tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3431196067527895042024-02-06T20:35:57.426-08:00Recipe For Life - StoriesCasual reflections and meandering musings that often lead nowhereUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-55462959986535613312008-01-07T12:23:00.001-08:002008-12-11T21:45:15.654-08:00THE SIGHT<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYMXkz08j3SkO83ExKs7N95MP_jpSu4x6vbk0q0Tk3C_c2yN5c5wDe1kCrG1e6emL1Sj0CtX3m8alr5pzdaGkxZyC_c7GTuYOdXoQRMPAmGusokTKBVcDr-y3Bu9pIxFOHw4nA4A2Dd8/s1600-h/thesight.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152833065825852610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYMXkz08j3SkO83ExKs7N95MP_jpSu4x6vbk0q0Tk3C_c2yN5c5wDe1kCrG1e6emL1Sj0CtX3m8alr5pzdaGkxZyC_c7GTuYOdXoQRMPAmGusokTKBVcDr-y3Bu9pIxFOHw4nA4A2Dd8/s400/thesight.jpg" border="0" /></a> SIGHT<br /><br />“Time?”<br />“11:44.”<br />“Ok, call it.”<br />I opened my eyes. That disturbing dream again. Darkness muffled by cotton gauze and syringe sharp needles pressed against my forehead from within. Bright sparks ignited every time a needle pricked my brain and slowly the gauze and heavy darkness gave way to early morning gray. I rose. Dragging my feet across the room I found myself staring at a corpse in the mirror. Pale mottled skin and straggled strands of unkempt hair drawn across a sallow face did not hide the sunken eyes or pallid gaunt cheeks that formed the death’s skull illusion before me. I brushed the yellow teeth and ran a washcloth over my face, brushing back the hair. Not much improvement.<br />4:30 in the morning is not a conversational time. Very few bodies moved silently about the city and those unfortunate to be about at this hour tended to shy from company in general. I was grateful for the solitude as I passed through the door into my office. I stumbled against a leather ottoman and cursed the cleaning crew for rearranging the furniture again then awkwardly found my way to a huge worn mahogany desk and safely deposited my body in an old cushioned office chair. My partner, Leroy Shrugg never graced his presence this early when he was alive, but lounged across the couch opposite me while I checked my phone messages.<br />I removed my glasses and pinched my eyes closed tightly for a few moments and opened them again. Yes he was still there. Leo was a figment of my imagination of course, but since the accident, figments have been playing a large role in my life. It was still difficult to look back at what happened just a few weeks ago. I never could have imagined how such a routine job could take such a drastic turn that terrible January night.<br />Rain drummed non-stop against the van, seeping through the rusted hole in the corner of the roof, soaking into a rag I jammed roughly to stop the wind. It was cold - bitterly cold, much too cold for surveillance. Still I watched and I waited. This was the easy part of my job. A few hours stakeout; a few pictures. Keep the clients happy and they pay, fifty-five bucks an hour plus expenses, keeps me happy too. But not that night, that night was different. That night there would be no payment. Sitting there freezing in the middle of winter, this time was different all right.<br /> I had picked the spot carefully. No one would notice another abandoned junk heap rusting amongst the rotting debris and stinking decay strewn everywhere. I remember blowing on my hands, my breath turning to vapor in the icy air. Rubbing them together, trying to encourage blood back into my numbed fingers. I tugged my collar up high around the neck to keep out the draught that was blasting through the taped up window as well as an unconscious act of playing the tough guy as I pulled the rim of my hat down further over my eyes. I shudder at the vivid memories that are all to easy to access.<br /> Looking out through the cracked tinted glass, I could see lights glowing dimly behind closed curtains of the last two inhabited houses. The others were just shells, no windows, no doors, and some with no roofs. Like ghosts from a previous age, haunting only the memories of the few stragglers left behind. Nothing had moved, not since the old guy at the end of the street had taken his mangy dog out for a walk. That was two hours ago. Time was dragging. I remember I looked down at my watch. <br /> Then came the yawn, large and silent and I began to stretch, fighting the cramp creeping into my muscles, pushing myself hard against the armchair bolted in the rear of my ancient Ford Econoline. I decided the night was a bust and began to disentangle myself from the rear of the van, when a feint light appeared as a door cracked open across the street. I reached for my Mark III Panoscan forensic camera and brought it to focus just in time to capture the image of a figure stepping out of the shadows into the street. I continued to snap photos as the shape took form and suddenly I swore to myself, flung the camera down and threw the back doors open.<br /> “What do you think you are doing?” I whispered in incredulous exasperation at the oncoming image. “You will ruin…” at that moment headlights illuminated the dingy street and a loud engine roared around the corner. I looked up and frantically dove for my partner without thinking but before I could reach him, the oncoming car was past me and Leroy lay dead and disfigured fifteen feet away. I looked around and saw that the vehicle stopped down the street. I walked slowly towards the dark sedan. I saw no movement at all as I approached. Only its taillights glared angrily at me, and wisps of smoke escaped the exhaust pipe. I pulled my revolver as I drew near the passenger side door. There appeared to be no one inside as I cautiously peered through the window and then, nothing. Darkness.<br />“Time?”<br />“11:44.”<br />“Ok, call it.”<br /> Dead for two minutes. That’s what they told me, I was officially deceased. Toe tag bound. The attending physician fully expected my autopsy to reveal cause of death as blunt force trauma to the head. He did not expect me to kick death in the crotch and return to the living. And for that matter neither did the attending nurse.<br /> “Excuse me, Doctor? Are you sure he’s dead?”<br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com92tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-4324592325043246042007-11-14T20:51:00.000-08:002008-12-11T21:45:15.794-08:00Further Tales of Sherpa Kitty<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6vWzPwDXXGv9_3IniVHt7-bnw2PjDAApQ-GML8xkExh6ewx6aHF0b1dci-QrQigKm_6azzGIjdDzvQckP1O4gRE6au1aA1lpcwjMNYDQYFELDNzfQhmS18Xr5G6t9UrqjVYocY0YdchU/s1600-h/sherpa-kitty-and-beans.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132925548922291634" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6vWzPwDXXGv9_3IniVHt7-bnw2PjDAApQ-GML8xkExh6ewx6aHF0b1dci-QrQigKm_6azzGIjdDzvQckP1O4gRE6au1aA1lpcwjMNYDQYFELDNzfQhmS18Xr5G6t9UrqjVYocY0YdchU/s200/sherpa-kitty-and-beans.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div>SHERPA KITTY AND THE FIVE MAGICAL BEANS<br />There was once upon a time a little kitten that lived near a frozen lake in a large valley nestled below the Himalayan Mountains named Sherpa Kitty who one day came upon a young boy named Jack, and a milky white yak named Milky-White. Jack told Sherpa Kitty that all he and his sickly mother had to live on was the milk the yak gave every morning, which he carried to the market in the village across the valley and sold. The trip took so long that by the time he came home, it was time to leave again. But this morning Milky-White gave no milk, and they didn't know what to do.<br />"What shall we do, what shall we do?" said Jack’s sickly mother, wringing her hands.<br />"Cheer up, mother, I'll go and get work somewhere," said Jack.<br />"We've tried that before, and nobody would take you," said Jack’s sickly mother. "We must sell Milky-White and with the money start a shop, or buy ice fishing gear and sell fish."<br />"All right, mother," said Jack. "I’ll be off to the village market today, and I'll soon sell Milky-White, and then we'll see what we can do."<br />So Jack took the yak’s halter in his hand, and off he started. He hadn't gone far when he met Sherpa Kitty, who said to him, "Good morning, Jack."<br />"Good morning to you," said Jack, and wondered how she knew his name. “How fare you this fine day?”<br />"Well, Jack, and where are you off to?" said Sherpa Kitty.<br />"I'm going to the village market to sell our milky white yak Milky-White there."<br />“But what of your sickly mother, Jack? Who is to care for her?”<br />“Well I am.” Said Jack defensively. “But I spend all my time traveling so I cannot care for my mother properly. I am so wrought with guilt.”<br />“I am Sherpa Kitty, Jack; may chance you have heard of me. I am here to help you.” Said Sherpa Kitty. “I will sell your cow for you.”<br />“Thank you Sherpa Kitty.” Said Jack, for well had he heard of Sherpa Kitty in his travels across the great valley beneath the Himalayan Mountains.<br />Jack handed Milky-White the Yak over to Sherpa Kitty and rushed off to tend to his sickly mother. Sherpa Kitty set off in the direction of the village market.<br />“Is that a yak at your back?” came an inquiring voice from high above. Sherpa Kitty looked up to see the smiling face of the great Yeti Yeshe looking down at her.<br />“This yak belongs to Jack and his sickly mother. Milky-White will bare no milk so I have offered to sell her at the village market.” Said Sherpa Kitty.<br />“I wonder if you are best suited for selling a yak Sherpa Kitty, the village is a long way off and you have never sold anything in your life. Perhaps I should buy her for a fair price and take Milky-White to my cavern by the frozen lake.” Suggested Yeshe.<br />“What do you offer, Yeti?” inquired Sherpa Kitty.<br />“Why a fine pole with strong line to catch fish with.” Said Yeshe. “I only found this today on the frozen lake bed when some strangers ran from me as I strolled by. I do not care for fish but I do fancy the company of your fine yak friend there. Perhaps with some care and comfort Milky-White might once again produce milk.”<br />After carefully considering Yeshe’s generous offer Sherpa Kitty addressed her long time friend.<br />“A fine offer my pal, but I suspect that more can be made from the village market than on the road bantering with an old friend, and if Milky-White were to be found unsociable company and finished with her yak milk yielding days, I would feel guilty and remorseful, so I think I will not sell you this yak Yeshe.”<br />“Have it your way Sherpa Kitty, but know my offer may not be available later.” And with that the great Yeti Yeshe turned and bound into the snow quickly fading from sight.<br />Sherpa Kitty pressed on, urging Milky-White along as she begrudgingly followed, thinking out loud that maybe Yeshe’s offer was a fair one after all.<br />“Oh, you do look the proper sort to sell a yak.” Came a voice from behind a flowery ginger bush, as Ounce poked his sinister snout out from its fragrant hiding place.<br />”What are you up to?” Asked Sherpa Kitty suspicious of the shady creature that greeted him.<br />“I am just an interested party, considering making an offer for that juicy, I mean healthy looking yak Sherpa Kitty.” Said the nefarious snow leopard Ounce.<br />“And just what do you have to offer for this fine creature?” asked Sherpa Kitty.<br />“I have a broken claw that is very sharp and strong. It could be used as a pick to gather gems from the mountains to make jewelry.” Said Ounce quietly. “I broke this claw as I scrambled out of the frozen lake some time back and I have kept it with me all this time. Perhaps a smart little kitty like you knows its value.”