Curtains

I slipped inside the oak phone booth and picked up the handle of the payphone with my thumb and forefinger. It's a public phonebooth afterall, no matter the location be it an urban sidewalk or an esteemed private womens' college, these things are still scummy. When I unfolded the glass and wooden door into place, the bare bulb overhead did not automatically illuminate. Dark wood, a tiny, cornered slat for sitting worn to a darkened, graffitti-engraved sheen, a black metal phone and dismal sunlight sneaked through the scratched, personally, and unprofessionally etched glass which made it nearly impossible to see the vacant plasti cover where a phone book once hung.

I held the receiver in my left and tugged on the broken handle with my right to accordian the door once again. Lacking a good caulking since 1947 and suffering from far too many angry, door-slamming conversations, the glass rattled when I banged the two sides of the door into its closed glass-to-glass position. Air and diffused light from the ancient hallway poured in.

I punched in the numbers, checked my watch, and knew that my 20 minute break would be taken in entireity. I added tall-man finger to my receiver grip for strength while holding the ear piece just on the edge of my ear cuff. Two rings and a giggly "Hello?"

"Hi mom, it's me, Cass."

"Honeylamb! I've been trying and trying and trying to get in touch with you. Where are you?!"

"Well, I'm still down here in California. Remember, I told you that I had this two-week seminar and I'd be rather busy during the suummer months?"

"Oh. What's the seminar about? And what about your 4-legged friend?"

"He's at home watching squirrels in the trees. It's a science seminar. I get to learn different methodologies for developing some life science techniques in the classroom and I get paid for it too."

"How much?"

"About $400. Not a lot, but enough to put away for a rainy day."

"Oh, that's a lot of money! Is it raining down there? It's lovely here. I've got to finish putting the mulch on the flower beds. The Dahlias are just coming up now. You know Bud has cancer."

"Well, there's not much rain here in July" I wiped my ear and the phone receiver with my shirt tail and readjusted my grip: elbow on wall just below an I LUV CINDY 18 point carving. "Yea, I know he has cancer. You told me when I talked to you two weeks ago. Remember, I was up there for his oncologist's appointment with you. We talked about his options and all that."

"Options? Is it snowing then? Remember it was soooo cold during your graduation. There was snow on the ground and then there was that asterix next to your name. I almost died when Elizabeth told me what that was for."

"Mom I'm not in Montana and I did finally graduate two months later. That was four years ago. Remember? I graduated?"

"[Giggle-snort]No, not exactly. I keep getting these curtains that come down, like a sudden darkness then it seems like it's gone. I forget things."

"Huh. You seem to remember the stuff that I'd prefer you forget. So, when does these happen? At night? In the morning? When? Do they hurt like a headache?"

"[Giggle] Oh, I don't know. Why does it matter? They just happen, like a curtain, then it's dark."

"Are you standing or just waking up? Does it make you fall down or lose your balance?"

"Does what make me fall down? Honeylamb how come you sound so worked up?"

"I'm not worked up, I'm worried about you. The curtains. The shroud of darkness that you feel does it make you dizzy or anything like that?"

"How'd you know about those?"

"Mom, you just told me. You just said that sometimes you can't remember something, and it's like a curtain comes down, like a darkness falls over you."

"Oh."

"Mom, you need to make an appointment to see your doctor."

"Why? I feel okay except for these darned sniffles."

"Mom, you need to get these curtains checked. It could be more serious like mini-strokes or something like that."

"What are you talking about? I feel fine."

I checked my watch. Three minutes remained during my break and people were already filing back into the classroom. I still needed to use the bathroom before returning.

"Mom, these little blackouts. You need to talk to Dr. Naito and have them checked out. Maybe he could do some tests or something."

"Dr. Naito? How'd you know about him? Gosh, you're a smart little cookie! Now, tell me about your 4-legged friend. How is he? How's Nancy?"

"Mom, please. I have to get back to my class. Will you please call Dr. Naito and make an appointment to get these mini blackouts checked?" One minute.

"What class are you in? I thought you had a break from your students. How are they this year?"

"It's an adult class, mom, for me. A seminar. Mom, I have to go. Please call Dr. Naito and make an appointment. Please."

"For what?"

"Mom, get a pen out and write this down." A colleague walked by and mouthed an 'Are you okay?' I shrugged and turned inward towards the dark wall. I ran my finger over the various LUV and FUCK carvings on the wall. Gum wads filled the holes where other carvings expanded into giant zeroes.

"Okay, I have a pen and some paper." Paper ruffled in the background.

"Not the newspaper or the margin of some magazine. You need to get a blank piece of paper. I know there's a yellow post-it pad in the drawer right in front of you."

"How do you know where I'm standing?" A drawer opens and more ruffling. "How'd you know this pad was here?"

"I'm smart. Okay, write this down on the pad. Call Dr. Naito make appointment to have blackouts checked."

"[Giggle] This is quite funny, you telling me what to do. It's just like skiing: there was no time to admire the view. You made me keep heading downhill! [Giggle] Such a Bossybeehive you are!"

"Yep. Sassy Cassy too. Can you read the note back to me?"

"Uh, oh, I need my glasses. Okay. 'Call Dr. Naito appointment for blackouts.' What's this for, anyway? Who needs to call Dr. Naito?"

"Mom, you do! Is Bud there or around where you are?"

"He's in the basement. He's got that Rush blaring on the radio. He gets so angry when he listens to him. I don't even go near him."

"Okay, well Rush will do that. Can you call him please? Tell him I need to talk with him?"

"[Giggle] Okay honeylamb. Bud! Bud!" Pause. Footsteps fill the void as she headed towards the top of the basement stairs. A tinkling of metal on metal syncopated with a flap-flap of
giant ears that whap together. "Oh, hello Mabel! Good girl. Bud!" Mabel is a basset hound.

"What?!" a distant voice snapped.

"Cass wants to talk to you. She's on the phone." Mabel shook her head again. Probably rubbed up against mom's leg to get petted. "Yes, now!" Stomping feet.

"Where?"

"On the phone. Here."

"Hello?" He was panting. His shallow voice grabbed for bits of air.

"Hi Bud, it's me, Cass."

"Oh, hey there Cass. How are you?"

"I'm alright. Hey, I only have a second. But I need you to do me a favor. I asked mom to write
down on a yellow pad that she needs to call Dr. Naito and make an appointment. The pad should be there on the kitchen counter."

"Yes, I see it. It says 'Call Dr. Naito appointment for blackouts.' Is this it?"

"Yea. Mom seems to be having interludes of forgetfulness and these mini blackouts. I think she needs to get checked by Naito."

"She does?"

"Um, yea she's been having them for a while. So, can you call and make an appointment for her?"

"Yea, sure.
Gosh, I didn't know that she was having these. Mary, have you been having little blackouts?"

Water ran from the tap. "How'd you know?" I heard a toothy crunch. Her mouth was full of some raw vegetable. "Did I tell you this?" She snort-giggled again.

"Okay Cass, I'll make the appointment. You know, she parked the car down the street the other day then walked home. I had to go out and look for the car."

"It was a beautiful day. I just wanted to go for a walk!" She laughed in the background. "Mabel, do you want to go for a walk?" Mabel shook her head again and her collar and tags clinked together like bells. Toe nails happily clicked across mom's kitchen floor and a door creaked then slammed.

"That'd be great Bud. Let me know and I'll come up and go with you."

"Okay. Is that all?"

"Yea, I have to go. Take care of yourself. Tell mom I love her and I'll talk to you soon." I hung up the phone and heaved a diaphragm-filling breath. Outside the wall of windows, bees crashed-landed into the camelia blossoms that adorned the building. A hammocked spider's web extended between four twigs that appeared vacant of passing insects and the spider. She was probably waiting on the outskirts for her supper.

Another deep breath lifted my shoulders to my earlobes. I wiped my left ear with my shirt collar, just in case phone cooties jumped ship and walked back into the classroom where everyone was delving into shallow basins filled with crawfish. I was 10 minutes late.

Alzheimer's in the Atomic Age

Alzheimer's. There, I said it. Some people actually pronounce it, "Old-timer's," perhaps because many seniors are afflicted with this awful disease. Old Timer's makes me think of whiskey and old, surly men sitting on porches and spitting over their sleeping coon hounds. Old Timer's, like bony-faced, sallow-eyed Okies wearing suspenders and carrying castiron skillets; these are survivors in my mind. Survivors who listen to scratchy Hank Williams LPs on the phonograph and write letters on 5"x8" paper to their moved-away offspring. These are Old Timer's. These are the survivors of the times.



Those afflicted by or diagnosed with Alzheimer's are not survivors. They don't survive. They die from it. This is a disease that is literally an alien in the brain: it corrodes the brain, eats away at all the good parts, the memories, the speech, the joy, the springy step and the ability to smile.



Alzheimer's leaves no surivors. Rather, it is the A-Bomb of the soul, mind, and body of those whom we love and adore. A vacuum of life is sucked into the arsenal of this disease leaving only the dregs of a person behind. A shell, if you will, of the person we always knew and who always knew us. Not unlike The Bomb, which rips at the junctions in a victim's body, Alzheimer's tears away at the connections and synapses in the brain, damaging the tissue around it and, like the lingering radiation, continuing on its destructive path towards other healthy brain cells.



It doesn't care who it attacks. Esteemed teachers, mechanics, and physicians all fall prey to the Alzheimer's seeping annihilation. The stricken die, their bodies give up since there brain can no longer fire off the impulses to do the basic functions like breathe or swallow.



The scars that remain are left upon those of us who stood by. The caretakers. The children. The friends, neighbors, and colleagues. We witnessed the demise, we denied it, grew frustrated with this neuro scorching, then -- ideally -- dealt with it. We are left with the memory of once was the wholeness, a life, a mother, father, brother, sister who we adored.



My mother, Mary died from Alzheimer's. It was awful. It was painful to see and feel. As the disease cored out the impulses in her brain leaving vacant plaque, it also cored out me, leaving a hole where so much of who she was once thrived.



