually ceded to my pleas to leaving the door open a crack and keeping the hall light on until I went to sleep. In retrospect, I am not sure that the light helped much. I could not look up, for that would engage the evil of the clown. I could not close my eyes; I did not want that clown to come at me with no fair warning.

My first option was to look towards the light peeking through the slender crack that my parents provided. I saw the same repeated images: someone walking up the hall towards our room. I don’t know who it might have been, but it was a large and wide person with either a hairy face or a ski mask. So a killer in a ski mask, Bigfoot, or Bigfoot in a ski mask became my only logical choices. Why did they sell ski masks in every K-mart if only the bad guys used them?

My next choice to diverting my eyes away from either the evil clown that would come out of the picture frame, or the oft repeated bulky stalker never quite made it to my room, was to look straight ahead. Any way I could figure it, I was dead. Towards the foot of my bed, on the opposite wall, the ever-open closet lurked. In daylight I could see the big sliding doors kept themselves jammed open with spilling toys, books, and never-worn clothes. Let in just a trickle of light from the hallway at night and I could see the closet for what it really was: the doorway to a world filled with tentacled beasts looking for small, dark-haired boys on which to snack.

At some point, every night, I would burrow deep into my covers, and pile my pillows and stuffed animals on top of me. I know now that it showed poor character, using my precious animals as shields to save my tiny hide. I really felt that I had no choice, and I made the choice every night.

I spent years with this as my frightful status quo. Even until I had finished grade school and prepared to enter the ever-confusing life of junior high school. That summer came the change. That summer came “Poltergeist.”

My brother and I went to see the movie. They rated it PG, and we were big enough to see such movies, so we went. The movie confirmed every fear that I ever had…and helped to create new ones. The malevolent clown, the voracious closet, the toys that terrorized the room, the television static, spirits meandering about the house…all of it corroborated. And I knew all along that something was not right with the tree outside of my bedroom window.

We came home late in the evening and I had already made up my mind: I would never set foot in my room without light again. When I went in to get ready for bed, the clown mocked me. I could hear its hollow cackle echo in my head. The closet licked its lips as I ran past it. The same thought pranced through my brain over and over again: no…not tonight…not ever again.

I sat up as late as I could. When my dad played his go-to-bed-or-get-spanked card, I seriously considered the spanking. Instead I told him that I was scared. He agreed that the movie might have been a bit much, and let me sleep in his room that night…and the next…and the next…

On the fourth morning, a Saturday, he finally played his biggest trump card: go-to-your-own-room-and-go-to-bed-tonight-and-I-mean-it. With his hand on his belt I could not argue against his position. I sat in my room all day and formulated a plan on how I would survive the night. I had most of the elements in place, I just needed a weapon. Then I saw key to my survival: my football.

I invited the clown to play a game of catch. Who knew that it would be so fragile? The clown screamed like breaking glass when the ball struck it. It slid behind my bed and I could hear the weeping, wailing, and gnashing its teeth in its death throes. Dad came in and lamented the loss of the precious clown, never once caring about the torment it inflicted on his second son for the whole of that boy’s life. I took the spanking well and spent the rest of the day in my room as a punishment. That’s okay; it was all a part of my brilliant plan. Over the next few hours I cleaned out the closet so that the door would close. I then jammed the door shut so that no tentacles could open the door at night and take me while I my false sense of security lulled me to sleep.

That night, bedtime came, and I did not fight it. I stripped down like an Indian warrior and prepared for the final battle to come: the stalking shadows. Phase three of my plan came when my dad asked if I needed the light on so that I could sleep.

No. Not that night. Not ever again.
I had him close the door, and keep the light off. In the darkness, the complete darkness that came with bedtime, nothing threatened to maul, grab, or eat me. For the first time in my memory I fell asleep without a pile of blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals on top of me. I slept the sleep of the brave: the same sleep that comes from a young Indian boy after his first buffalo hunt. My hunt did not include bows, arrows, and bison. My weapon: the football. My prey: the glowing clown of death. I slept victorious.

ASTROLOGY

2008-02-25T08:43:00.000-08:00

What is my sign? I don’t know why so many people are interested in the date and time of my birth. What does it have to do with anything? I celebrate my birthday in late November…so to many people I qualify as a Sagittarius. I came to light in 1969…that means that I was born in the Chinese Year of the Rooster. I don’t know what any of that means. I just think that the sign a person recognizes to define their lives should conform to the individual…not the other way around. Let me tell you about my sign.

A week and a half after her projected due date, in November of 1969, and still my mother had not seen the birth of her beloved second child. She and my older brother lived with her parents in Edgewater, Colorado. She had passed her due date by so many days that my grandfather began to think of the entire pregnancy as a bad case of gas. No amount of spicy food would extricate me from the womb: I would come when I was ready.

Early in the morning of November 25, Mom felt strong indications came that that birthing time had arrived. That is to say: water had broken and great pain ensued. Grandpa loaded Mom in the back of his new Chrysler, the first new car that he had ever owned, and raced across town to University Medical Center in Denver. I can almost hear him shouting “Not in my new car!” while tearing through the winter streets.

Mom did manage to keep Grandpa’s backseats in pristine condition, but she had to work to keep me in place for the doctor to do his job. They rushed her into the hospital, and put her in the elevator to go to Delivery. The elevator doors closed and did not open again before I came into the world with a triumphant howl.

What sign was I born under? I would have to answer: 3rd floor.

Where to Blog

2008-02-19T08:39:00.000-08:00

Yeah, so not my first spot in which to blog. I have a Myspace account...but I get a lot of Myspace trash sent to me. I have a Yahoo 360 that I really enjoyed...but apparently that is going away. I have a need to blog. Where to go to blog? How can I pass up the madness and just BLOG?

Blog.

I like that word. It's not a funny as Gugennheim...but who would visit the Blog Museum? I have chosen this as my blogspot. This is the place for me. I plan on VLOGGING someday (which sounds like an eastern block blog. It's not, but I am just not yet set up for a video blog at this juncture.)

So this is just an introduction. This serves as a starting point from which to spring my blog onto the world. From here you will learn the answers to such questions as:

What's my favorite pasta...?
Who makes me happy...?
Who do I make happy...?
Have I ever climbed that yellow tower at I-25 and Broadway...?
and the ever pressing:
Why Maddog Salamander?

Hold on to your toupee, here we go...