<br />A jewelry shop could be quite profitable for Jack, thought Sherpa Kitty. “That seems a proper offer from you Ounce, but I must confess I have no trust for you at all. I will not sell this fine Yak to you today.”<br />“Your loss.” Growled the snow leopard. “ I will not make such a generous offer again Sherpa Kitty, and it is a long march to the village market. Terrible things can happen.”<br />I shudder to think thought Sherpa Kitty as she and Milky-White made their way across the valley. Ounce is a powerful foe and I should not be on his bad side. Perhaps I should have taken his offer, considered Sherpa Kitty.<br />Just then a voice cried out “Beans for sale! Beans for sale! Buy your magical beans right here!”<br />“Excuse me sir,” said Sherpa Kitty to the tall gaunt fellow dressed in a shabby torn choba-robe. “Why are you selling beans by the side of the road?”<br />“I am a desperate man, in a desperate need.” Said the gaunt man. “My wife is sick and cannot feed our baby and I must sell our only treasure to buy milk for my child.”<br />“And how many beans do you have to sell?” Asked Sherpa Kitty.<br />"I wonder if you know how many beans make five." Said the man.<br />"One under each paw and one in my mouth," said Sherpa Kitty, as sharp as a needle.<br />"Right you are," replied the man, "that is how many I have and here they are, the very beans themselves," he went on, pulling out of his pocket a number of strange-looking beans. "As you are so sharp," says he, "I don't see any reason to haggle with you I will give you -- all these magical beans for your yak."<br />"And what of these magical beans," said Sherpa Kitty. "What will they do?"<br />"Ah! You don't know what these beans are," said the man. "If you plant them overnight, by morning they grow right up to the sky. Eberyone knows what magical beans do Sherpa Kitty!"<br />"Really?" said Sherpa Kitty. "You don't say."<br />"Yes, that is so. And if it doesn't turn out to be true you can have you’re your milky white yak back."<br />"All right, then." Said Sherpa Kitty, as she handed over Milky-White's halter and tucked the beans under her hoodie.<br />Back to Jack went Sherpa Kitty, and as she hadn't gone very far it wasn't dusk by the time she came to his door.<br />"Back already?” asked Jack, as his mother called out from her bedside.<br />“I am back already with a fair deal for you.” Said Sherpa Kitty. “I bring you five magical beans!”<br />“Beans?” asked Jack. “What will I do with only five beans?”<br />“It should be more, I agree,” said Sherpa Kitty, “but all I had was one yak.”<br />“Oh my goodness.” Said Jack as he walked back to his mother’s bedside.<br />“They are magical.” Called out Sherpa Kitty behind Jack’s back.<br />"I see you haven't got Milky-White, so you've sold her. How much did you get for her, then?" asked Jack’s sickly mother.<br />"You'll never guess, mother," said Jack.<br />"No, you don't say. Good boy! Five pounds? Ten? Fifteen? No, it can't be twenty." Guessed Jack’s mother.<br />“I told you, you couldn't guess. What do you say to these beans? They're magical and we have five of them. Plant them overnight and…”<br />“What!” exclaimed Jack's sickly mother. “Have you been such a fool, such a dolt, such an idiot, as to give away my Milky-White, the best milk yak in the valley, and prime meat to boot, for a set of paltry beans? Take that! Take that! Take that! And as for your precious beans here they go out of the window. Now off with you to bed with you, not a sup shall you sip, and not a bit shall you bite this very night."<br />So Jack went upstairs to his little room in the attic, and sad and sorry he was, to be sure, as much for his mother's sake as for the loss of his supper.<br />At last he dropped off to sleep.<br />Sherpa Kitty was upset as well for she knew that Jack’s sickly mother had not taken the good news so lightly in the throws of one of her sickly spells. Poor Jack went to bed hungry and Sherpa Kitty had to make things right. But for now, Sherpa Kitty chose to sleep on how to best deal with the problems at hand and curled up right on top of the tossed magical beans moments before falling into a deep sleep.<br />When Sherpa Kitty awoke, her head was in the clouds. As she looked around she was high above the mountain peaks around her, higher than she knew was possible. She rose and stretched on a thick green vine that was four times as wide as she and extended out as far as the eye could see.<br />After a good stretch and yawn, Sherpa Kitty walked along the length of the green branch that shot away from the main beanstalk. Sherpa Kitty walked for quite a while until she happened upon a big tall house. And In front of the house was a big tall woman.<br />"Good morning, madam," said Sherpa Kitty, quite polite-like. "Could you be so kind as to share some breakfast?" For she hadn't had anything to eat don’t you know, the night before, and was as hungry as a hunter.<br />"Its breakfast you want, is it?" spoke the great big tall woman. "It's breakfast you'll be if you don't move off from here. My man is an ogre and there's nothing he likes better than kittens broiled on toast. You'd better be moving on or he'll be coming, for you."<br />"Oh! Please madam, do give me something to eat. I've had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, really and truly, madam," said Sherpa Kitty. "I may as well be broiled as die of hunger."<br />Well, the ogre's wife was not half so bad after all. So she took Sherpa Kitty into the kitchen, and gave her a hunk of cheese and a bowl of milk. But Sherpa Kitty hadn't half finished these when thump! Thump! Thump! The whole house began to tremble with the noise of someone coming.<br />"Goodness gracious me! It's my old man," said the ogre's wife. "What on earth shall I do? Come along quick and jump in here." And she bundled Sherpa Kitty into the oven just as the ogre came in.<br />He was a big one, to be sure. At his belt he had three goats strung up by the heels, and he unhooked them and threw them down on the table and said, "Here, wife, broil me a couple of these for breakfast. Ah! What’s this I smell?”<br />“Listen to me little ditty, I smell the blood of a Sherpa Kitty,Be she alive, or be she dead, I'll have her bones to grind my bread."<br />"Nonsense, dear," said his wife. "You' re dreaming. Or perhaps you smell the scraps of that little kitty you liked so much for yesterday's dinner. Here, you go and have a wash and tidy up, and by the time you come back your breakfast'll be ready for you."<br />So off the ogre went, and Sherpa Kitty was just going to jump out of the oven and run away when the woman warned him no. "Wait till he's asleep," said she; "he always has a doze after breakfast."<br />Well, the ogre had his breakfast, and after that he went to a big chest and took out a couple of bags of gold, and down he sat and counted ‘till at last his head began to nod and he began to snore till the whole house shook again.<br />Then Sherpa Kitty crept out on cats feet from the great oven, and as she was passing the ogre, she took one of the bags of gold in her mouth, and off she scampered ‘till she came to the beanstalk, and then she threw down the bag of gold, which, of course, fell into Jack’s yard, and then Sherpa Kitty climbed down and climbed down till at last she got to Jack’s home and told her tale to Jack and his sickly mother and showed them the gold when Jack said, “Well, mother, wasn't I right about the beans? They are really magical, you see.”<br />So Jack and his sickly mother lived on the bag of gold for some time, but at last they came to the end of it, and Jack went to Sherpa Kitty for help asking that she to try her luck once more at the top of the beanstalk. So one fine morning Sherpa Kitty rose up early, and got onto the beanstalk, and she climbed, and she climbed, and she climbed, and she climbed, and she climbed, and she climbed till at last she came out onto the branch again and over to the great tall house she had been to before. There, sure enough, was the great tall woman a-standing on the doorstep.<br />"Good morning, madam," said Sherpa Kitty, as bold as brass, "could you be so good as to give me something to eat?"<br />"Go away, little kitty," said the big tall woman, "or else my man will eat you up for breakfast. But aren't you Sherpa Kitty who came here once before? Do you know, that very day my man missed one of his bags of gold?”<br />"That is strange, madam," said Sherpa Kitty, “I dare say I could tell you something about that, but I'm so hungry I can't speak till I've had something to eat.”<br />Well, the big tall woman was so curious that she took her in and gave Sherpa Kitty something to eat. But she had scarcely begun munching it as slowly as she could when thump! Thump! They heard the giant's footstep, and his wife hid Sherpa Kitty away in the great oven once more.<br />All happened as it did before. In came the ogre as he did before, and said,<br />“Listen to me little ditty, I smell the blood of a Sherpa Kitty,Be she alive, or be she dead, I'll have her bones to grind my bread.”<br />And he sat down and had his breakfast of three broiled bullocks.<br />Then he said, “Wife, bring me the hen that lays the golden eggs.” So she brought it, and the ogre said, “Lay,” and it laid an egg all of gold pure through and through. And then the ogre began to nod his head, and to snore till the house shook.<br />So Sherpa Kitty crept out of the oven on cat paws and caught hold of the golden hen, and was off before you could say “Sherpa Kitty.” But this time the hen gave a cackle, which woke the ogre, and just as Sherpa Kitty got out of the house she heard him calling, "Wife, wife, what have you done with my golden hen?"<br />And the wife said, "Why, my dear?"<br />But that was all Sherpa Kitty heard, for she rushed off to the beanstalk and climbed down like a house on fire. And when she got all the way down to Jack’s home she showed Jack and his sickly mother the wonderful hen, and said “Lay” to it; and it laid a golden egg every time Sherpa Kitty said “Lay.”<br />Well, Jack and his sickly mother were not content, and it wasn't long before he begged Sherpa Kitty to have another try at her luck up there at the top of the beanstalk. So one fine morning Sherpa Kitty rose up early and got on to the beanstalk, and she climbed, and she climbed, and she climbed, and she climbed and she climbed ‘till she got to the top.<br />But this time she knew better than to go straight to the ogre's house. And when she got near it, Sherpa Kitty waited behind a fragrant ginger bush till he saw the ogre's wife come out with a pail to get some water, and then she crept into the house and climbed into the copper. She hadn't been there long when Sherpa Kitty heard thump! Thump! Thump! As before, and in came the ogre and his wife.<br />“Listen to me little ditty, I smell the blood of a Sherpa Kitty,Be she alive, or be she dead, I'll have her bones to grind my bread.”<br />Cried out the ogre. “I smell her, wife, I smell her.”<br />“Do you, my dearie?” asked the ogre's wife. “Then, if it's that little Sherpa Kitty that stole your gold and the hen that laid the golden eggs she's sure to have got into the oven.” And they both rushed to the oven.<br />But Sherpa Kitty wasn't there, luckily, and the ogre' s wife said, “There you are again with your kitty ditty. Why, of course, it's the kitty you caught last night that I've just broiled for your breakfast. How forgetful I am, and how careless you are not to know the difference between live and dead after all these years.”<br />So the ogre sat down to the breakfast and ate every bit of it, but every now and then he would mutter, “Well, I could have sworn…” and he'd get up and search the larder and the cupboards and everything, only, luckily, he didn't think of the copper.