Initially, Alzheimer's, unlike, say, Cancer or Liver Disease in which we can SEE the physical destruction of the patient -- weight loss, skin discoloration, fatigue, hair loss -- does its damage internally without us SEEING a physical change. Mom Appeared the same: her stature remained constant, her laughter, her zippy step, her outward affection. Internally, though, the disease was laying claim to parts of her brain, beginning with the area the controls vocabulary. Fortunately for Mom, she had a veritable Oxford Dictionary going on in there --proof in our incomprehensible Easter Bunny notes that used Shakespearean quotations and polysyllabic words that even my oldest brother, John, then 12 didn't understand. The disease chewed away that area, but it was a slow process, not unlike how radiation crept and poisoned the lymphatic systems of Hiroshima & Nagasaki victims.



The disease moved on to other areas. Trust, wherever that's stored in the brain was immediately pummeled by the A-Bomb arsenal. What remained were thoughts of deception, lies, and thievery. Mom hid her purse in various parts of the house. We discovered newly-mailed credit cards not in drawers or in zipped up pockets in her book bags, but in soap boxes under a fresh bar of Yardley, or in a tennis ball can tucked alongside a Wilson #2. Given that Alzheimer's also chips away at the short term memory, the fact that she hid her purse -- from her husband, aka, the philandering thief -- in a different location each day made it nearly impossible to locate if she was going to leave the house.

Whenever new credit cards arrived in the mail, she'd nab them - I've no idea if she did that call-in activation we all must do from our "home phone." They would show up in sock drawers, tucked inside the folds of bar soap boxes, edged into tennis ball cans. I found one behind four cans of dog food in their pantry once when I was searching for a flavor to feed Mabel, their waggy Basset hound. She hid them because she was certain "Bud was out spending money on some woman."

One day, when she was still rather functional, she drove home and simply parked her car a few blocks away from the house. She got out, keys in hand, and walked home. There was no friend in the vicinity of her car, no construction zone that obscurred her drive, she didn't run out of gas. In her mind, it was time to park the car, and she did. When she walked in the front door - an unusual event given that always parked in the rear of the house and used the back door - Bud, her husband asked where the car was. "The car?" she inquired not knowing what he was talking about. She looked at the keys in her hand, "Don't you have your own car?"

He looked out the front window, saw only grass and an empty street, then strolled out to the curb to find a vacant road. He spent the better part of two hours walking around the neighborhood searching for her car. She didn't know why he was out there let alone why he seemed so angry. "He's probably out on a picnic with that woman."

"What woman, Mom?" I asked.

"Oh that Melissa woman. He writes her name all over the place."

"Mom, he's tutoring Melissa for math. She's in high school."

"Are you sure? Melissa? Didn't I work with a Melissa?"

"Yes. The very same. Is her name all over the calendar and on pieces of notebook paper?"

"How'd you know? I thought he had lunch dates with her."
Mom continued to hide the credit cards, her purse, bills, cash, and even some pieces of flatware silver despite this explanation. It's just the disease. It eats away at Trust, at Rational Thinking, at all Complex Problem Solving, at Communication capacities, at basic mental processes, including the simplest to help one survive, such as the ability to clean and feed oneself. Strangely, it forces the rest of us to release our years-held frustrations, disappointments, and hoped-for acknowledgments because they just aren't going to resolve themselves or happen once this disease strikes. It eats away at all those pent-up everythings that have been festering and simmering since childhood. It forces an unravelling and cooling off. Relinquish, let them go, and close that wound. This corrosive disease won't help the healing of any wound still gaping and dripping with unsettled emotion.

Alzheimer's, like the A-Bomb, it leaves behind a blistered trail of nothingness, hardly a shadow of who the person once was. And, for those of us who remain, our hands, our minds, our hearts are left with shredded images of who the person eroded to and became in this recessive process all messed into the fond memories of who she once was before the acidic explosion seeped into her mind. It's a catastrophe that even a thousand paper cranes cannot thwart, nor can a child's heartfelt love stave off the destruction.

Age for the Not-so-Aged: XLVI

XLVI

This does not stand for X-tra Large Very Important. Rather, it's our friendly Roman Numeral indication for a number not widely used in crossword puzzles, número cuarenta-seis.

Mid-40s. I hit the upper edge of the Mid-40s yesterday, September 30. Not a remarkable age, the 46. The number itself is twice a prime number, and other than 2 and 23, it's out there with no other factors, besides 1 and itself.
Kind of isolating, the number 46 - makes me wonder about all those other funky numbers and ages, like next years solid prime, La 47. Live for the now and don't contemplate that far ahead. I'm not much of a planner anyway, so 364 days off is just a ludicrous notion.

Changes so far? Things to contemplate? Given that Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah just passed, it only seems appropriate to settle in and take some sort of inventory of my life this past year: accomplishments, sins, failures, desires, and chocolate. The latter, I'm certain is worthy of its own self-reflective category, since it is a fave. Including Jujubes and Jujyfruits seems right, seeing as I spend oodles of time trying to nudge these from the recesses of my natural dental work in lieu of listening to a dear friend's divorce calamity, financial woes, or health scares. When my tongue is working that hard to chisel these syrupy nuggets from my teeth and gums, how could one expect me to donate 95% attention to another's tribulations. It's not much different than trying to maintain a conversation with someone who's "busy" surfing the internet for something, anything, anywhere more intriguing than this discussion.

Reflections on the year or what's new & different in the sub-semi-century age:
>Still searching for a job. Ugh.
>Writing more now that I have a p/t job. Discovering how much I enjoy this action when I've whittled away my free time.
>In combat with one, yes one, particular gray hair that resembles a RR crossing arm, including the shiny reflective paint, moreso than a blended-in brown hair. This one defies gravity and tends to point the way for lost tourists to head east or north, depending upon which direction I face; it's perpendicular to my spine.
>The gold nuggets I discovered in the Stanislaus River, making me an imaginary millionaire, have turned out to be a medley of pyrite & mica. Still pretty, shiny, and goldy, just not worth much. Fool.
>John F. Kennedy was assassinated at age 46, just one month & 22 days after I was born. Now that's freaky.
>I'm in a double-prime year. 45 was a good number, with lots of factors: 3,5, 9, 15. Seemed powerful: the year WW2 ended. 45th parallel is the 'halfway' point between the Equator and the N. Pole. My home state of Oregon lies on the 45th parallel, a state of which I'm quite proud and fond. 45 rpms were the standard record that we played on our little record player, when Capitol records' label was a meld of orange-yellow swoops, kind of like Yin-Yang, or interlocking Nike swooshes, only better. 45th wedding anniversary is the sapphire wedding (25: silver, 50: gold). Sapphire happens to be my birthstone too.

To make amends with this new age of 46, I'd like to point out that that solo crossing guard hair makes me just that much more unique. It's truly a glistening, follicled lightsaber by which my friends can locate me on a moonless night.

46 is the sum of the number of human chromosomes (23 pairs, in case you were a little foggy during that Biology class chapter on genetics). I'm the proud owner of all 46, no less, no more, despite what my siblings might occasionally say.

And, to mark the day on a positive note, I chewed a piece of slurpy Juicy Fruit gum, the very same (yellow pack) gum that my maternal grandmother honored each of the five of us with every time she visited, or on my birthday. Hers fell on September 5, so we oft shared a 9th month celebration. We grew old together: the wise chain smoker carved from tenacity, "Old Kentucky Blood," and 5pm High Balls and me the youthful, tomboy, baseball-loving, pyro-sprite.

Juicy Fruit still has that burn-the-back-of-your-throat spicy sugary sensation, not unlike Beeman's, or Clove, or BlackJack, without the red or black tongue after effect. It's just enough to make the silver fillings in my teeth erode just a smidge, yet antagonizes my salivary glands to the point my jowls are flooded and I slaver over my lips like a broken levee. It's a stick gum with a jagged, Charlie Brown embossed print on each end. It's still wrapped in that serrated edge metallic wrapper, such that a tiny speck of said paper (invisibly glued to the stick) still has the capacity to fire off an electrical jolt through my brain when my fillings make contact. There's no way to get that particle out of the dental canal without a mirror, a good toothbrush, and a rinse. Or, when such amenities aren't available, withdraw that syrupy wad of ABC Juicy Fruit and utilize it's under-desk sticky factor to suction it away.

Toss that wad, btw. It's an electrical hazard now. Fold another piece across those central incisors and start fresh, like a new age, or a brighter outlook.

Despite it all, it's a happy gum, written in joyful black print with a slim, vaguely present red outline that borders each letter. With an oral and aromatic wave of secret-spiced gummy lusciousness Who wouldn't want to etch away their tooth enamel?

Given the Juicy Fruit, the birthday brunch and dinner with my family and pals, and the crisp, clean, gently-warm air and azure sky that marks the skin-tingling Autumnal kickoff, I admit this celebration of my birth day has been darned good. So long ole 45! Forty-six?! Here I come!

XLVI:

Xenogenesis, Lucky, Verve, and Iridescence

It's Not Nice to Toy with Mother Nature

There's something to be said for Respecting Nature. I do. Always have. Don't turn your back on the ocean. Wear bear-bells in bear country. Wasps and hornets prefer not to be swatted (and missed), as it only pisses them off. Wool warms, cotton kills.

We humans, for the most part, are predictable animals. We eat in certain places, tend to nap in soft zones, we lash out at others who annoy us, including the errant ear-hovering mosquito who circles the earlobe at 3am.

Animals, however, are not as predictable with their behavior. For example, the deer that feed along the shrub-and-grass lot behind my house simply stand and stare at Gracie and Basco as they bark madly at them. These same hooved animals react similarly when they're just outside my front door as the dogs and I head out for nighttime pees. Stand, blink, immobile. They wait for these barking irritants, these long-lineage offspring of ancestral predators to quiet themselves with a silly assumption that Basco, who's blind, and Gracie, who's not would not chase after and nibble on their heels given the unleashed opportunity.

Birds do in fact, fly off when a stranger approaches. However, their unpredictability lies in that strange moment with the overly optimistic and confident middle-of-the-road bird, who's made the choice that his toothpick legs are much faster at running across the road in order to avoid an on-coming vehicle than to quickly gain flight in a simple up-down flap of its eight-inch airbound wings. Go figure.