<br />After breakfast was over, the ogre called out, "Wife, wife, bring me my golden harp."<br />So she brought it and put it on the table before him. Then he said, "Sing!" and the golden harp sang most beautifully. And it went on singing till the ogre fell asleep, and commenced to snore like thunder.<br />Then Sherpa Kitty lifted up the copper lid very quietly and crawled down like a cat stalking a mouse and crept and crouched till she came to the table; when up she crawled, caught hold of the golden harp and dashed with it towards the door.<br />But the harp called out quite loud, “Master! Master!” and the ogre woke up just in time to see Sherpa Kitty running off with his harp.<br />Sherpa Kitty ran as fast as she could, and the ogre came rushing after, and would soon have caught her, only Sherpa Kitty was fast as the wind and dodged the ogre a bit and knew where she was going. When she got to the beanstalk the ogre was no more than twenty yards away when suddenly he saw Sherpa Kitty disappear like, and when he came to the end of the road he saw Sherpa Kitty underneath climbing down for dear life. Well, the ogre didn't like trusting himself to such a ladder, and he stood and waited, so Sherpa Kitty got another fast start.<br />But just then the harp cried out, "Master! Master!" and the ogre swung himself down onto the beanstalk, which shook with his weight. Down climbed Sherpa Kitty, and after him climbed the ogre.<br />By this time Sherpa Kitty had climbed down and climbed down and climbed down till he was very nearly dizzy, but also nearing the bottom. So she called out, “Jack! Jack! bring forth an ax, bring forth an ax.” And Jack came rushing out with the ax in his hand, but when he came to the beanstalk he stood stock still with fright, for there he saw the ogre with his legs just through the clouds.<br />But Jack took a deep breath and got a good hold of the ax and gave a chop at the beanstalk, which cut it half in two. The ogre felt the beanstalk shake and quiver, so he stopped to see what was the matter. Then Jack gave another chop with the ax, and the beanstalk was cut in two and began to topple over. Then the ogre very suddenly fell down and broke his crown, and the beanstalk came toppling after.<br />Then Sherpa Kitty shared with Jack and his sickly mother the golden harp, and what with showing that and selling the golden eggs, Jack and his sickly mother became very rich, and Jack became known far and wide as Jack the Giant killer. Jack hired a physician to care for his sickly mother and married a great princess, and they all lived happily ever after.<br />“Is that what really happened?” asked Yeshe the wise Yeti.<br />“As real as I am ready to admit,” admitted Sherpa Kitty.<br />THE END </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-55229884294272528212007-11-14T11:14:00.000-08:002008-12-11T21:45:15.947-08:00Sherpa Kitty<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh20xh82G9qon4q2bGoT_jvYbNtYGcOGflzR8uDkZ9vBm-5X4Fp2zxxslcoChNjJJsqwAWxWIOmNw0ks5GHS_u3XvMRVaMBKMuv1Yz3Q6itP4hHjqCRaCT-mgBe_nykawDMGzEoHf2vR9s/s1600-h/sherpa-cat.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5132776968229424866" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh20xh82G9qon4q2bGoT_jvYbNtYGcOGflzR8uDkZ9vBm-5X4Fp2zxxslcoChNjJJsqwAWxWIOmNw0ks5GHS_u3XvMRVaMBKMuv1Yz3Q6itP4hHjqCRaCT-mgBe_nykawDMGzEoHf2vR9s/s200/sherpa-cat.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div>HOW SHERPA KITTY GOT HER HOODIE<br /><br />Once and not so long ago, upon an ageless time there lived a lonely kitty near a frozen lake in a large valley nestled below the Himalayan Mountains. The little kitty was far too poor for Birkenstocks or warm lederhosen, nor did she even have a traditional Chuba-Robe to wear in the cold. She was often seen however, wearing a blue lambskin hoodie made of fur and silk thread, which came to her possession thanks to the lazy little girl who lived in a nearby village. Often neighboring animals would call her little Hoodie Cat but she would always exclaim "but I am Sherpa Kitty!" And so Sherpa Kitty is how everyone in the valley knew her.<br /><br />This is the story of how Sherpa Kitty came upon her blue thread hoodie.<br /><br />One day a lazy little girl who lived in a nearby village gave Sherpa Kitty a basket with some cakes and warm goats milk packed away inside and asked Sherpa Kitty to walk to the other side of the valley across the frozen lake to where Grandma Porter lay sick in her bed.<br /><br />"Remember not to talk to strangers!" the little girl said.<br /><br />On the way to Grandma Porter's cottage of stone and bamboo, Sherpa Kitty met a fierce Yeti.<br /><br />"Is that you, Sherpa Kitty?" Asked the big bad looking Yeti.<br /><br />"It is I, Sherpa Kitty," she replied "and who might you be Yeti?"<br /><br />"I am the mighty Yeti Yeshe." He boldly replied "And where might you be going this frightfully cold day?"<br /><br />"I am off to Grandma Porter's cottage far across the valley to the other side of the frozen lake to deliver this basket of goodies for the lazy little girl who warned me not to talk to strangers." said Sherpa Kitty.<br /><br />"It is good we met then, Sherpa Kitty for now we are not strangers and I would be no gentleman if I did not offer to escort you on your long journey to the far side of the valley beyond the frozen lake." said the great Yeti Yeshe.<br /><br />"Oh no, Mr. Yeshe I have promised the lazy little girl that I would not trust in strangers and must make hast around the lake if I am to make it to Grandma Porter's cottage before dark."<br /><br />"I respect your wishes Sherpa Kitty although I worry about the wisdom of your choice." said the Yeti Yeshe. "But I will leave you to your journey and wish you well."<br /><br />At that very moment the great Yeti turned away and blended into the snowy background as he dashed out of Sherpa Kitty's sight and far from Sherpa Kitty's thoughts.<br /><br />"I must quickly be away." thought Sherpa Kitty for I have many hours of travel before me.<br /><br />It was not long until she encountered Ounce, a snow leopard known throughout the valley to be of low regard and who smelled Grandma Porter’s basket from more than a mile away then tracked and stalked Sherpa Kitty for the longest time before presenting himself.<br /><br />"Hello Sherpa Kitty, where are you going this fine frozen day?"<br /><br />"I am going to Grandma Porter's cottage to deliver this basket of cakes and goat's milk for Grandma Porter feels not well this day." replied Sherpa Kitty.<br /><br />"And why must you perform this thankless deed Sherpa Kitty?" asked the hungry snow leopard who was no leopard at all but a mean panther dressed all in white leopard fur with gentle tawny spots to blend into the countryside when he stalked his prey. "Why don't you just sit down and take a break, you look weary and hungry. Perhaps we could share what is in the basket?<br /><br />"Oh no! Ounce, this is for Grandma Porter who lives across the valley beyond the frozen lake and I must hurry to reach her before the dark night falls."<br /><br />"It is too bad you will not share your basket Sherpa Kitty, I could take it from you had I a mind too" thought Ounce ready to pounce, but at that very moment he detected a movement of shadow just so, in the snow bank behind and beyond Sherpa Kitty that brought to mind a juicy snow hare. A much better treat than stale cakes and goats milk for a hungry panther dressed as a snow leopard, so he bound off without so much as a goodbye to Sherpa Kitty in pursuit of possible prey.<br /><br />Sherpa Kitty continued her trek across the white wilderness of the vast valley below the Himalayan peaks and hours passed while the sun slowly fell to earth ready to slide behind the tall mountains when suddenly, before her eyes emerged the site of Grandma Porter's stone and bamboo cottage.<br /><br />Very excited to be concluding her journey and anxious to share her basket with sickly Grandma Porter, Sherpa Kitty rushed to the cottage, and knocked loudly on the door; for she knew Grandma Porter was deaf beyond her years and a heavy sleeper as well. If she were asleep in her sickbed, Sherpa Kitty knew not how she would raise grandma Porter's attention, but her fears were set aside when a low growl came from inside the house.<br /><br />"Come in!" said the low gravelly voice from behind the door. "uh hummm, come in deary" came a higher strained voice welcoming Sherpa Kitty into the cottage.<br /><br />Dashing in from the cold, Sherpa Kitty was happy to find Grandma Porter in bed with a roaring fire warming the gray stone walls of the cottage. Sherpa Kitty took a moment to appreciate the cozy hearth and shake off the snow from her fur in the doorway.<br /><br />"Come here little Sherpa Kitty, and bring me that basket." Said the strained high pitch voice from Grandma Porter's bed. "Come sit beside me if you will and tell me of the goodies you brought me."<br /><br />"How do you know who I am?" asked Sherpa Kitty.<br /><br />"Everyone in the valley has heard of Sherpa Kitty!" growled the voice from the bed. "Now bring me my basket!"<br /><br />The creature in the bed looked odd to Sherpa Kitty and she declared "My what white fur you have grandma!"<br /><br />"All the better to keep warm my pretties" came the answer.<br /><br />"And my, what big eyes you have grandma!" said Sherpa Kitty.<br /><br />"All the better to see one so itty bitties." was the reply.<br /><br />"And oh, my! What big teeth you have!" exclaimed Sherpa Kitty.<br /><br />"All the better to eats the little kitties!" roared Ounce as he pounced from the bed.<br /><br />It was once and not so long ago, upon an ageless time that there lived a lonely kitty near a frozen lake in a large valley nestled below the Himalayan mountains.<br /><br />The young cat, known far and wide as Sherpa Kitty was talking to the lazy little girl who lived in a near bye village.<br /><br />"And what happened next?" begged the lazy little girl.<br /><br />"There is much to tell and I am weary and cold." said Sherpa Kitty.<br /><br />"Oh my, Sherpa Kitty, please take this blue hoodie to cover your cold ears." Offered the lazy little girl. "You may keep it, I have a red one at home that matches my cape any ways."<br /><br />"Thank you," replied Sherpa Kitty, "I will wear it always."<br /><br />"Now tell me please! What happened after Ounce pounced on you?"<br /><br />Now old Ounce was quite angry when he discovered there was no snow hare to be found, and after carefully searching the area, Sherpa Kitty was long gone as well. That is when the sinister mind of Ounce created a plan to steal Grandma Porter's basket from Sherpa Kitty.<br /><br />Ounce knew of a shortcut to Grandma Porter's cottage and dashed away across the frozen lake dodging and leaping over dangerous thin ice patches and reached Grandma Porter's cottage just moments before Sherpa Kitty. He snuck up on Grandma Porter as she slept and whisked her away into a broom closet, as there was no time to do anything else when Sherpa Kitty knocked loudly on the front door. Ounce quickly crawled under the covers of Grandma Porter's bed, pulling them up tightly to his chin.<br /><br />"Come in!" Ounce called out in a low gravelly voice from beneath the covers. "uh hummm, come in deary" he said with a higher strained voice after clearing his throat.<br /><br />Sherpa Kitty burst through the door so fast it startled Ounce making him believe that she already knew what was amiss, but then as Sherpa Kitty shook the snow off of her fur, he realized she was merely eager to get in out of the cold.<br /><br />"Come here little Sherpa Kitty, and bring me that basket." Ounce spoke with a strained high pitch voice from Grandma Porter's bed. "Come sit beside me if you will and tell me of the goodies you brought me."<br /><br />"How do you know who I am?" asked a wary Sherpa Kitty.<br /><br />"Everyone in the valley has heard of Sherpa Kitty!" Ounce said after thinking hard and fast. "Now bring me my basket!"<br /><br />Sherpa Kitty looked puzzled and a little frightened and declared "My what white fur you have grandma!"<br /><br />"All the better to keep warm my pretties" Ounce replied.<br /><br />"And my, what big eyes you have grandma!" said Sherpa Kitty.<br /><br />"All the better to see one so itty bitties." Ounce growled.<br /><br />"And oh, my! What big teeth you have!" exclaimed Sherpa Kitty.<br /><br />"All the better to eats the little kitties!" roared Ounce as he pounced from the bed.<br /><br />Just at that moment the door burst open and the great white Yeti named Yeshe grabbed Ounce by the gruff of his neck, dragging the fiercely indignant snow leopard outside and then flung Ounce far over the lake bed where the sound of ice cracking and water splashing could be heard upon his descent.<br /><br />Grandma Porter then came stumbling out of the closet so Yeshe and Sherpa Kitty put her back to bed and they all had cakes and goats milk and laughed at poor Ounce soaked to the bone and learning how to swim at his age.<br /><br />Upon reflecting on the question posed by the lazy little girl from the nearby village, Sherpa Kitty replied; "Let's just say a wise friend knew when to not be a stranger."<br /><br />The End </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-23360079849962098792007-10-16T01:36:00.000-07:002008-12-11T21:45:16.160-08:00A DAY AT THE BEACH<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyS68pSWvQmjyTVnKDeQIUQP8pprFyDNI6RFaeQZChhRNfWpafvFKsRq-bCr61-x-_ub4kREylXBwyqkXF5t57FCqfSEDfYXe8nn6BFmFv3vSzsNwJnuLnuGMVlZlxB8tPllmBd51AHUY/s1600-h/depopulation.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121855824206224882" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyS68pSWvQmjyTVnKDeQIUQP8pprFyDNI6RFaeQZChhRNfWpafvFKsRq-bCr61-x-_ub4kREylXBwyqkXF5t57FCqfSEDfYXe8nn6BFmFv3vSzsNwJnuLnuGMVlZlxB8tPllmBd51AHUY/s200/depopulation.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em>There is a reason why Sam Gambol became an explorer scout, preferring the quiet solitude of uncharted space to the dread responsibility involved in his previous line of work. Let’s just say that for Sam, a day at the beach was no walk in the park.</em></div><br /><div><br />Sam Gambol sat quietly in the dim lit compartment, carefully studying the subspace surveillance stream being relayed to him. "Isolate 350/150," he ordered the computer. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Activate MDO search."<br /></div><br /><div>And there it was on the floatie-screen in front of him, in all its blood and gore. He took his time, letting each of the pictures etch itself into his mind. The satellite probe had just circled Prometheus II once, but already he knew he had the critical data that would legalize his actions.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Save targeted files and upload to Earth Data Central. Confirm receipt." They'll need to have those photos to justify what I'm about to do.<br /></div><br /><div>"Files received," the computer whispered in his mind.<br /></div><br /><div>"Activate the troops. We're going in."<br /></div><br /><div>Calling those he commanded "troops" was using the term loosely. They were titan terminator drones designed for accumulative slaughter as they circled a planet. There were only five biologicals under his command in the whole of the fleet, and they were merely window dressing.<br /></div><br /><div>"You need a human on board so they'll have someone to blame if the machines screw up," was what his instructor had jokingly said at the academy. But the teacher hadn't smiled and the students hadn't laughed, too much truth in the statement.<br /></div><br /><div>There wouldn't be any screw-ups this time. With documented photos of the scattered dissected colonists haunting the depths of his mind, he knew anyone seeing what he'd sent back would be willing to justify any actions he took, even a drone extinction strike.<br />And that was just what he'd intended to give the nether-ghouls on the planet his fleet was headed for.<br /></div><br /><div>"Three minutes to alignment," the computer warned.<br /></div><br /><div>"Command order: We'll go in with blaze," he grimly told his computer which relayed his message to the fifty networked hyper ships around him. "DES. Terminal mode."<br /></div><br /><div>"Confirm order please: Command is DES, terminal mode."<br /></div><br /><div>"Drone Execution Strike, terminal mode confirmed."<br /></div><br /><div><br />There was a rattle through the deck below as the ship automatically maneuvered for the transfer to sub-light speed. Then the high-pitched hum of Drone bays coming online.<br /></div><br /><div>"Full monitor," Sam ordered. Instantly the dark room he sat in was surrounded by light, as if he floated in space encircled by the sleek ships around him. There was a rainbow of light and then they were through the hyperspace barrier. Below his feet was the blue and green globe, lush with life. "Engage program."<br /></div><br /><div>For six seconds the drones fired, wide beam masers flashing from the hulls glowed a dull red, the power beams slashing like crimson spotlights through the atmosphere of the planet. The nether-Ghouls most likely never had time to react since their communications and weapons systems were knocked out during the first milliseconds of the battle, the computerized systems on the ships circling them working from the satellite data stream that constantly relayed updated information throughout the networked fleet.<br /></div><br /><div>After that, drones methodically hunted down and killed each of the skeletal creatures on the surface below.<br /></div><br /><div>Sam knew what was happening but all that registered with his slow nervous system was one massive flash of light; the human mind was unable to following the numbing speed of the attack on the planet below. It seemed that they had only just come out of hyperspace. Yet the battle was over, the enemies below, slaughtered.<br /></div><br /><div>"Mission completed," his computer whispered.<br /></div><br /><div>Sam closed his eyes. "Total enemy kills?"<br /></div><br /><div>"One million, forty-three thousand, two hundred fifty-six."<br />Sam remained silent a moment. "Time for the most important part," he said. "Time to wake the actors."<br /></div><br /><div><br />Stanley waded ashore, wondering how it was that the complex system of microchips that were capable of the pinpoint accuracy needed to direct a fleet of drones to wipe out more than a million sentient creatures in just over six seconds could manage to miss the beach, putting the crew into nearly three feet of slimy warm ocean water.<br /></div><br /><div>"This is great," the cameraman beside him yelled over the noise of the surf. "We couldn't have planned it better. The actors can wade ashore just like in the old newsreels -- they'll love this back home. Let me set up the camera on the beach and I'll be ready for the 'troops'."<br /></div><br /><div>"No big hurry," Sam said, staring at the charred jelly coated skeleton that floated in the waves thirty meters from him. For a moment he felt pity, and then he remembered the hostages that had been mutilated, their arms and legs missing, their faces twisted into gruesome death masks. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"Believe in it," he told himself, closing his eyes. "It happened. They did it. You were justified in ordering the attack."<br /></div><br /><div>But perhaps the Nether-Ghouls hadn't known what they were doing. Or perhaps they'd done it to send a message to future trespassers. It didn't make any difference to Sam. Anything or anyone that treated people like that deserved to die.<br /></div><br /><div><em>Wait, had it really happened? Weren’t the settlers still in transit?</em> He felt confused, old doubts resurfacing. He shook his head. It was about time for him to return to the EDC for update programming indoctrination --<br /></div><br /><div>"I'm ready," the cameraman called, breaking into Sam's thoughts.<br /></div><br /><div>"Computer," Sam ordered. "Send out the landing party."<br /></div><br /><div>The large cargo door at the side of the Lander hissed opened and three men in battle gear splashed ashore, surrounded by battle bots and tracked vehicles. As they advanced, the fake guns they held discharged smoke and empty cartridges while the machines around them belched fire. Within minutes the men and mechanicals were ashore, racing past the camera.<br /></div><br /><div>"That's it," the cameraman yelled.<br /></div><br /><div>The machines and men came to a halt. The mechanicals returned to the cargo bay and stowed themselves, the actors huddled around the camera to check the replay of the scene.<br /></div><br /><div>"Are we ready to go?" Sam asked.<br /></div><br /><div>The cameraman studied the display on his equipment a moment and then spoke. "It's a wrap. All the stuff we need to create a computerized mass invasion of the beach."<br /></div><br /><div>"Right," Sam said. He'd seen it all before. The computers took the images, created variations of the actors and machines that had been filmed, and then reassembled them into an entire army.<br />When the people back home saw the scene, they'd watch thousands of troops jump into the surf from a hundred ships. Enemy power beams would cut some of the troops down and some would make it to shore to engage the enemy. Images from the surveillance satellites would be added, creating in-orbit pictures of the enemy being destroyed by the landing party.<br /></div><br /><div>Eventually, after virtual days of heavy fighting in the shadow war created by the computer matrixes, the invading humans would defeat the skelly foes. Then, according to the script, the nether-Ghoul colonies In the face of defeat would commit mass suicide, leaving the planet open to another wave of Earth settlers.<br /></div><br /><div>When protesters back on Earth raised any objections, and they always did, the images of the slaughtered colonists would be released. Those who managed to keep their last meal down would be talking about how the nether-Ghouls deserved everything they got after that, and besides they turned on themselves.<br /></div><br /><div>"Let's load up," Sam told the cameraman and his actors that huddled around the screen, watching the replay of their landing. He turned and wadded back toward the Lander.<br /></div><br /><div>"Don't you want to look around?" one of the new actors asked. "This is the most beautiful piece of real estate I've ever seen."<br /></div><br /><div>Sam said nothing.<br /></div><br /><div>"Don't be silly," the cameraman said. "We've got three more planets to hit before the end of the week."<br /></div><br /><div>Sam wondered how many they'd kill by the end of their tour. Again he felt the twinge of conscience and nearly stumbled in the surf. It was time to take action. "Computer," he said softly.<br /></div><br /><div>"Yes, commander?"<br /></div><br /><div>"Prepare the next set of images of slaughtered colonists. And alert EDC that my programming seems to be failing. I'm having trouble believing we're justified in what we're doing."<br /></div><br /><div>"I have already alerted them. I suspected you were having problems. Can you continue the mission."<br /></div><br /><div>"No problem," he answered grimly. To a good commander, what were a few million more deaths?<br /></div><br /><div>Especially when they already had the data ready to justify his actions. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-78310773266741099002007-09-20T22:23:00.001-07:002008-12-11T21:45:16.393-08:00GRUMPY BEAR- The rest of the story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNJi5syqJszeLTFdcpvFtp9LMnKotm-45Qu_ozcds7On_YeRskVxcbuFkCP5EGMLKI09xaAAjqIONF_OuaoHE9ngP76Z97KHrQYTuSJHmIEFXoWwXHhjFT_VO26_5cMfyEuTmKp1zCYbI/s1600-h/1214849_4_thumb.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112523999985422706" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNJi5syqJszeLTFdcpvFtp9LMnKotm-45Qu_ozcds7On_YeRskVxcbuFkCP5EGMLKI09xaAAjqIONF_OuaoHE9ngP76Z97KHrQYTuSJHmIEFXoWwXHhjFT_VO26_5cMfyEuTmKp1zCYbI/s200/1214849_4_thumb.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Here we go! - Day 26 of 28</div><br /><div><br />Well I was all set! I fueled to the max, rented another slip for the day, planned to fix a nice meal, take a nap, and set course about midnight. I've been going over my books, studying different scenarios on the Chart plotter, looks like once I can get around the bend, life is going to be very good. I still don't know what to anticipate, I've been told to expect 40 miles of hard road. So I am ready to face it in whatever form it takes. I guess it depends on the time between breaks in the swells, and the wind speed and direction. Some have said the winds were at 50 knots last week, and the waves were at 15 ft. swells with 6-second breaks. Not real good for a little boat. I am hoping for no more than 6 to 8 ft swells with a 10 to 12 second break, and southwest winds at 15 miles an hour. I am sure I can handle that, plus it certainly doesn't look like I will be alone out there. </div><div></div><div>Who out there is surprised that things didn’t go as planned?<br /><br /><br />Fear and Loathing in Santa Barbara - Day 27 of 29 </div><div><br />Well I am in Morro Bay getting fuel, and all is well again. If I could have found the plug to this boat, I think I would have pulled it.I didn't sleep much last night, the tension and fear factor just kept growing, I just knew that as I departed the safety of Santa Barbara's Cove, there would be a huge Jolly Rodger Flag and a sign that said:"Beyond This Point there be Dragons!" Yaargh!So I lunged out of my berth at about 10 pm. I fixed a quick meal, stowed my gear, secured the boat, disconnected the electricity, and decided to debark an hour early. The suspense was just killing me. So I charged the port ignition, set her to idle, turned on the blowers (was supposed to do that first, oops) charged the starboard engine and everything went dark.I looked about me in the eerie darkness. There were a few boats with cabin lights glowing, but nothing around the docks, the immediate shoreline or anything on my boat. I could hear my port engine, but I couldn't tell if my starboard engine kicked in or not, so I turned off my port engine, and silence.Darkness and silence... a creepy, tingle seemed to vibrate between my spine and my shirt, maybe I needed a shower, but I think it was tiny hair follicles straining to stand up trying to get my attention, screaming that something was terribly not right. I looked at my shadowy silent boat, and put my fingers to the starboard ignition. I gently pressed against the key and then abruptly and abrasively turned the switch on.Nothing. No sputtering engine, no sudden illuminata, no equilibrium within the forces of nature. Just silence, and dark obscurity, vague gloom and uncertainty followed by an unexpected flash of obscenities, uncoordinated motion, and evil activity the likes I am unable to describe. To this day I don't know where it came from or where it finally settled, it may still be traversing the universe as I write this, but I know it couldn't have come from me, not mellow mild mannered me.After playing with a 100-hour flashlight, which gets its reputation by flickering off intermittently 100 times an hour, I pulled the engine and battery boards up, then stared fruitlessly into an innocent looking compartment; clean, orderly, and compulsively neat. I reached the conclusion that I had no clue as to what I was looking for and that this so far unknown but likely electrical ailment was probably terminal and would require the costly services of a professional.So I went to the Harbor Master’s office, picking my way through the ropes and pylons, barking dogs, and scurrying wharf rats, for as you may recall the complete area was devoid of light, and all the while I couldn't shirk the feeling that somehow I was responsible for sucking the light out of the entire vicinity. As I reached the humble abode of the harbor master's office, I informed the grizzly bear of a duty officer that I would be remaining the rest of the evening and into the morning and that I was experiencing electrical difficulties as apparently so was he. </div><div><br />He then informed me that I would of course have to be moved from my present slip into another more appropriate slip, and so I reminded him of the power outage and my serious lack of said power on the boat, and he suggested that if I couldn't handle the move, he would gladly call for a tug to tow me for a nominal fee. I then realized the simplicity of moving a 30 foot boat around the pylons, docks, rocks, and embankments in the middle of the night, with only one engine drive, and absolutely no navigation lights, and for that matter, nothing but dark shadows contrasted against more dark shadows to steer by. I told the officer with the twenty seven acre body that I would gladly move my boat and get right to it, praying silently to myself the entire way back to my day slip for a small miracle.As I was gleefully securing the lines to my newly homesteaded slip, lost in the pride of a job well done and humbled by the fact that my boat was broke and I didn't know how to fix it, a figure loomed in from the shadows and said "strange night, ain’t it?"I nearly shed my skin like a molting snake; this old man caught me so unaware. After climbing down from the non-existent mizzenmast that I surely would have scaled had I owned one, I told him he didn't know the half of it as I explained my misfortune to him. He merely nodded and said that he came down to check on his shop after the power went out, and low and behold it was still there (the shop, that is what passes for harbor humor). He said that he owned the marine store, and that he was a qualified marine mechanic and would be pleased as a pickle (whatever that means) to take a look at my boat, for a nominal fee.Well I agreed, and he drifted back and forth between my boat and his shop, and finally isolated the problem as a loose ground wire. Five seconds and $390.00 later I was in complete operational mode!At 0730 hours I set my course for Point Conception. Alone.<br /><br />Where have all the bay seals gone... - Day 28 of 30 </div><div><br />Gone to no good everyone, when will they ever learn?Well the seals are gone. Most everyone I spoke with told me of the problems I would encounter with the Monterey seals, if and when I got that far. There’s no sleep to be had when thousands of barking pinapeds invade the coastal inlets. There will be seals on the rocks; seals on the docks, most captains that moored in Monterey adorned their boats with seal nets to keep the bloody nuisances away. Tourists come for miles around to see and pet and feed the troublesome noisy seals. And then grumble because they can't get their boat down the launch ramp, because it's filled with barking seals.They are not there now, I heard two separate barks throughout the night, and that was it. I asked the fishermen who seemed to have reclaimed their levy, "where did the seals go?" “Don't know” was the unanimous response. "Where are all the seals?" I asked the shop proprietors next to the marina, “Don't know” was the immediate response. I suspect collusion and conspiracy, but I don't know where to point the finger, apparently everyone has benefited from the disappearance of the barking seals.It's too late to get fuel tonight, so I'll pick some up in the morning, I am tied up to the fuel dock right behind the Normanda, a 62 foot monstrosity that I have been following since Morrow bay. I just finished speaking with the skipper of that boat; he is taking her up to the San Juan Islands for the owners. He was complaining about his big ole diesel getting only five miles to the gallon, I thought that that was pretty good compared to the 1.25 miles to the gallon I seem to be getting. He left Marina Del Rey this morning, and says he's been hitting 25 knots most of the way. He was impressed I was only two hours behind him, and I told him that was only because I got boarded by the coast guard coming out of Morro Bay. That set me back about a half hour.I made really good time myself (about 21 knots) actually once I got around Point Conception. The Point wasn't too bad, kind of like a roller coaster ride, only three and a half hours long. You get turned one way, then another, then up, then down, then repeat, then rinse...then all of a sudden, once you become accustomed to the motion, it levels out, the fog lifts, the sun is shining, the birds are sitting on the water, the dolphins are playing, seals are floating on their backs, otters are scampering about, and you come over a rising swell, and every living thing is gone. I looked about, but all I could see for miles around was these little floating plastic bubble pack bubbles. I later learned they were little jelly fishies, an entire flotilla of jellyfish. They made the gentle rolling swells look like vast green hills empty except for little tiny cacti growing up from them.After I cleared the jellyfish world, the sea opened back up to birds, fish, dolphins, seals, otters, gray whales, a veritable playground of creatures in abundance. I certainly didn't feel lonely with so many onlookers barking, snorting, chittering, and splashing, in fact I felt pretty good about finally being underway again and moving farther from the rougher seas.<br /><br /><br />I left my heart.... - Day 29 of 30 </div><div><br />I now know how hearts are left in San Francisco, they are jogged and jolted and shaken loose going under the Golden Gate Bridge...I pulled out of Monterey this morning 0830 hours saw more freighters and tankers out on the horizon, but none as I passed through the shipping lanes, and all out bound. I had a southerly wind pushing me 21.5 knots all the way. I saw pilot whales outside of Frisco Bay, and a group and a bunch of slow moving grays heading north. Dolphins and seals were everywhere. I actually saw sailboats under their own power for the first time today, and more traffic than the past two weeks combined.Once I began my approach to the bay entrance, I discovered I had an inbound tide, and the wind still strong behind me. I was hitting 26 to 26 knots coming up to the entrance. I finally backed off on the throttle a bit, only to find that made things worse, so I throttled up and went with the flow.Once past the first rocks, the seas settled down considerably, and I was just cruisin' up to the Golden Gate Bridge! I noticed around me, I was receiving an official escort by three playful dolphins. It was magnificent. The skies had surprisingly cleared, as there had been some sea mist and hints of fog earlier in the trip, enough to remind me of the nightmare that could await me without radar and all.But there I was San Francisco unfurling with all her sun-drenched glory. Calm seas clear weather and a dolphin escort led me towards hundreds of colorful sails floating across the bay just beyond the Golden Gate Bridge. I made it! It was magical. It was premature, but a sense of accomplishment was surging through me. I stood and stretched, and took it all in, breathing deeply and sighing relief from worry of the unknown. The journey is almost complete, and I am still afloat.I should have been paying attention to the dolphins, who peeled away from the boat, I should have noticed the sail boats that kept their respective distance, if I had only focused on the waters ahead instead of 'taking it all in' I might have been prepared for the jolt, I might have at least sat down, but all of a sudden the water was boiling around me. I was directly under the Golden Gate Bridge, and it was like I was in a washing machine. My little boat was vibrating one way, then the other, I finally realized that over correcting was just making matters worse, so I set me rudders forward and just braced myself. By the time I figured out I was in trouble, I was out of it just as quickly as I got into it.Welcome to San Francisco!