Today, on the southside trail of Round Top Mtn in the Sibley Volc. Preserve in the E.Bay Reg. Parks, not far from the sign that states "Do Not Enter, Rehabitation Area", beneath the leafy shade of the Eucalyptus grove, an angry, coiled, fang-bearing rattlesnake decided to become Sergeant-at-Arms (as decided by whom, its forest brethren?) of the trail. Anyhoo, it laid there in partial sun and shade, not under or on top of a warm rock or near a bunny warren where most textbooks state we can find them. From my heart-thumping, 10 yard distance, I spied his coiled his body -- approx two-inch diameter -- while he hissed his poisonous tongue and rattled his 4" shaker posted just centimeters from his slit-eye head. Gracie cocked her head to the side and stood motionless. Fortunately, she did not step forward to within 5' from this reptile, but stood in awe, cranking her head towards the other shoulder.

Frightened does no justice as an emotional description here. Jarred. Jolted. Cautiously freaked.

It was all I could do to summon her back with a "Gracie! Come! Here! Gracie! Come!! Basco! Stay!" Mind you, Basco, the good little guy was already standing at my shins and simply sat down, not knowing why I was yelling at him. Good boy.

She returned to me, with her head craned backwards at the sputtering rattler, its jaw wide open, fangs dripping with venom that glistened in the sun's rays and ready to plunge into soft, pliable skin. I re-leashed both of them -- Basco's so good, I don't really know why I bothered, since he'd simply follow me wherever I walked. But, in the event Gracie thought of Mr. Venomous Ready Bite as a crinkly rattly toy and needed some outdoor play time, I hedged my bet on cautiousness. She has a thing for disemboweling all her toys, often ripping their heads off first then chewing apart the area that crinkles, squeaks, or, of course, rattles. I could only imagine that this "live" toy appeared the same to ther, minus the chenille fabric, fluffy stuffing, and kidney bean-plastic containered rattle.

I felt bad for the puppies since we'd just walked up hill in the sun for about 30 minutes, and I chose this particular path and route as a means to cool them down. That's what we usually do. But there was no choice but to backtrack up the mountain trail, into the searing sun, and back along the ridge. At least I brought two water bottles for the little guys.

In those brief rattling moments on the trail my mind raced: What should I do, thrown rocks at Mr. VRB in hopes that he'd uncoil and slither down the hill towards the feral cats and hopping rabbits? Make myself big as suggested for mountain lions and coyotes? I don't think so. This sputtering reptile was not going to budge. For all I know, today was eat-anything day. Even the birds weren't flying around that part of the trail, opting to leave the seeds, worms, and insects for another time.

Mother Nature's Animals are not as predictable as we'd sometimes like them to be. Sure, raccoons and bears will take the easy route and head straight for the untethered trash cans and tents filled with yummy food rather than hunt and forage. Who wouldn't? I mean, even we humans do that, don't we? That's why we open the refrigerator and stare at whatever's inside imagining a meal, a la George Jetson-style to materialize rather than put something together. Hence, the success of that well-known business, the restaurant.

The rattlesnake is no different. If a meal will cross its path, well, then so be it, it's like a drive-thru, hot-n-ready treat for him. If I tossed rocks County Fair style at his head in hopes of ensuring passage on this trail, I'm sure PETA would be all over me, I'd piss him off and he'd probably S-curve and slither-sprint his way towards my calf in retaliation. But, I have to remember, that this path, these woods, these trails, rocks, ravines, and arroyos are actually his turf, not mine. I'd like to think otherwise, but, you know, Nature is where these types live and exist. If he opted to enter my house, well, we know that's another matter. In his house, though? Just like the elk, moose, and bears I encountered when I hiked around Montana: let them be.

When I was little, my mom invited an old college friend of hers to our house. She brought her two children, a boy & girl, both of my elder sister, Elizabeth's and brother Tommy's ages. The girl dumped perfume -- part of a perfume-making kit -- all over Lizzy's bed. She broke my Baby Magic doll and somehow tossed the wand into the fire. The boy stepped on Tommy's Hot Wheels Sizzler car and snapped the track into pieces. They did not finish their Dixie-Riddle Cups of Kool-Aid that mom made for them, a drink we never were allowed, but even moreso, if we were (Birthday parties), a drop was never lost or wasted. They did not apologize. They did not display shame for their rancid, destructive behavior.

These were not children we liked. They were not welcome in our home. They did not make an attempt to replace or wash or repair any of the destroyed items. We reminded our mother every time she mentioned her college pal's name that her children were animals. Unpredictable. Feral. They should have backed away from our house before even stepping across the threshold. Urchins.

This is not a grudge but merely a point: some people are lower in the animal kingdom organizational pyramid. They diverged at the Class level (Mammal), jutting off towards something of a lower-thinking level. Hardly made the resemblance to the Primates (Order), who actually have some rational thinking processes. These two were not unlike the Sloth, which is of a subclass of the mammal; they don't even make it to Primate order. Seems about right. Subclass. Yep.

Back to the snake. Obviously, I won't enter the 'house' of Mr. Venomous Ready Bite for quite a while now, at least until I'm certain that the ranger has removed all those Rattlesnake In Area signs. Maybe some curious coyote and Mr. VRB will exchange moonlit words and, hopefully, the coyote will win. Until then, I'll just have to respect Mother Nature's Sibley Volcanic Round Top Mtn trail and let Nature take its course. I discovered a video that showed a red tail hawk & rattler dueling. Spoiler Alert!:::: The Hawk wins. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CeskXKz765g)

There are lots of hawks in the area and this viper was in plain view to any hungry bird of prey that circled the area. I'm counting on one Red Tail or Cooper's hawk having a craving for some fresh rattlesnake meat. Perhaps it needs a new belt or boots for its taloned claws. Mr. VRB would make a nice meal for a hungry hawk, coyote, or (recently spotted!) fox in the area.

Rattlesnakes are scarier than bears, mountain lions, and coyotes, and don't care if you make yourself noisy, big, or 'dead'. While the mammals will avoid us given most opportunites (with the exception of the two undomesticated, brackish gremlins who came w/my mom's friend),those diamondbacks will still coil, rattle, lunge, and bite and attack, even if the trail they're (and we're) on is well-traveled and habited by many.

Exercise caution when you're out on those trails. Or, carry some antivenom, or, wield a big stick, or, perhaps best of all, have somebody else walk ahead of you (and your dogs) so he can be the discoverer and distractor of the pit viper. You'll thank me later.

2009 SF Dyke March

Tons and tons, no, hoards and hoards, no, gaggles, groups, pods, packs, and a plethora of dykes, lezzies, newby-dykes, tranny-dykes, mod-lez', old, wide, squat, tiny, lean, butch, femme, andro, sporty, mulleted, buzzed, wavy'd, permed, dyed, bespectacled, wheelchaired, caned, walkered, and of course, motorcycled dykes hovered, sat, strolled, gazed, walked, sauntered, scammed, pawed, scoured, moshed, humped, and ambled the grounds in and around San Francisco's Dolores Park.

The 39th Annual Dyke March kicked off with a rally sporting notions of dyke equality, funky music, and, among other notables, the scratchy-voiced, kick-ass keynote speaker Sharon Gless (famed for her role as Christine Cagney in Cagney & Lacey, bit parts in Nip/Tuck, and of course as Debbie Novotny, the smart-mouthed mom in Queer as Folk). She's in a new low-budget film, Hannah Free which closed out the film fest. Yea for her doing a lez part and being proud of it to boot!.

I missed 98% of that rally, opting to arrive later and wander the grounds, absorbing all the estrogen and lezzie aura in the air. Man, it was AWESOME. I realized, near the end of the Dyke March -- which started (typically) late, wound its way down 18th Street to Valencia, Valencia to 16th, then west on 16th to Castro towards the magnificent party and gargantuan disco ball -- that I could have easily made myself into one of those iconic rock stars and had the burly, bare-chested chix who were whooping nearby hoist me up over their shoulders and let the crowd of female fingers just pass me along over the heads of the 40,000 hot & hollering lez-positive women that filled 16th. It was that kind of night. Absolutely remarkable.

So awesome it was, that I actually Missed the dyke drama just a mere first-down measure from my feet. I happened to be in line for a scummy port-a-potty, and, beyond my vision, perhaps a few steps farther down the line, a pair of prickly dykes got into fisticuffs with each other. Haven't been witness to a good 'you slept w/my girlfriend' fight in soooo long. Lunging for each other, fists flying, long hair snarling and getting yanked, kicking, cussing, all while each person's little posse attempted to unsuccessfully pry these angry pheromone-laden women apart. Like angry magnets they were, just when the iron ore seemed to be far enough from its attractant, the raging, jealous energy sucked them back together in a fiery, female, snarling fight. But for the lack of folding chairs and monstrous & bald security personnel that are oft found on stage, Jerry Springer would have been proud. The two feral females ultimately stomped off in opposite directions with their cadres, both tomato faced and tearful. One of them, fists still clenched, was screaming at her good pals, "Goddammit, I just fucking love her so much I could kill her!" Aaah, now that's good dyke drama love. Nearly a sonnet.

Alas, it was all-chik energy from curb to curb, corner to corner with boys, women, tourists, heteros & homos on the sides, cheering from their windows, dancing on the rooftops, applauding from fire escapes, and beeping their horns while stuck in their cars because of our traffic stopping busts and shouts. Of course, there were quite a few men in the crowd of marchers too, which makes me wonder why since it's a lezzie thing and dudes can hang on the edges to support. Still, the air was sizzling, with melodious, lavender-laden, alto soprano tones and ear-thumping decibel levels from the revving D.o.B. motorcycles, political statement megaphones, Sistah Boom's percussive poundings, and the feet stomping, hip-grinding pulsating rhythms of Madonna, Pink, and Sister Sledge blaring from upper floor apartments.

Because of the sunshiney, 80 degree day, skin shone throughout. Bare arms dangled and pulsed to the beats, draped around wifely shoulders, or clenched the muscles as the wrists cocked the throttle on their Harleys. Breasts of all shapes, sizes, and adornments flopped to and fro for Dyke Freedom. Some women were so bold to actually place Human Rights campaign stickers on their nipples. I suppose because of the higher temperature and sweat-bead factor, peeling them off wouldn't hurt as much as they normally would, but still. I can think of less painful ways to be slightly modest, and even make a tiny political message. Nonetheless, bare butts, breasts, and a smattering of all-nude women (and quite a few nude men in the Castro) staked their claim to the message: we're dykes, we're sexy, fun, shapely, and ready to take on the world - one march at a time!

What impressed me this year moreso than most other years was the number of younger women present at the march. By younger, I mean 18+ year olds who are aware, participating in and celebrating their lives, their sexual explorations and identities. Some were a bit shy, hiding behind or clinging to their female pals while nursing drinks and gazing at passing cuties. Others hung onto their gal pals, making out or dancing to the music that filled the air. Still, others blew whistles, pounded bongos, and hoisted pink cardboard/black markered Dyke Equality signs overhead to establish their political perspectives on the ridiculous inequalities that surround them, or us. The youth are here and boy oh boy do they share a strong voice to be heard.

When it comes down to it, though, the crowd consisted of women from all parts of the U.S. and abroad. Women from Fresno, Salt Lake City, Tampa, NYC, Buffalo, Austin, Calgary, Toronto, Paris, Sydney, Tokyo, and even my hometown of Portland, Oregon danced, drank, and celebrated their lezzie-dom one way or another. We were senior citizens, midlifers, teenagers, 20-and 30-somethings, and the somewhere-in-betweeners. We sported shoulder length, Prince Valiant, shaves, mullets, short-sporty (that'd be "my" hairstyle), and spiked hair of all natural and unnatural colors.

Most of all, though, we were there in sync, laughing, dancing, cheering, and having some of that fab female camraderie that is oft found at this event (besides the dyke drama brawl mentioned earlier).
Of course we, the multi-thousand group of us, the Wake, Caravan, Herd, Intrigue, Colony, Drove, Peck, Kettle, Bevy, Cohorts, Fold, Farrow, Memory, Wisdom, Tower, Pandemonium, and Pride (peacocks, how appropos!) poured our fab energy into the Pink Saturday festivities in the Castro afterward.

Honestly, considering how well we put on a party, it's quite obvious it's great to be gay (or GLBTQ, if you will). It's even better to have a strong community of friends, comrades, colleagues, and acquaintances (both gay & straight) who accept & support us. Gay (GLBTQ) Pride week is our pre-holiday week warming up to the big shebang celebration on the weekend. The difference being that unlike the standard end-of-year holiday season, I didn't spend a ton of cash but I did have a fucking great time scanning the crowd for chiks, whooping, dancing, oogling, flirting, and celebrating with my peops.

Check it out! A tiny taste (not as much skin as I'd like: my battery was dying) of the 2009 SF Dyke March (by yours truly):
http://www.mydeo.com/videorequest.asp?XID=28518&CID=272721

Perspectives on a Communication Gap

I realized that I needed to spell out a few 'generic' perspectives on a relationship that's become a bit jagged, distorted, pained, and is now fraying along its once taut fringe.

We censor. We mince. We bite our tongues. We hold back. We share, then sweat, then wait for the onslaught.

It's the risk of communication, it's the chance of acceptance, it's the open road of clarity, it's the shred of what remains between we imperfect humans -- friends, relatives, others -- that allows honesty and a turned-back. The question of what lies 'on our minds' or 'in our hearts' is what we lay out on the table before these Homo sapiens. And then we stall, kill time, hold our breath in that dead air of wonder, 'will I be shunned, shot down, accepted with reluctance, or enveloped with a verbal embrace?'

Dialoguing, among many other definitions includes the frank discussion "of areas of disagreement...in order to resolve them."
Avoidance is a natural way to undertake disagreement: just sidestep the issue or simply ignore its presence. Is she leaving? Are they gay? She quit and walked out? Did he really say that? Mmm, let's simply not talk about it, it's a bit touchy you know.
Confrontation is the scary way to look these uncomfortable situations in the face. Make the call. Look the other in the eye. Open the conversation with the tell-tale, "So, I hear that ...." Write a letter and establish one's own concerns or feelings.

Tip-toe in and out of the issue is an alternative manner to deal with an imbroglio. The age-old toe-dip into the pool idea is essentially the same notion. As a side note, this literal process is quite impressive to me, as it takes quite a bit of leg strength to flex down, maintain balance, and dip the alternate toe into the water simply to determine if the agua is suitable for plunging. I suppose that it defrays from committing to the process. Rather, taking a bit of inner -- perhaps muscular -- strength to contract the leg a few degrees and test the situation.
This is not unlike the visual gauge-measurement of monitoring body language of the friend (in the dialogue) when a simple blanket statement or question, 'Do you want to talk about it?' is blurted. This tippie-toe/toe-dip is gently risky, but truly not a dive into the unmarked pool; it's non-committal, not unlike asking, "You don't want to talk about it, do you?" Umm, no, I don't think so any more.

Somewhere in the middle of this Obtuse Dialogue is the process of Questioning. This lies between tip-toe, confrontation, and avoidance. For example, 'What is it I said that made you...', or 'Do you even hear what I'm saying?', or 'Why can't you...?', 'Do I look like an idiot (Often this is followed by the statement, 'I'm not blind, you know')?' Occasionally, 'Is there anything I can do to help/clarify/show/be a better _____?'
I've found that this Interrogative technique is aggravating to the other, even if it's less obtrusive. It shows support or desire to be involved, but in the same vein, it's oft perceived by the interoggatee as pinpointing or, perhaps pin-pricking in its inquiry. That is, the question(s) really tap dance on what's raw and ruptured between or around the parties involved. As much as the questioner's furrowed brow might display concern, she is doomed, will be shot down, and reminded to 'just back off', 'stop prying,' that 'you just don't get it, do you?'

Mind you, there is the occasional glimmer of the appreciative questionee who responds, 'gosh, thanks for asking. I've been wanting to talk about this for a while and I've not known how to broach the subject.' This response is always nice.

Rough, painful, difficult, or unsavory communication between friends & lovers is often -- not always -- the easiest. Friends, true friends, or true lovers are usually willing to forgive even if one of the bipeds is an ass. Time may be involved, you know, to let that Pig Pen dust settle, but that clock or sundial generally lends itself to the perspective, to the breath of clarity, to the realization that malice was not intended.
I'm not saying that there aren't tears, crumpled letters, and slammed phone receivers. Oh, quite the contrary. However, there's often a span to reflect and realize that the words stated, the body language displayed, the unstated words, the silence, and the long exercise routines were manners in which the other needed to exemplify the depth of position, the obviousness of message, the simplicity of emotion and desire. Ideally, this day-night-day-night (repeat as needed) period brings peops together moreso than apart. I think maturity (desire & hope, too) weighs heavily in this process.

The same type of communication between relatives, that is, the "biological" (not chosen) family can sometimes lead to resentment, anger, and back-stabbing.
Mind you, I've discovered the same results between friends, which is sad, since we choose our friends because of the character they've shared with us. Our relatives are who they are, and we find that when animosity spins like a sword-wielding whirling dervish, mean spiteful words spit out daggers and shards at us. We duck, cover, we hide, we face it and are slashed.
Yet, we remain, suffer a bit, attempt to pluck the blades from our skin and souls, forgive, and sometimes bury the hatchets. Scarred, we step away and kind of move on, but that darned vexing, [non] communicative baggage keeps tagging along. So, we spin around and re-examine what's still knicking our heels.

Hope and Avoidance then comes into play once again. An oppressive silence surrounds the topic of difficulty as the best means of clearing the air.

So, is this a Confrontational Proposition? Not in the least. Merely an observation of a crevasse that's developed between a few sensitive mortals. These are creatures who mean well, have loved truly and deeply, yet are unable to bridge the gap of misunderstanding, jealousy, and new love.

Can't say that I know how those Canadian guys got the rope from one side of the Capilano chasm to the other, but I do know that it ultimately occurred from undertaking the struggle rather than simply eschewing the endeavor. Eventually, they had a wood-slat rope bridge. Unsteady, yes, but a true connection between two sides just the same.

Life's too short to let a good friend fall to the wayside and be lost. Let's be frank here: resolve the disagreement, the misunderstanding, the whatever which wedges deeper and broader between. Bridge the abyss and allow the energy & life flow.

Found. Art.

"One man's trash is another man's treasure."

Found Art.


The homeless people who haul around single go-go boots, plastic hangers, computer monitors, 8-track tapes, and random pieces of lumber are cutting-edge artists. At least that's what I've discovered by way of my MFA from an esteemed San Francisco art & architecture school. I always thought it was trash, those plastic milk & juice drink rings, expired bus passes, shoe laces, and combs. My bad. They were figures or unclaimed pieces for a "collage" or "sculpture" or "weaving".





There's actually a published, glossy-paged book (or books?) on Found Art. Who knew? Found. Not lost, not dropped, discarded, or tossed, but found.


The other day, along side the retaining wall against my abode, I swept up a bunch of wind blown leaves that expanded into its own bottomless pond of autumnal detritus. Somehow they never found their way into the nearby storm drain or city-owned shrubbery that lined the road. No big deal, I like doing my civic duty. Besides, dead leaves and twigs always smell so autumny.


Among the yellows, browns, greens, and glossy black beetles, a glint of something shiny caught my eye. There are many raccoons that roam the streets on the Eve of Trash Day, so I assumed it was a lost scrap of foil hoarded from a nearby knocked-over trash can. Instead, it was a mangled set of dentures or a bridge with little clusters of teeth and faux pink gums clinging to the metal arc.

Eeeuuuw! Someone's teeth!

Immediately, I stepped back, thinking that a serpent, monster, or some such horror film icon would jump on me. I don't know why I stepped back, but the sight of these fake chompers shivered me timbers. My parents both sport the same style: little white nubs molded into pink blobs welded into the curved monorail so I was vaguely familiar with the sight.

I vaguely scanned the roadside in case other body parts snagged on the spiny blackberry shrubs or under the guardrail --by then I thought that these ivories were part of a Mafia 'cleaning.' The street was vacant of toes or clumps of hair. I swept the fangs into the dust pan and let them slide onto the top of the wall. They sat there like some family heirloom.

My thought process was simple: if these fake tusks were not lying here as the result of foul play, then perhaps somebody lost them and I happened to find them, you know, like a key or a pacifier or a bus schedule.

It's been a few days and they're still there.