<br /><br />Sacramento or bust - Day 30 of 30 </div><div><br />Left for Benicia from the Emeryville docks at 1400 hrs yesterday, set a clear course northeast cruising at 21 knots. Made it to Benicia by 245 pm (oops 1445 hours). I had planned on lying over at the Benicia Marina, but I didn't expect to reach my destination so soon.After respectfully slowing near Benicia, I decided to continue on with my final leg of the journey, only to be rewarded with a complete loss of signal from my GPS Chart plotter two miles up the inlet. Now, for the first time, the navigation was getting tricky. I still had a GPS map of the area, including the Sacramento River all the way to Sacramento complete with Navigation Buoys, so I felt somewhat competent to continue on.As I mentally checked off each buoy marker as I proceeded, I gained more confidence in the map, despite the inability to match my surroundings with the terrain displayed on my chart plotter. Without my little boat icon, bearing, course and speed info, I felt slightly near sighted, and each time I passed a buoy marker, I inevitably had to scan ahead or behind where I tried to imagine my location on the GPS map. I passed towns, and communities, landmarks and bridges that I could not identify with my map, and it was because I was fidgeting with the GPS monitor and trying to second guess my location I think, that I missed the buoy marker that led to the entrance to the Sacramento River. The last point of reference I was even remotely sure of was a set of docks across from a Naval, or Coast Guard Moth Ball fleet, and that was several miles behind me I am fairly certain despite the fact that I could no longer monitor my speed or course direction. I did start paying closer attention to my compass, but the river kept winding this way and that way that even the compass direction was deceptive.I fell in behind two good sized river boats that I imagined with false logic were heading up the Sacramento River, but eventually I became more and more concerned that I had veered off course onto a secondary Sacramento tributary leading me towards Stockton. I finally dropped back, scanning the area, and decided to approach an anchored boat and ask directions. The gentlemen on the boat spoke broken english, and I had a little difficulty making them understand me, but finally one of the men said "si, Sacramento River behind you, but that slough over there will take you to it."I thanked the crew and set my course slowly at first, but as I began to realize from my depth finder, the channel was fourteen to twenty five feet through the center, I brought my speed up to 18 knots with confidence. I was headed north, my depth finder was consistently reading in the twenty foot area, and up ahead I could see boats and a wide opening at the mouth of the slough. I was back on track, and it was still early in the afternoon, things were looking up.I could see sailboats in the distance, across this wide opening, and other powerboats anchored and or traveling on the opposite side of the sailboats. Traffic was a good sign. I could smell fresh water, and I was beginning to look forward to dinner in old town Sacramento.That's when I looked down at all the kelp, or seaweed, or just plain weeds. I glanced at my depth finder, and it read 4 feet! A lot of things sunk in at that very moment. The powerboats were 8-foot bass masters and the sail boats, were actually sail boards with colorful kites attached and floating lazily in the sky. I was the not so gentle giant, a bull in a china closet, and quite obviously not in the Sacramento River.I have a 3' 10" draft on my boat, and I had in no uncertain terms dispatched myself across dicey waters. I knew that I needed to lower my Bow and raise my trim to minimize my draft, and so I instantly went into heroic action. I grabbed a firm grip on both throttles, and slammed them back into neutral as I squealed at the top of my lungs like a little girl. Problem solved. I screeched to a sudden stop, my bow came down, and I raised my trim, but not before my stern shoved itself into the water with teeth loosening force. I just sat there for a moment, taking in the results of my actions, mentally inventorying my bicuspids and I swear, every one else on that body of water came to a complete stop when I did. I could feel calculating eyes upon me. My secret was finally out, the judgment was in, I am an idiot with twin mercs strapped to my butt with no clue as to what I am doing and no common sense. How could I possibly have survived as long as I did? I am at the bottom of the food chain, a mental midget; a disgrace to Davy Jones (of locker fame, and probably the Monkey Jones as well).As the world began to revolve again and fishermen went back to drinking, the sailboards went back to sailing, auto traffic on the distant bridge began to move again, I eased my boat into motion, slightly shaken stll. I experiencing difficulty at matching both engines, my trim was to high, and props kept clearing the water, and I was frantically searching for an "exit". Traveling at about one knot I managed to cover nearly every segment of that marshy hell, avoiding the populated regions of water out of embarrassment, and busying myself with the difficult uncooperative motors, playing with the trim with the panicky realization that not only have I made a monumental fool of myself, but judging from the temperature gauges, my starboard engine was heating up, the trim response from both engines was negligible, the sun was dipping low in the sky, and I was lost.There seemed nothing left to do but approach one of the witnesses to my blunder and confirm my ineptness by declaring that I am lost and beg for guidance, maybe a tow. The fishing boats seemed to have retreated into the reeds, and appeared to be deliberately inaccessible and averted their eyes when I gazed in their direction, so I limped over to the sail board region cautiously anticipating a restriction sign of some sort to fend me away, watching my depth finder religiously as I slowly fought my way across the marsh.First I found five feet, then six feet for the longest time. Then eight feet, then twelve, fourteen, twenty, and finally twenty-four feet when I reached the sailboards. Still I could not get my trim down any further, and if I tried to raise the rpm's my starboard engine started to heat up. I was crippled, but not dead in the water, I just needed to reach the sailboards. What I eventually discovered as I peered across to the other side of the sailboards was the waterway known as the Sacramento River. A couple of mid sized power boats sped through the sailboards with what I determined to be a reckless amount of speed with my new found maritime respect and awareness, but I also concluded that it must be permissible to pass through the sailboard field and proceed along my way.As I slowly cut through the colorful sails, moving much more slowly than the surfers themselves, it became painfully obvious that they were barely aware of my presence, they just slid back and forth across the mouth of the river as if in some kind of a mellow daze, or completely self absorbed with little interest in my passing.I now had a clear course ahead of me, and I meticulously stood buoy watch as I slowly made my way upstream. I found and identified my 1st buoy, and established my location; I played with the trim, and the rpm's until I found a happy medium of about 10 knots. At 1200 rpm, I was dragging a wake like a speedboat, but I could not get my bow up, or my trim down completely. I broke my boat. I accepted that now, but at least she was still under her own power. I kicked back, and pretended I was on the Disney Safari Boat ride and started looking at the shore line for hippos, and other wild animals, I imagined I was an Indian scout making good time in a canoe, and turned up the radio and listened to the distress calls of my fellow lame sailors who had drifted onto the rocks, or lost their engine and needed a tow, or were in dire need of assistance from the coast guard, but not really certain what kind assistance they actually needed. But not me, definitely not me, I was still under my own albeit crippled power. Channel 16 can be kind of entertaining on a late weekend afternoon.I grew eventually tired of the paddlewheel pace I was making up river as the sun began to set, I was also weary and sincerely apologetic numerous times to the people who madly waved their hands at me and yelled "trim down!" at the top of their lungs repeatedly from one 'no wake' zone to the next, so I decided to weigh anchor for the night, and found myself a nice quiet section of river and settled in for the evening. Tomorrow is another day, and Sacramento can't be far. It just now occurs to me; </div><div></div><div>Sacramento or bust? </div><div></div><div>Well I didn't make Sacramento. I sure wish I hadn't busted my boat. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-58972762308166748532007-09-19T10:10:00.000-07:002008-12-11T21:45:16.576-08:00A short delay on the bay but it's time to go<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZd_M0zlxN9fmN63X3gOGW5Dni72wkcQC_ilGpw_zZ4CcEOYKzZ_P9Gygeh_fbTw0xJ33PvRe9HBeDCbV0FXBeoEDdiX1FcPwbsHMXy6v0F-aSkZoMN1pjuAj8Liu6W2lmT2b_praQeU/s1600-h/1214849_9_thumb.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111964499623903378" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfZd_M0zlxN9fmN63X3gOGW5Dni72wkcQC_ilGpw_zZ4CcEOYKzZ_P9Gygeh_fbTw0xJ33PvRe9HBeDCbV0FXBeoEDdiX1FcPwbsHMXy6v0F-aSkZoMN1pjuAj8Liu6W2lmT2b_praQeU/s200/1214849_9_thumb.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Laundry day again - Day 25 of 27<br /><br />So this is the life of a sailor? I could get used to living on nautical time. Priorities change, nothing seems rushed. I bought a couple more books, and some DVD's, and a computer game for my laptop, I went ashore two days ago, and kind of toured the town. There are a lot of curio shops and artsy stores. The inhabitants are friendly, and they speak our language. From the looks of the native huts in this region, I don't think I could afford to live here. And although they accept shiny coins and cards in exchange for trinkets, they seem to insist on gold and platinum...<br /><br />The boaters are getting restless; some of the bigger cruisers are leaving in the dead of the night. I spoke with a skipper who offered to pilot my boat around Point Conception to Sacramento for $900.00. I have a few extra bucks since I got the news that my radar could not be installed without a Radar Arch back in san Diego. Something I did not realize was that an Arch was required to support a Radar Antenna. I thought that there must be a radar mast, or some way to elevate a single antenna. Truly frustrated, and without any immediate solution I cancelled the radar unit, the TV, and the satellite dish. I'll take care of those issues when I get back. As far as a Pilot is concerned, I think I'll just wait out the weather a little longer and continue solo. Foolish? Adventurous? Only time will tell.