It's funny, but from a distance or even close-up, they remind me of a morphed scorpion. The thin metal track curved and divoted from passing cars or the nearby family of raccoons who, much like I did with a paper clip in 3rd grade, probably passed it around and put it in their mouths like a Halloween vampire prop before realizing they had to get on with their nightly trash-dumping schedule. The wire pokes upward and out towards the imaginary pallet, ready to jab and sting. The gaps between the clumps of pink and white stones are articulated body parts held together by an evil, metallic wasp-waisted petiole.

Given the gap of time and my association with my recent Alma Mater, I'm now wondering how I can attach this imperfect body part to a canvas to follow in suit with the Found Art phenom. Ideally, I'd use dental floss and lasso it up, just to keep it aligned with the oral theme. However, I've discovered a few "natural" cigarette pack wrappers, a flexi-straw, a beer bottle cap, and a fast food restaurant's cold drink lid (size medium) clumped into a cyclone fence's corner at a local produce store I visit. Obviously, these are art pieces in the waiting.

+*+*+*+

I know some people use Found Objects in their own artwork. Often this is called Recycled Art or some such title.

I understand this is quite a profitable venture, especially if the art of welding is involved. I've seen old truck cogs, hubs, and axels melted together into quirky figurines and images. People find old metal signs and keenly place them in their backyards where magenta sweet peas and bright sunflowers soften the rusty edges. Others create tinkling chimes from mangled cafeteria silverware and fishing lines found along sandy beaches.

At NYC's MOMA, I viewed a small art exhibit of 7 flourescent light tubes leaning against each other in a corner. I wanted to believe that these were waiting for overhead replacement by the museums the maintenance people, but I was wrong. I cannot imagine how much someone would pay for this.

The most difficult Found Recycled Art for me to accept and appreciate is the toilet garden. Yes, it's a perfect bowl, but when it comes down to it, I have no interest in approaching this display, let alone sniffing the fragrant buds that bob their multi-hued heads, knowing that their stems and roots reach out along the edge of the porcelain and stretch down the oft-plunged hole which once housed, well you know. Too much prior knowledge on that planter's usage, thank you very much.

So go ahead, make your Recycled Art. But please explain to me how gum wrappers, a dirty yellow shower curtain ring, coffee cup handle, deflated mylar balloon (purple and red ribbons still knotted onto the nipple), a bread loaf's wrapper and its twistie, and a library book's crinkly cover all glued onto a canvas, or "woven together" with the other above-noted items are Found "Art." It just seems like garbage to me, not some cool sculpture, drawing, or figurine found at a garage sale or in the back of somebody's dusty, forgotten attic.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my multi-textured mouthy collage, begin gluing a chewed-tip pen cap, a boot's tongue, a single jigsaw puzzle piece, and a Reese's PB wrapper onto a cheap canvas. It shall be titled, "Oral Life" and I will offer it for sale at the artistic price of $500.

Found. Art. Canvassed trash for sale. Yet, I must say, the streets are a little cleaner for it.

HP Customer Service-Finale: Simple is too Simple

A computer, to the best of my knowledge runs on some sort of electrical power.
This power can be stored, as in solar power, transferred as in wind or hydro-electric power (harnassing the strength of the underground aquifer), generated by way of movement, you know, Gilligan style on a bamboo bicycle, or, the common method, the power cord. My sister reminded me that it's referred to in the techy world as a Cable. Thus, electricity shooting out of the wall socket or power strip into the 3-prongs along the insulated black cord, er, cable and into the computer by way of the recessed 3-prong innie.

HP Customer Service center folks struggled with some aspect of this new-fangled transference of energy when calls were made to their remote, secret centers.
Twice I received $xx credit for the mishandling and "inconvenience" that was suffered. Haven't seen the credit card bill yet, so I cannot verify this purported credit as of this posting. However, the true suffering wasn't as much a 'pain & suffering' as is often rewarded in civil court, but an insufferable lack of comprehension by the HP Customer Service phone staff.
Nonetheless, to close this post such that we can finally exhale with the knowledge that a wire hanger and a pair of jimmied forks are no longer serving as conductors of Hot electricity from wall to computer, a "North American cable" (again, tech-speak clarification from my schwester) arrived, sans paperwork, sans apology, in an unmarked FedEx padded envelope three days after my last phone conversation. The return address: Tennessee.
Strange that it took three days. I know for a fact that TN is, indeed a FedEx hub, and has been since its inception. Still, it arrived: the correct cable, the true embodiment of an electrically charged, 3-outie, 3-innie, shiny, black, snake.
At last, the sooped-up HP Pavilion is now ready for action. Now, if I can just shut off the Main switch to the house, I can finally detach the tinfoil-coat hanger-fork from the socket and we're ready to roll.

HP Customer Service: Simple is too Simple Part II

Sleek, glistening computer and monitor sit quietly. The beginnings of dust particulate matter forms on the edges of the keyboard's space bar and the jutting lip beneath the cd-rom insert. The four-day old computer with its extra Power Supply Box still lacks a power supply cord.

I made the call - again- to customer service. Because I had a p.t. appointment for an injury, I was a bit cranky from some residual inflammation and not willing to be so, how you say, patient with the lack of electrical comprehension. No more Miss Nice Gal.

HPSC: HPSC, my name is ***, will you be willing to take a short customer service survey at the close of this phone call?

HOME: Sure.
HPSC: Is this Miss Bossybeehive?
HOME: Yes.
HPSC: How may I help you Miss BBH?
HOME: Well, you should see in your records that a call was made to your customer service center on Saturday, April 11.
HPSC: Yes. Yes I see that you called. How may I help you?
HOME: If you notice in the notes, there was a problem in our shipment.
HPSC: I see that you purchased a shiny new computer which is a fine computer.
HOME: I don't know about that because You People (I never refer to anyone as You People, but this just fell out so appropriately) failed to send an electrical cord with the computer, and then today failed to send me an electrical cord as a replacement part.
HPSC: I see that we ordered you a Power Supply Box and...
HOME: Yes. A Power Supply Box does not satisfy the problem because we have no power.
HPSC: I'll transfer you to Technical Support.
HOME: No. Technical Support won't help with this problem because it's not related to anything technical. It's a power cord. You know, like the thing that connects to the wall and to the computer. That is what you didn't send.
HPSC: I see that a power supply cord is not listed in the accessories that you ordered.
HOME: It shouldn't be! It's a cord. It's not an extra. The cords aren't noted for the speakers that hook to the computer, the cords aren't noted for the woofer that hooks to the computer, the cords aren't noted for the monitor that hooks to the computer. It's not an accessory! It's just a standard part of the computer.
HPSC: I'm sorry ma'am. I don't have a power cord listed here. Can you read me the inventory list that came with your computer?
HOME: Sure. But I'm telling you that it's not going to be listed because it shouldn't have to be. It's like doors on a new car. There're not listed in the inventory because they're standard!
HPSC: Yes ma'am.
HOME: (I read the inventory list).
HPSC: The power cord is not on your list, ma'am.
HOME: I know it's not on the list. It's something that's expected to be in the box! If I lived in the middle of Antarctica and ordered this computer, I wouldn't have a local hardware store or BestBuy to drive to in order to purchase a power cord because it should've been in the box with the new computer. It's not an extra.
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Let me look for a part number.
HOME: There shouldn't Be a part number because it's just a fucking cord. It's a cord, like a snake, only rubberized with a girl-part on one end and a boy-part on the other. You know, three-prongs?
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Do you have the original list of items that you ordered to be included in the design of your computer? Perhaps it's on there and you did not check the box.
HOME: It's a cord! The computer is an electrical tool. It's a cord that connects the computer to the wall outlet, you know, to transfer electricity. You know, like the same kind that you have with a lamp, or a hair dryer or a radio. They run on electricity.
HPSC: Yes ma'am.
HOME: You don't know what I'm talking about do you?
HPSC: (Silence)
HOME: It looks like a rubber snake with gold pokey things near its tail that plug into the wall. I don't know how else to describe this. They're called electrical cords and there isn't one with this computer that I just purchased!
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Okay ma'am.
HOME: You still don't understand what I'm talking about do you?

HPSC: (silence)

HOME: Look, if I don't have the electrical cord, that black rubberized thing that hooks into the 3-prong portal at the back of my computer while the other end hooks into an electrical outlet, what do you expect me to use to move the electricity, tin foil and a couple forks? It's a cord. It's part of the computer. Yes, it's an electrical cord, but not a Power Supply Box, but rope-like, or a big fat worm.
If you just lean over and look behind your computer or any computer in your customer service center you'll see that there's a black cord, like licorice that connects your computer to some sort of electrical outlet or power strip. Do you see what I'm saying?
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Please hold.

(12 minutes later)

HPSC Supv: Hello Ms. BBH, this is floor supervisor ###. How may I help you?
HOME: (I repeat the same yell-a-thon schpiel I just ranted at cust svc rep ***). I don't get why this is so difficult to understand. It's like something from Kindergarten it's so fucking simple! It's an electrical cord. Not an accessory. Not a power strip. Not a Power Supply Box. Not a cosmetic case or a calculator. It's a cord. We use them to plug in things that need electricity, like, oh, this computer, which doesn't have one!
HPSC Supv: I understand.
HOME: Do you? Because it seems like it's over-simplified and the fact that all I need is a power cord to solve my new computer's problem isn't listed in the HP customer service script of how-tos.
HPSC Supv: Yes. I understand. For your inconvenience, we'll credit you $xx.
HOME: Well, thank you, but that still doesn't get me any electricity between my wall and the computer. What do you want me to do put my finger in the socket and simply hover over the computer and create static electricity?
HPSC Supv: No ma'am. I understand your frustration. We'll order you another Power Supp...
HOME: No. I don't need a box. I need a cord. A cord. Please. Just stand up and lean over your computer and see what I'm talking about. It's the same thing as what we use to turn on our refrigerators and toasters. That black ropey looking thing. It's a power cord. It has 3 prongs on one end and hooks into the wall, and 3 receding prongs on the other that hook into the back of the computer.
HPSC Supv: Okay. I'm leaning over my computer and I see a cord that attaches to the computer.
HOME: Is it 3-pronged? (I can't believe she's actually looking at the back of her computer)
HPSC Supv: Yes. And it connects to the surge protector.
HOME: I don't want a surge protector. I want that first cord you mentioned. The 3-prong to 3-prong cord.
HPSC Supv: It's 3-prong to 2-prong.
HOME: Yea, okay, I don't have one so I can't tell you if that's how it should be. But it's a power cord. It sends electricity to the computer from the outlet.
HPSC Supv: Yes ma'am. I understood you needed a Power Supply Box. This is what you need?
HOME: That's what I've been screaming about.
HPSC Supv: Please hold on one moment.
(3 minutes later...)
Okay we'll send you this replacement part in a few days?
HOME: That is absolutely unacceptable. Next day air or overnight. I live an hour from HP headquarters why can't one of these people just drop one off at my house? (Can't believe I said 'these people'). I'm sure one of the HP board members lives near me.
HPSC Supv: Yes ma'am. We'll send this overnight. I'll give you the replacement part number.
HOME: A part number for a cord? Okay.
HPSC Supv: We'll send this overnight.

*+*+*+*
I realized when the phone call ended that I wasn't transferred to the customer service survey people.

HP Customer Service: Simple is too Simple

Bought an HP desktop computer the other day. Did the whole thing online, you know, to customize it like some sort of sooped up car. Shiny, fast, a few whistles, a couple bells, silent, though, not all revved up with massive exhaust pipes and fans.



Took 7 days from order to front door FedEx delivery. Very exciting, getting a huge box - let alone any box - delivered via FedEx to the door. The doorbell Ding-donged! Cute guy in FedEx midnight blue shorts and shirt hauls up this coffin-sized box. Couldn't just leave it at the door like everything else; had to actually have a live human sign for it. Box was unmarked save for the white upc stickers. It could've been a dead body (or a bunch of fishes in newspaper)sent from Uncle Vinny, for all I knew. Heavy too.



Handle holes on the side allowed me to shoosh it inside the door and scare Basco and Gracie into a major sniff-a-thon. Dead body still scored high on the list, although if it were, I think both dogs would have rubbed their bodies all over the cardboard, just like the allure of a very post-mortem seagull or other maimed mammal in the woods. I bent down next to them and, yes, sniffed too. No pronounceable or obvious scents to alert Horatio & the Miami CSI folks about.



Dragged the boxes (monitor came separately) up to the kitchen where I'd already disassembled the archaic 5 year old computer. Opened the giant box and found, of course, the sleek black computer and its sidecar box of accessories: speakers, keyboard, mouse, you know all the goodies.



Pulled everything out, laid it onto the floor and followed the simple 6-step pictograph poster for Installing Your New HP Computer. Easy peezy. Monitor-check. Speakers-check. Keyboard & mouse wireless usb thing-check.

Finally, "Step 5: Connect Power. Connect computer to electrical outlet." Seems easy enough. Hmm. Where's the 3-prong power cord? Searched through the casket box. Nothing. Scanned the styro-packing. Nothing. Dug through the keyboard, monitor, and accoutrement packaging. Nothing but black twist-ties and empty plastic bags. Foraged under the desk and in Gracie's toy basket (just in case). Nothing. Nowhere.

A brand spankin' new HP computer with snappy little speakers - and shoebox sized woofer, too!- a glossy monitor and only air to draw the electricity from the wall to the computer. This seemed strange to me: was this one of those 'accessories not included' things like Malibu Barbie's van and yellow polka-dotted bikini?

From the home phone, called HP Customer Svc. and explained the situation, in short, 'There's no power cord in the box.'
HPSC: Ma'am, what's the part number for this?
Home: What part number? It's a power cord.
HPSC: On your inventory list, it should have a part number.
Home: (Review inventory list) There's no part number because it's a power card. It connects the computer to the electrical outlet in the wall.
HPSC: If it's not listed in your inventory list then it must be sold separately.
Home: It's a power cord, it's not an accessory. It gives the computer the electrical energy.
HPSC: Let me transfer you to I.T. Perhaps they can help you with this.
Home: There's nothing for I.T. to do because there's no power. There's no technical assistance I need because there's no electricity running to the computer. I just need the power cord.
HPSC: I understand what you're saying ma'am, but if it's not listed in your inventory and you didn't add it in to your computer purchase then it's not included.
Home: It's a computer! It needs electricity! It doesn't run on batteries. All I need is the electrical cord that attaches to the computer and the electrical outlet.
HPSC: It sounds like you need a Power Supply Box.
Home: Fine, if that's what you call an electrical cord, then yes, I suppose a Power Supply Box is needed.
HPSC: I'm sorry for your inconvenience in all this. We will credit you $x for this inconvenience.
Home: Thank you. So you're sending a power cord?
HPSC: Yes ma'am. We'll be sending you a Power Supply Box soon.
Home: Soon? No. I've spent $xx on this computer and because of HP's mistake, I can't turn it on. You'll be sending it to me via FedEx next day or overnight.
HPSC: Yes ma'am. Again, I'm sorry for your inconvenience. We'll send you the Power Supply Box overnight.
Home: Thank you.
--click--
That was Saturday.
On Tuesday, a heavy package arrived via FedEx on the doorstep. Surprised at the box's girth and weightiness, I opened it immediately, thinking that they must have included the inconvenience $$ credit inside as a sack of coins.

I withdrew the double-layer bubble-wrapped contents. Indeed, it was a Power Supply Box. This, btw, is a 3"x 5" x 5" metal box with the (innie) outlet on one side and about 50 multi-colored wires poking out the other. At the terminal end of said wires are plastic things, meant for plugging into some other matched-up pokey things within the bowels of the computer, not unlike the serial port attachments, only way smaller and more of them.

I checked the box. I checked the bubble wrap. I checked the packing slip which said "Please find the enclosed replacement part sent to you by HP Express Parts Program....Your product is ready for installation..."
I looked outside the front door just in case I missed something, like, oh, another package containing a Power Cord.
There was none.

Gen-X Solo-Travel: Will She Make it to the Airport?

A few months ago, my 22 y/o niece, Keisha, decided that she wanted to travel to Europe. She'd just quit her job in a grocery store, prior to that she'd quit her job in a cafe, and prior to that, she'd quit her job working at a theater box office. She stopped attending classes at the local community college because she didn't think it was worthwhile. And why not? She was active in her high school's drama department and hoped to move to L.A. or NY to get discovered (or rich?), a lá Lana Turner at Schwab's soda shop or like J-Lo bumping into the senatorial candidate in Maid in Manhattan.

Her grandmother decided that there was not enough room in her Malibu home for granddaughter Keisha, aka Juliet Marks, or Lily White (stage names) to live while her budding acting career launched itself into Hollywood's open arms.

Because she lacked income, her boyfriend booted her from their shared apartment. She moved back in with my brother, Tommy the single father.

Then she decided to travel. She'd ventured with Tommy --who made all arrangements and studied the guides-- to Seattle, Chicago, the Oregon Coast, and Las Vegas. It was this latter point of interest that spurred her Big Trip.
They tip-toed through the Wynn, open-mouth awed the Chihuly jellyfish glass beauties at the Bellagio, admired the sultry legs of the Pharaoh-clad employees at the Luxor, and dreamed of 5th Avenue at NY-NY. Around 10pm, they leaned over the canal at the ever-daylight Venetian boat launch area and Keisha was bitten. "I love this!" she said to Tommy. He wasn't sure if it was the dusky lighting, the gondola or the striped gondolier, or the $8 she just won in the Wheel-of-Fortune slot machine, or even M&M World which they strolled to earlier in the day that she adored. It didn't matter anyway.

Three months later, she's in Venice, Italy for a solid week of travel. The real Venice, not the Venetian, which may have been a better, English-speaking option given her travel-saaviness. She's traveling alone this time, not with Tommy, though. At present, following two-and-a-half days of Venice, she's holed up in her hotel room with a dead cell phone and a credit card that's mounting in debt.

One week ago, she arrived in Venice with two outfits. Once she leaves Italy, she's planning on spending a week in London. She had no hotel reservation, nor a hostel reservation. She's knows nary a lick of Italian language other than a few entrées and Peregrino. She has not a map of Venice. And, despite my brother's urging to purchase an adapter, "Dad, quit telling me what to do! I know what I need!" she has no means for communication other than the $1000/minute hotel phone. She purchased a phone card in the airport when she landed, she's already used it up. Since she doesn't know any Italian, she doesn't know where to buy another.

She took a cab from the airport to a hotel recommended by an [employed attorney] family friend. Her room overlooks a canal. I wonder if this is a good thing or bad thing given ambient temperature and wind direction.
Day one in Venice: Step outside the hotel, walk two cobblestone blocks (again, no map or guidebook) and she's lost. Can't ask for directions because it's Off Season, so the major English-speaking touristy peops aren't there. Lost. In Venice. Three hours later, return to hotel.
Day two in Venice: She asked the hotel's front desk person for assistance in finding a cafe and a couple sites. Cobblestone turn, cobblestone straight, cobblestone turn, a canal, a turn, an old building, and, voila! Lost again. Four hours later, return to hotel. Call father and cry during expensive phone call. "I hate it here! It all looks the same and I keep getting lost. I'm not leaving my hotel room again."

Prior to this whole trip, while my brother was in Reno, he received a desperate phone call from Keisha. She bawled on the phone, gasping for air between sobs. "Slow down," he said, "tell me what's going on." Again, I'd like to point out she's 22 years old.

"It's ONE WAY! I'm stuck there. It's only One Way!" sob sob sob.

Tommy sat down and pressed the phone to his ear, as if this would help him comprehend the situation better. "What's one way? What are you talking about?"

"The ticket. It's One Way. I'm stuck there. I'm just going to let it go and forget about this whole stupid trip thing. How was I supposed to know?"
Apparently, in her independent state of mind, she failed to notice that her online purchase of said ticket to Venice from Portland, via Washington, DC was one-way versus roundtrip. $600.

I decided to try doing this myself, to go through the very confusing process of purchasing a one-way vs. roundtrip ticket from Portland-Venice, Italy-Portland.
First, I googled Flights to Venice, Italy. Seemed clear enough. Lots of choices. I went with Cheap Flights, then plunked in the information, you know, starting point, end point, list by price etc. Right there, all neon and clear it defaulted to Round Trip. I had to physically click One Way. Found a RT for $629. About ten minutes with distractions.
I'm still trying to figure out how she managed this minor oversight.
Because she was debilitated and he was out of town, Tommy's friends helped her out. Got her back stateside by way of London, through Dublin. Another $600. Cha-ching! Said atty's son/family friend suggested that as long as she was flying out of London, she might as well stay a few days, hence the 5 days there beginning this Friday.
Little problem: how oh how is Keisha going to get from way-south Italy to way north England? Oh my oh my. Just a detail that's a bit overlooked and she has no Eurail pass, nor enuf for a bumpy 3-day taxi or busride. I'm thinking mule. Anyone else agree on this?

So, there's my neice, someone who would be eaten alive in NYC (although she loved the NY-NY hotel in Vegas). Someone who would openly sit at a romantic Venezia cafe and tell some handsome English-speaking Italian hotty that she 'can't believe how hard it is to get around Venice! It's a good thing I'm carrying my cell phone, passport, plane tix, and all my cash right here (points to belly) in my money belt! Don't know if I'll ever get back to my hotel room!'
And with that, Hotty Italiano will wink at his buddies across the cobbled road and they'll offer to walk her back to her hotel, the name of which she's butchered to "L'Hotelio Venezia, or something like that." And somehow she'll find a way to help them out financially with their broken down Fiat or ailing mother's health or some taxicab-hydroplane scheme that will help her get up to the island London.

I told Tommy to locate his local Western Union office, and that the next time he speaks with Keisha (via costly hotel phone) he should tell her to do the same as I foresee a financial deficit in the near future of my wise-cracking crystal ball. If she's not pick-pocketed or scammed of all her low-value American dollars in Venice, I wonder what will happen in London where they speak English and she, naive and all, still has no idea where she's not going.

Mind you, some people are really good fly-by-the-seat-of-yer-pants travelers. Keisha is not one of these people..... yet.

In the meantime, I'm hoping that she can simply bump into another English-speaking traveler in the hotel lobby who can help her get a good meal or cup of espresso, or at least a regular route out-and-back from her hotel.

Barnrazers: Energized by bacon, driven by camraderie

Barnrazing by the Bitchtits

Okay, so Laurence and Gordon don't exactly have the tits to be officially part of the Bitchtits, but their nelly ways make them honorary members, if you know what I mean.

Barnrazing at the Aitken house was fabulous. For those who are unfamiliar, the Barnrazing Troupe is a group of us pals who get together one Saturday each month at someone's house and do whatever projects they need to have done. This ranges from weeding to painting, from creating shelving units to laying down flagstone, from replacing deck boards to hacking back poison oak infused shrubbery. Breakfast, water/sodas, and lunch are supplied by the homer, and in this case, after-razing drinks. We get a lot done, laugh a ton, and learn a bit.

As the homer, I think I've adjusted to my ideas becoming something other than what my mental imagery created, such as where or how things are hung on walls.

Alas, the cadre of industrious folks including, of course, Gordon, Laurence, Nancy, Terry, Joni, Kay, Anne, Karen, Vicki, Sue, and Sue downed 3 pounds, yes THREE pounds of bacon, a gallon of coffee, a couple bags of tea, nearly a dozen eggs, and some tasty pop-n-fresh eggs before spreading out like ants around the homestead.
<>100 pounds of rocks were spread along a path, ice plants found soily homes, and burlap & weedblock unrolled and adhered their flapping edges to a hillside.
<>Outside lights removed and new ones hung, a giant particle board cabinet found a home off the ground with all of its shelves shiny and clean, and two bikes were hoisted into the air by way of a wacky pulley system and a simple rubberized hook.
<>One room with funky angles and vaulted ceilings transformed itself into a new, non-mental hospital color (now it's November Rain), with an exceptional tape job and two, count 'em TWO coats of paint. Another room received an up-in-the-air t.v. stand thing (just like in a hospital!).
<>Moss, leaves, sticks, and crud found themselves dug out and hoisted off the nooks and crannies of the roof and gutters.

Lots of projects completed by a close-knit group of able friends. Really, it's an awesome day, a great time to laugh and tell dirty jokes, or talk about politics, or family, or our animals, and occasionally learn a new trade. A bunch of neighbors-cum-friends who don't sleep together but we do work well together.

The Forest Hill/Bitch Tits Barnrazers. We're quite a group of pals. Maybe other readers/friends will tether this notion and start something like this in their own neighborhood.

Next month: Gordon's place.

Episode 2: In Search Of.... Over 40 (singlet) Lesbians in N. California

During the late 1970s and early 1980s, a tv show hosted by one Leonard Nimoy titled In Search Of filled the sci-fi/quirky wonderment stuff niche that The Twilight Zone truly created. The stuff which makes us wonder 'what if...?' or 'where are...?' I believe this show was originally hosted by Rod Serling until he died, but I may be mistaken on that. It was the Bicentennial year, after all, and so much red-white-blue-Paul Revere-Boston Tea Party-Bicentennial Minute (remember those?) filled the airwaves and my nubile adolescent mind, I may be mistaken on the hosting thing.

At any rate, Nimoy's show searched out the para-normal: Aliens, the Bermuda Triangle, Easter Island, the Devil, and so on. There was always a disclaimer at the beginning about the nature of the evidence used to demonstrate and back up their "theories."

I too am in Search Of...the odd, the para-normal, the pondered but not often discoverable, the lost, wandering, or meld-into-the woodwork O-40 Single Lesbians. Do they exist, these singlets, these lawyers, graphic designers, these librarians, truck drivers, cashiers, and non-profiteers? Are they clustering in some underground organic root-vegetable cellar or saddling up to a wine bar in Sonoma? Nibbling crumpets under a string quartet or digging ditches under the leering eyes of male, shovel-leaning co-workers? Where art thou? Or, do they exist at all? In octets, duos, or on uni-cycles?

I decided, for the sake of my singlet pal, Terry, whose online match-up adventures have gone horribly south as a result of basic Lame-o, Lackluster, Lesbo-ball-dropping (not hers, by the way), to do a bit of "field research" and attempt to locate some. Just as a little insight, this was about as successful as locating a bison in Golden Gate Park. Oh! There are bison in GG Park, but one cannot see them unless you know where to find that diminishing herd. The forest through the trees, needle in a haystack, contact lens in a pool. You get the idea. Not impossible, just not obvious.

Time of day: after 11:30am, Thursday. Grocery stores: I started with mainstream stores like Safeway & Lucky's. I spotted two in each. Safeway's was a couple of dykes, paired up, wandering around the pasta & ethnic food aisle in search of tomatoes, tomato sauces. Lucky's: luckier, actually. Two separate citings of singlets, slightly grayed. One fondling cucumbers (hello!) and carrots (mmm-hmmm), the other reading nutritional labels in the cracker section. Neither of the missies in Produce gave me a glint of the upward head nod, the 'yea, I'm one too.' Or the scan-my-basket-eyebrow-raise 'I see you have a soymilk drink', which I suppose would imply I'm lactose intolerant or just a fan of natural, sweetened, thirst-quenching hormones. Nonetheless, it didn't happen. On to starches.

Where Ms. Cracker and I -- I decided to ponder the merits of the TLC vs. Triscuit Low-fat, for conversation sake -- engaged in a humorous banter about the trade-offs between more crackers, but less taste, or fewer crackers, more taste, but less fat and, of course, more salt. Back and forth between the Wheat Thin or the Breton, the Kavli versus the Sociables. I told her that Chicken in a Biscuit still were a hands-down favorite, followed immediately by the two-flavored "Duoz" Cheese Nips. She bumped the latter to first place without even considering a C.i.a.B. but clearly felt that the Waverly Wafer was in contention. For calorie sake, though, she settled on a low-fat Wheat Thin, preferring small, palette-ripping squares to any other. We bid each other well.

Field Research Part Deux. Coffee. We love coffee, the scent, the warmy-ness, the cartoony steam that rises from each luscious cup and into our nostrils like a roast turkey with those papered feet to Foghorn Leghorn's black and white dog buddy. Coffee has that cobra-in-the-basket allure not only to me, but to so many lezzies out there. It's the wooden flute to my hooded nose, you know, all taken by the hypnotic tune or scent that I'll just rise from a deep, pillowed slumber and walk my zombied self to the nearest mug o' joe. Most of my gal pals are this way; I know a few tea drinkers, though, and I've opted to maintain an open mind about their, mmm, 'choice.' I forgive them for this gastronomical life-path divergence.

Coffee houses and cafes. This is where I was certain I'd spy a few wandering O-40L-eyes. 9:45am I ventured off towards Berkeley. College town, hip, youngish, and foggy and a little drizzly. Mist and fog are good. It means that people are a little chilled and need warm liquids to ward off Nature's perspiration resting on their Gore-tex and the cloudiness settling into their minds.

I started at Peet's, mostly because this is the only liquid beanery that I consume. I'm costumed in my usual moist weather garb: old LLBean rainboots, jeans, t-shirt, and a long, mid-shin raincoat. I'm identifiably gay by such equipment and the short hair doesn't hurt either. I get my joe, settle into a tiny table and chair with my back against the wall, and casually open my Sun magazine. It's a literary thing, sure to draw a lurking O-40 literate eye for sure.

30 minutes into this little survey, and I've shared not much more than a couple half-mouthed grins to some 20-something, backpacked dykes (prob undergrads), cute, for sure. One grandmotherly Berkeley woman who just seemed solid, strong, and, well, a smart yet straight grandmother (I'm guessing 80s, btw) who simply needed a little help with the door as she juggled her umbrella and two coffees. One very straight woman clad in heels, slacks, and a sparkling boulder on her left ring finger who I'm assuming fit the 'literate lurker' but not gay bill. And one toothless homeless woman seeking change. My cup was dry and my research proved little. Strike one.

A little buzzed, I move onto Cafe Numero dos: the side tables at noneother than The Berkeley Bowl, the awesome super-produce, super vegged, super-organic, super-selection of deli and bakery foods, and just plain, super-market in, duh, Berkeley.

When I'm not doing "research" I bump into hoards of lezzies fondling bottles of strawberry kefir, scooping almond-stuffed olives, pondering 'green' lotions in cobalt plastic bottles, or digging into the bulk granola. They're always strolling every aisle, making eye contact over egg plants, colliding their carts into my overflowing handbasket, and pawing every food on the pyramid. It's a great store.

The O-40s should be there, as should everybody else..... I mean, the store's always busy. Even at 10:30am. Except today.

I actually bought a Powerbar and a banana: something to soak up the yummy, carmel-colored coffee (I always add a little milk to cool it and skim some of the bitterness). I took a seat and, magazine in hand, peered over the pages for research purposes.

20 minutes and many pages actually read, because the Lesbians were not shopping this aisles. Baked goods and hot deli items clearly not on the cuisine radar today. Not even a lez-mom w/child-in-stroller sauntered by. What's with that? A little drizzle gettin' you down? Get outside, people! Strike two.

What will come of my research?

Pupsters- our buddies and their abbreviated lives

I've had many dogs in my life. In the early formative years, we were a Basset hound family, starting with Wadsworth (mom named her thus because she was such "a Longfellow"), aka, Wadsy, Melvin her disinterested mate and a rather cranky sleeper, Myron (my buddy), Jesse, Snerd, Smedley, Eustace, and Mabel. In between a few of those floor-cleaners were some taller pooches, Clifford, or 'Cluff-a-dawdle-doodle', Maggie, a loyal, smart, and joyful lab-springer mix. My parents had a Dachsund named Heiste Von Hund long before any of us were born. Lots of cats, a bunch of ducks, geese, three tortoises, all bearing the name Yertle (I, II, and III), a handful of rabbits, various county fair goldfish, and, of course, one pony appropriately named Eeyore fit themselves in there too, but it was the dogs, our lovable barking buddies who I really connected with, and subsequently felt the greatest loss when they died.

Cliff's & Maggie's lives were cut short by car wheels, while the others met their untimely fate from the basic end-of-life system.

Mabel, the last Basset my mom had lived her final year down here in Oakland. Mom moved into an Assisted Living facility and couldn't take her with, so I adopted her. Initially, she could hardly walk the entire block around my house from basic lethargy from the lack of exercise living with my mom and her lung-cancered husband. Within a couple months, though, Mabel's ears were flopping and flying over the dirt paths in the East Bay hills, her shoestrings of slobber picking up stray insects and dried pine needles. She died of a bladder cancer, but at least she was happy in the end. On her last earthly day, she rolled on some worms and chased the mailman across the street, wagging the entire time. Her eyes glistened with complete happiness as did mine even during her last moments here.
Dogs have a way of conveying that love and trust of us, especially when they finally turn and make that decision to allow Us to make That decision. It's like they know that we won't make it at the right time. Sometimes, because of all that pure contendedness they've brought us, we humans just aren't ready to let them go, and perhaps this is when our canine pals take that step, get a little sicker, or just go to sleep forever, and make it a hair easier for us because they know we can't always make the right decision about ending their soulful lives which have added so much zest and vitality to our own. Dogs know and they try to make it a little easier for we bi-peds.

Other than Myron, the black and white spotted and pudgy Basset who was my best pal during adolescence, Abby was my girl. A 21st Birthday Gift, she was a black lab (shimmering with natural gold highlights) with one black and three pedi-dipped white paws and a tiny white star on her chest. Brilliant dog, she and I were inseparable. Pure heart and affection, she knew me better than any human could, or should I say any that I allowed. She grounded me with her solemn presence and thumping tail. An old soul in a youthful body.

She had a certain affinity for finding a ball anywhere. Anywhere. Sure she could swim in the rapids of a spring run-off river, and, she ruled the house, chased after cats, squirrels, fish, and ducks on any pond or lake (even wanting to chase after some migrating fowl on the frozen Clark Fork River) but it was her ball sense that really set her apart.

Once, we went camping in the Mendocino Nat'l Forest. Never been there before, so the adventure was fresh, engaging, and each duel with all the gargantuan biting horseflies became regular, human vs. nature comedy acts. Abby was happy as a lark, running along the trails with her buddy, Ren, a shepherd-pit mix with a sensitive heart and endless energy. They chased scents and, of course Abbers endlessly chased down pinecones until she disappeared in the thicket. I couldn't even see her wagging tail, usually an indication of something fabulous to roll in, poke, or dig for. Ren stood on the trail, perplexed at his sister's disappearance.

Five minutes later, my little black, 4-legged ground-force returned all wags and happy amber eyes. Leaves, burrs, thistles, and a few ticks covered her gold-flecked fur. Dust clouds wafted from her allegro-metronome tail for one and only one reason: in her mouth was a musty, hardly-yellow, mottled tennis ball. No bounce remained in its rubber. It hit the ground with the same buoyancy of a stick. That didn't matter to her, though, because it was all about the ball, the true hunt, the spherical objet d'arte that enhanced her daily life there. This made the camping trip beyond worthwhile, not only for her, but for me, the proud, beaming human who brought her here.

Abby was a life force for me. She grounded me with her placid nature, she energized me with her joy and her ball chases. She astounded me with her intelligence, able to cross the street with enough knowledge and awareness of approaching car proximity. Often she'd step out into the street, heading for the other side, and I'd call her back. She'd just stand there and look at me, then up the street, where the car was slowly rolling. It was like she did a mathematical story problem in her head, figuring the rate x time = distance, and solved how long it would take pokey-joe driver to arrive at our location. It was clear that we humans were the uninformed and unlike her, didn't do many math story problems in our dreams.
Abby was the Alpha, no doubt about that. During rainstorms, she chose the hike or walk route, which usually indicated a longer distance than what I, or any other human wanted. Soon, I learned to appreciate the rain as much as she. Loved the water, being in or near it just as I did.

When I moved to Montana, I actually drove out of my way because she woke up, stuck her nose out the passenger window and started whining. The highway sign indicated there was a lake nearby. Abby being Abby, and me being me, I obeyed (hmm, now we really see who was Alpha here!) and drove 10 miles out of my way to get her to the water. Was it an inconvenience? Well, when we see our puppies romping, swimming, smiling, and wagging rib-to-rib as they stand in the water, can we count this as annoying or bothersome? Horseflies, yes, but Pure-doggie-joy is never, no never an annoyance. A couple of her front teeth were a bit chipped from her other fave game: chase the rock! Streams, ponds, and rivers bore out this delightful game: she'd dig up a rock, then I'd toss it into shallow water where she'd blow bubbles and waggily dig it out again. Whenever I drove from the Bay Area up to Oregon, we always stopped at a mountain stream near Mt. Shasta. Not only was she content to wade and swim in the water (btw, the season didn't matter) but this Abby-reinforced rest stop settled my nerves a bit. She took care of both of us, as most dogs tend to do.

Abby died at home in 1996 at 12 years of age. She'd developed a large mass on her spleen and despite surgery, the complications that resulted were too much. Her normally Wide-Load body (she always carried a bit of that "puppy fat") was thin from not eating for more than a week and what the i.v. fed her before and during her surgery. When she died, she turned away from me, faced the wall. Part of me turned away too, unable to face the loss of her, the loss of a friend, and a little loss of me.

HILLARY
About 15 years ago, Hillary, Karen & Kim's lab was born from her yellow lab mother, Bonnie (Karen's family pooch). Hillary popped out chocolate brown and wagging. She, like Abberoni had velveteen ears, an ever-moving tail, and a warm, nuzzling demeanor. She'd lie in the sun and, with her cat buddy, May, two years her senior and lying next to her, they'd watch hummingbirds, starlings, finches, and butterflies flit about their flowered yard. Peace between the factions, a kinship between old friends. They appreciated life, probably had those Far Side conversations about The good ole days when they'd chase after these critters, but the ole bones reminded them to just watch and reflect. The two pals were Zen masters in their own rights. Mind you, just a couple months ago, she tussled with a marauding raccoon. Because Karen & Kim live near the ocean, the beach became her favorite weekend romping ground: what could be better than soft, diggable sand, lapping waves, and flocks of just-out-of-range birds skimming the water's edge? Again, like Abbers' river-rock game, the beach was pure joy for Hill. This will be where some of Hillary will be released.
On Tuesday, March 10, age and pain got the best of Hillary. She thumped her tail, stretched her body out, and with the help of K & K's vet friend, Hillary joined Abby in the land of endless water and limitless chases.
Her velvet ears, snuffling snout, and adoring eyes will be missed. She, like so many of our little four-legged buddies, these beings that give us so much and ask so little other than kindness and dependability was cheated out of more years on this planet. At least now, up in Doggie Nirvana, all is painfree and pleasant.

A dog's life is such a cheat by Mother Nature. Most don't live beyond 12, some make it to 14, a few hardies stretch it out to 17, still these are mere portions of our lives: sometimes only a third, maybe even half, for some of us, these buddies live our entire (aware) lives then let go when we move away, or as we prepare to. Their purpose on earth served: to share goodness, to push our tolerance buttons (those "rare" chewing, digging, tearing-up moments), and to help us heal whatever wounds us. Dogs understand that loss of love, that failure, the anger and unjustness we feel from life's wrongdoings. But they're always there, lending a lick, a paw, or just a heavy sigh to let us know that we can rely on them. So why, oh why, Mother Nature must you mock us and keep their lives so short when these little guys give so very much? Parrots live 65-75 years. Why can't our pupsters have their abbreviated life-spurring presences extended a healthy decade or so? Only seems fair.

Alas, I must accept these losses in the face of the extraordinary gains.

Adios Hillary. You are and will be missed. Say hello to Abbers for me and give her a little nuzzle behind the ears. She always liked that. Please check in with Patch and Poppy, they'll help you out. The Sophster is a lot like Abbers, I'm sure you'll get along. Pahtu will show you what being a real Bernese lap dog is all about. Janie and Dylan will be wandering around too, hanging out in the sunny grass. Aspen might act like she wants you to stop playing, but she really wants to join in the fun. Look out for Bijoux, she's got a thing about being an alpha, but she'll probably share the buffet litter box -- and Beau will too, since that's one his faves -- or various discarded Kleenex's with you. Woody and Pete, will hopefully share some tennis balls and a comfy bed with you. Daisy, Duncan, Oscar, Lucky and Rags will be guarding your shins and shoulder blades from any unwanted marauders. Mabel might drool on you, but both she and Myron only do it out of kindness.
As with all our little buddies, many not even mentioned here, we'll miss you, your bark and your wag, miss cuddling with you, and really miss seeing your reliable, dependable, loving self every day.