<br /><br />The Harbor Master says that Saturday may be a good day to leave, there is a high pressure front coming in with south and southwesterly winds, which he suspects will flatten down the seas for a few days.<br /><br />Belay that last, now it looks like tonight’s the night! The Harbor Master says that the winds have changed, and the swells are lying down. There is a flurry of activity around the harbor; I need to get ready.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-13060349487695989352007-09-18T05:43:00.001-07:002008-12-11T21:45:16.896-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7d3uLQq__UFUQFhstuaUInXEz5LSdomHfCVeQzusF3j8jYXDKs8S1b_q_W2m5BCnHGTWVFC1wQ0bSYoKBzE-C0DRikIm8oAPVZG7WH3V9qUJM7xfcawEtuo1KPbYKl77e8ej1ji3m-MM/s1600-h/1214849_8_thumb.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111524089531575266" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7d3uLQq__UFUQFhstuaUInXEz5LSdomHfCVeQzusF3j8jYXDKs8S1b_q_W2m5BCnHGTWVFC1wQ0bSYoKBzE-C0DRikIm8oAPVZG7WH3V9qUJM7xfcawEtuo1KPbYKl77e8ej1ji3m-MM/s200/1214849_8_thumb.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Hurry up and wash - Day 20 of 25<br /><br />I'm coming in! I brought two shirts and a pair of long pants and a pair of short pants. I need clean clothes!<br />I pulled up to a guest dock, took a cab to the Laundromat, I went sight seeing, bought a couple more books, ate dinner, and pick up some more groceries (apparently it's going to be cold cuts for me).<br /><br />I still have perishables on the boat, but I don't seem to have a stove to cook on. It works just fine with the 110 electric, but the alcohol plunger doesn't build pressure, and I just don't want to mess with it right now. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7x5c9wE5UUZg1Hnu3rKojLoxAO6olAWRXna8uiUqbV5hyphenhyphenMUIQFLCYIfdykxfCBLo74d8w_gsRyFvD_VG5uVoO-WBdwkJ_9Lg7UUZ8BOR9_DCKU6LfBHya5IAQWDAtBRQdW0lKciLxz6A/s1600-h/magmabbq.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111528079556193266" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7x5c9wE5UUZg1Hnu3rKojLoxAO6olAWRXna8uiUqbV5hyphenhyphenMUIQFLCYIfdykxfCBLo74d8w_gsRyFvD_VG5uVoO-WBdwkJ_9Lg7UUZ8BOR9_DCKU6LfBHya5IAQWDAtBRQdW0lKciLxz6A/s200/magmabbq.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br />But wait! I found a barbeque that clamps to the railing on deck, it's BBQ'd steak and corn on the cob tomorrow night! Santa Barbara is pleasant, they have a Club here that has concerts by the bay, and I can hear them quite clearly on my boat. I wish I could find their schedule so I could plan out my evenings better. I stocked my bar with brandy and champaigne, eat your heart out Robin Leach.<br /><br />The forecast is still pretty grim, the bay is getting considerably full, lots of boats are trying to get to the San Juan Islands for the summer. The Harbor Master said that the beginning of June is when all the boaters head north, and October is when they head south, but the last two years, the weather has not cleared up for boaters until later in June, and early in November.<br /><br />Well, I could think of worse places to be stuck in.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-27698259699167261832007-09-17T16:57:00.000-07:002008-12-11T21:45:18.708-08:00STILL ALIVE IN SANTA BARBARA<div><div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcJQgdFoh1sUyxftNWtZUYB4KK-lh6aq1dgi5lE-hncuWCW3j49y20zt7GKjxL4Fly3CIdntmZc2dZLo35u7ANk5Vj_FeRJZLk2f3GM-Z9VHeYbdA3MIV8FFTpTbbydxYXD_ItId5Ng74/s1600-h/1214849_10_thumb.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111326868928310146" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcJQgdFoh1sUyxftNWtZUYB4KK-lh6aq1dgi5lE-hncuWCW3j49y20zt7GKjxL4Fly3CIdntmZc2dZLo35u7ANk5Vj_FeRJZLk2f3GM-Z9VHeYbdA3MIV8FFTpTbbydxYXD_ItId5Ng74/s200/1214849_10_thumb.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div>Hurry up and wait... - Day 16 of 21</div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br />I pulled into Santa Barbara at 1815 hours last evening, got me a slip for the night at the marina, I think I am going to anchor out tonight and see how that works. The first day of my voyage went without a hitch (whew!) and was pretty exciting to boot. I saw more sea life yesterday than during my entire naval career. </div><div><br /><br /></div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111343133969460146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrmc7iOOg3hkr-JmKwKGCRqk2IfJ3bGdBOHO_8CtTuFGEr3a42o6K1uUn9GoYJOYuLYrs4dVY22iolGyKqbhraIr6qZrJF0A-v40xROb6h_t58KmcDfetNGw-OEvqLYjq_cqxHe9vmnUQ/s200/SBHarbor1.jpg" border="0" /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_A4OSQExw-xz760uqeV5w3Rf-mor5epvQofZrF5RQAy11ULvohxA5VBoo7e6gRJDWZHDkLBLwwXu8STOaOwEaC_abaiMBY64hY_82twmC9cFJft2eqjAsXKggAoBuuLI_7gOSa5GZBh8/s1600-h/seabirds.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111343971488082882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_A4OSQExw-xz760uqeV5w3Rf-mor5epvQofZrF5RQAy11ULvohxA5VBoo7e6gRJDWZHDkLBLwwXu8STOaOwEaC_abaiMBY64hY_82twmC9cFJft2eqjAsXKggAoBuuLI_7gOSa5GZBh8/s200/seabirds.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div>I never realized that there were so many varieties of birds at sea. I saw fishing boats going out and coming in with their great net masts extended out scooping up what I can only imagine to be cans and cans of chunky tuna. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br /> </div><div></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>There were many smaller islands in view, dotting the Pacific Coast than just the popularly known Catalina, and San Clemente, and for the most part the coastal shore was clearly visible to the starboard side of my craft, a good sign I was traveling in the right direction. </div><div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_uDnf5vq9IZcabFmueie2RGnfF-bckPEhisPGUZL6A1XY6402xBm-OWKvWq0zV9EGKMUESaeWiVYg994DZTwybBMO_yBrsfD6_bBdXbd9xdVXn5NqlQ135uNpt6QARm_-E8KQSmiJ-5E/s1600-h/tankeratsea.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111345169783958482" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_uDnf5vq9IZcabFmueie2RGnfF-bckPEhisPGUZL6A1XY6402xBm-OWKvWq0zV9EGKMUESaeWiVYg994DZTwybBMO_yBrsfD6_bBdXbd9xdVXn5NqlQ135uNpt6QARm_-E8KQSmiJ-5E/s200/tankeratsea.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div></div><div>I saw my first freighter off on the horizon, and negotiated my way around oil derricks off the coast of Santa Barbara, then cut my way through about two miles of oil spill (naughty, naughty somebody) and watched the water turn from calm deep greens, to choppy blue swells, to pearly pale elastic knots of water all around me. </div><div> </div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95d3K6h63YH_opKpoINZUTh1rHzEEHwPysko-QMtoW8G07F6T02aXXlhsJOIJ7wZu-X7v8V0OIhw64wSOi80jJbOfhNBdLpo3YyKSZhUzokm_S9fSf3W6dV3uXXM0wQQAC1gGud27U6s/s1600-h/mistyseas.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111340977895877538" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95d3K6h63YH_opKpoINZUTh1rHzEEHwPysko-QMtoW8G07F6T02aXXlhsJOIJ7wZu-X7v8V0OIhw64wSOi80jJbOfhNBdLpo3YyKSZhUzokm_S9fSf3W6dV3uXXM0wQQAC1gGud27U6s/s200/mistyseas.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I saw first hand sea mists laying over the water, and blindingly bright reflective mirror seas shining and sparkling and pure (kind of gives you a headache if you stare too long). Memo to self, buy sunglasses at first opportunity.</div><div><br /> </div><div>The word in the harbor is, a low pressure point has lain in and boats are pulling into the bay to wait it out. I may be here a few days. Guess I might as well get comfy and wait her out too.</div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-43526230202081504062007-09-17T09:59:00.001-07:002008-12-11T21:45:18.943-08:00I see water! Lots and lots of water!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs7HCVbTT31_Js7mi5zjbDHuzKg3A_tbS_sZRTxrpcGq-Oeks39VTHs6uIoT-Gk8_OtaHcZA1zQcXvAjwUYMgI4JOCQJGrzNnS88ZAdA0AtJnjKDRJhl44VgDylgRRNubutSJRMT-h8is/s1600-h/1214849_7_thumb.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111219116788788050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs7HCVbTT31_Js7mi5zjbDHuzKg3A_tbS_sZRTxrpcGq-Oeks39VTHs6uIoT-Gk8_OtaHcZA1zQcXvAjwUYMgI4JOCQJGrzNnS88ZAdA0AtJnjKDRJhl44VgDylgRRNubutSJRMT-h8is/s200/1214849_7_thumb.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Seaward Ho! - Day 15 of 20<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I'm at a Catalina Harbor fueling dock, getting too much gas... 71 gallons! I just topped off yesterday with 40 gallons, and I don't think the kid filled 'er up (at least I’m hoping that’s the case).<br /><br />I finished outfitting my boat yesterday: food, tools, el Grande first aid kit, and played with the GPS Chart plotter for awhile. I was impressed with the fact that the boat icon showed me in my slip and had "Silver Gate Yacht Club" written next to it on the screen.It's in full color and bright enough to see in full daylight. I feel very confident in the software’s knowledge now.<br /><br /><br />I took the boat over to the fuel dock, pretty basic stuff, you pull up, a kid meets you and secures the boat and fills her up for you, you never even have to get out of the boat. Mcfuel drive thru’s! But don’t even ask about fuel prices! Just find the highest priced gas pump in town and double it…<br /><br /><br /><br />From there I went over to the pump out station (to address something special the old owners left for me) and discovered the cap was frozen. So is that how it works? Do you just keep the boat until the sewage tank is full then sell it? So after returning to my slip and pounding on the darn thing for an hour or so with a hammer and a screwdriver, block of wood, pocket knife, coat hanger, and can of crisco to no avail, I ended up removing the entire pipe fixture and replacing it with a shiny new pvc pipe and pretty, rust resistant, stylish $200.00 chromed pump out cap by nightfall. I decide the pump out station would wait for morning.<br /><br /><br /><br />After a brief breakfast and my morning cup of coffee I ceremoniously began my maiden voyage in grand elegant style by pumping out the boat’s sewage tank (note to self, purchase clothes pin for nose first opportunity), I then departed San Diego Harbor on the first leg of my journey at 0530 hours (that is nautical terminology for O dark thirty).<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcBBlpRMUZBe6mcIF0nVXHD6uAchPSMP9vKGVLsFXm6IR62qPJ7DjpEIlfgY_kOCS_fndMo0iVNGM73drmm9ah1vhc7Gy57ewEYqebiAiPhl_wzb62U-MQz7dI1ZOeB1_YOHrcZn5ZzcA/s1600-h/Sunfish_450x312.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111223647979285346" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" height="151" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcBBlpRMUZBe6mcIF0nVXHD6uAchPSMP9vKGVLsFXm6IR62qPJ7DjpEIlfgY_kOCS_fndMo0iVNGM73drmm9ah1vhc7Gy57ewEYqebiAiPhl_wzb62U-MQz7dI1ZOeB1_YOHrcZn5ZzcA/s200/Sunfish_450x312.jpg" width="177" border="0" /></a><br />As the sun came up, I saw dolphins, whales, and a sunfish with an eight-foot fin span sunning itself on the surface. As I watched it approach my bow, I thought man that is a huge chunk of white plastic; I wonder what it came off of...<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em></em></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>this is NOT a photo I took, I grabbed for my new Cannon Digital Rebel and snapped away, only to discover that while fidgiting with my new toy, I left the memory cards at my brothers house.</em><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><br /><br />The water was a little choppy, minor two-foot swells, one right after the other. The twin engines seemed to be cruising at 3300 rpm smooth as can be, that engine synchronizer is cool, but once the two motors match harmonies, it seems pretty obvious they are in sync.I am heading for Santa Barbara next, if things go well I should get there between 6 and 7 pm (oops I mean 1800 and 1900 hours).Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-38666054430957129712007-09-16T21:44:00.000-07:002008-12-11T21:45:19.126-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb8yfe8mtGNkjySLgWKUMBwgH89AzpGe3ZkcZSQAVzQYzo7VJ63NypNyWeDEs-rpbaUzndp4N2Vq8WmDVg6jTP8Io4O9YiaSkAiLKDCcOUe5vF-lcJdlTNew8FPd7kfVoS5DUySKet6T4/s1600-h/1214849_6_thumb.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5111029936364301106" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb8yfe8mtGNkjySLgWKUMBwgH89AzpGe3ZkcZSQAVzQYzo7VJ63NypNyWeDEs-rpbaUzndp4N2Vq8WmDVg6jTP8Io4O9YiaSkAiLKDCcOUe5vF-lcJdlTNew8FPd7kfVoS5DUySKet6T4/s200/1214849_6_thumb.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Land Locked! - Day 13 of 15</div><br /><div><br />Well this has gone smooth...Not! </div><div>Coming down from Red Bluff on the Amtrak Hound Express bus (I had visions of snoozing in a sleeper car the whole trip, naïve me!) We were informed in Sacramento, that we would still be transferring to a train, but its departure time was a special secret; not to be divulged to common folk like us <em>who aren’t not quite smart enough to grasp the oh so difficult complexities of intricate choo- choo scheduling</em>. Fortunately the news on the black and white T.V. screen mounted for the pleasure of the Ticket Counter Personnel shed a little light on the subject by announcing the exclusive live breaking commentary on the bursting of a San Francisco Levy, taking out a Railroad bridge, and (Amtrak?) communication lines necessary for Michael to complete his journey...serious danger...lives are at stake... stay tuned for news at eleven!</div><div> </div><div>Well it only took me 23 hours to get to downtown San Diego. No worries getting into the Yacht Club now. In fact when I showed up, there were literally thousands of people milling around, this is the weekend of the locally renowned Wheelchair Regatta! (How apropos) I had to spend the rest of the day fending off the advances of young Marine Corps Cadets trying to escort me onto a boat, any boat for my 'special' ride, and little old women telling me if I want to ride on a boat I have to get in line like all the rest of the special people. I stopped at the front desk, asked for my boat key, and upon receiving it made a mad dash for my slip to hide out for the remainder of the day.<br />Well after negotiating my way through the herd (I suppose school or bait ball would be a more nautical term) of maritime do-gooders, I flung back the canvas cover from the helm of my precious new boat to take my first peek at... nothing. No holes drilled, no loose wires dangling, no mount brackets, no antennas, no radar, no GPS, no TV!</div><div> </div><div>What a rewarding end to a very grueling day, at least I was grateful to have made it to Shelter Island at all. I set up housekeeping and spent a quiet night alone with my new beauty. I have to say the lull of the harbor with its soft lights and gentle tides makes for some cozy sleepy time.</div><div><br />Yesterday I had a few choice words with Butt-Crack Bruce who, true to form offered up a weak excuse; that when we spoke on the phone his worker was at the Marina to do all the work, but the desk clerk insisted that there was no key for the Grumpy Bear anywhere behind the counter or in the office. </div><div><br />at that point I knew I had Butt-Crack now (ha-ha) and I lashed out over the phone saying that I was in San Diego this very minute. ThatI had been at the Yacht Club a full day and when I walked up to the desk and asked for my key amidst chaos and hundreds of very busy people, that key was immediately dispatched to me without hesitation, thought or any unnecessary search of the surrounding area. Bruce (or BC as his fellow employess call him behind his well proportioned backside) was flummoxed, and stammered a sincere sounding apology and promised to have someone on the boat within the hour. I told him there was no need to pick up a key, that I would personally escort the gent to my boat.</div><div> </div><div>As I was waiting for the service guy to approach me, I contemplated the type of service I would now likely receive. A clerk was opening up the small office behind the reception desk and setting up for business. She smiled at me and said "You're Michael aren't you? the guy that bought Grumpy Bear. I thought so, look I am really sorry about that serviceman the other day, you know we always keep our keys on the bulletin board, I never thought to look in the desk drawer. We tried to get the gentleman back, but it was too late..."</div><div> </div><div>I thought to myself, I wonder how far out of the harbor will I get before my boat begins to sink... </div><div> </div><div>The repair guy shows up.</div><div><br />A rhetorical question: Can Billy Gibbons be reincarnated if he isn’t even dead yet? I swear the installation guy was the spitting image of ZZ Top's Lead Singer just as he looked in say 1970. A real flashback for me, lol. He even had a southern Texas drawl. (do you think maybe ol' Gib's left a few illegitimates scattered around the countryside?)</div><div> </div><div>As it turned out the serviceman was quite congenial, happy and easy going, perhaps too happy; he just might be a bit of a man’s man, batting for the other team if you know what i mean (I don't know why I say that, maybe it was the pink and yellow deck shoes). And I am certain he did not sabotage anything 'cause I watched him from a safe distance like a hawk during the entire installation procedure. All went well and we held a amenable cordiality. He even invited me out to a BBQ dinner as he was finishing up to which I politely declined as it totally creeped me out. Also I had a lot of preparation ahead of me to outfit my boat for the big cruise. </div><div> </div><div>Another day or two and I’m out of here.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-6730714278961315552007-09-16T18:18:00.000-07:002008-12-11T21:45:19.346-08:00The Grumpy Bear Saga Continues<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFIlEMkt8cyu_NshyT6qsswhZh_Sb-vYEODd6wCqOJmMrwe35TH_8aOKbzO9kD9LXa_1CRwTytZgFcLbjyPBpcB0W91mfpsyDwF_bZ8OsIrPRTt5ULEza8XpI31scCnu9PeqC6z4uEhYo/s1600-h/1214849_2_thumb.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110977705267014402" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFIlEMkt8cyu_NshyT6qsswhZh_Sb-vYEODd6wCqOJmMrwe35TH_8aOKbzO9kD9LXa_1CRwTytZgFcLbjyPBpcB0W91mfpsyDwF_bZ8OsIrPRTt5ULEza8XpI31scCnu9PeqC6z4uEhYo/s200/1214849_2_thumb.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Surprise! Surprise! Surprise! - Day 10 of 15</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><br />Well wasn't that a bit of news! I received a call from my Yacht Broker this morning and it seems the previous owner of my boat has had a falling out with the Yacht Club and by association; I have apparently lost my guest privileges. John suggests I remove my boat from their slip before they pull her out of the water and charge me storage yard fees.</div><br /><div><br />I was planning on heading back to San Diego on the 15th, but the situation calls for a quick change of plans. I contacted Amtrak, they don't have a train going all the way to San Diego until Monday, but they have a bus going through Red Bluff at 1 pm. I made a reservation, called Dad and he agreed to shuttle me to the Taco Bell / Bus Stop. got to love rural communities! Now all I have to do is figure out what to take along. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>No big deal, I will get into the San Diego train depot at 5:30 in the morning, with any luck, Ernesto the maintenance guy from Tijuana usually arrives to work about 5 am/ He knows me so I can get him to let me in if I promise to make some coffee. Fortunate for me, after not getting my equipment installed last week; Bruce told me just yesterday that he had a technician working on my boat as we spoke! I was beginning to wonder if they would be done by the fifteenth, but of course Bruce did seem to be running out of plausible excuses, he even had to use the dental appointment pretext twice. But with the boat ready, I will pick up some groceries, take her out on a quick shake down trip to check out the new equipment, get fueled up and be on my way (gulp) into the big Pacific Blue. I should be back to Red Bluff in time for Hurry Back's Wednesday Night Karaoke Contest, if the weather holds out...</div><br /><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-82844125369726599762007-09-16T06:53:00.000-07:002007-09-16T06:56:03.548-07:00mine own Grumpy BearRed Bluff Bound! - Day 5 of 10<br /><br />Well the paper push is complete, the Grumpy Bear is all mine. I bought a 17" GPS Monitor and antenna as well as the software to chart the entire Pacific Coast, the radar kit that goes with it and a $900.00 antenna array, a plasma TV, and a satellite dish so I can travel in style. It was all supposed to be installed yesterday, but the service manager said his wife threatened to leave him if he worked over the holiday weekend. Flinching from feeling somewhat empathetic I agreed to the installation on Tuesday, and left a key to the boat for Butt Crack Bruce (certainly NOT my nickname for him) at the front desk in the Clubhouse. I am house sitting for my brother while he vacations in Florida, so for now it looks like I am Red Bluff Bound! It is difficult leaving my new home so soon. The people here at the Silver Gate Yacht Club are very friendly, and the is so much to do in San Diego, the weather is beautiful and the ocean is wonderful I feel right at home all ready.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-79823502717913226852007-09-15T19:55:00.000-07:002007-09-15T20:14:44.783-07:00the Infamouse Maiden Voyage of the S.S.Grumpy Bear<strong>first entry - Day 1 of 3</strong><br /><br />This is dedicated to the S.S. Grumpy Bear a 30' Sea Ray cabin cruiser and my new home. I'm driving down to finalize the paper work today. I hope I am ready for this, I have always dreamed of living on the open seas. Traveling about living the sailor’s life. I successfully passed my physical and dutifully received my international shots, my passport is current and Mission Bay will soon be the gateway to my future. I have been reading up on seamanship, navigation, repair and first aid. These are the reading materials I have been ingesting:<br /><br />WEATHER FOR THE MARINER<br />THE COMPLETE BOOK OF ANCHORING AND MOORING<br />SEAWORTHINESS: THE FORGOTTEN FACTOR<br />ADVANCED FIRST AID AFLOAT<br />STORM TACTICS HANDBOOK<br />ESSENTIALS OF SEA SURVIVAL<br />BOATOWNER'S MECHANICAL AND ELECTRICAL MANUAL<br />CHAPMAN PLOTING SEAMANSHIP<br />US COASTGUARD BOATING SKILLS & SEAMANSHIP<br />KNIGHT'S MODERN SEAMANSHIP<br />THE MARLINSPIKE SAILOR<br />THE ELEMENTS OF SEAMANSHIP<br />ROUGH WEATHER SEAMANSHIP for sail and power<br />HOW TO READ A NAUTICAL CHART<br />TIDE TABLES: WEST COAST OF NO AND SO AMERICA<br />CHARLIE'S CHARTS OF THE WEST COAST OF MEXICO<br />THE CRUISING GUIDE: Golden Gate to Ensenada<br />SPANISH FOR CRUISERS: boat repair phrase book<br />MEXICO BOATING GUIDE<br /><br />If all that didn’t overwhelm me or kick my better senses in the butt, I guess nothing will. Avast ye lubbers I’m shovin’ off to discover the new world. Or am I just shelling out a lot of clams for a Vikings funeral?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-79596695718230506982007-08-23T16:13:00.000-07:002007-08-23T16:15:18.784-07:00Horsing Around<em>A friend and blogger posted her reaction to horses when she was young and it dredged up a few memories of my own. I thought I would go ahead and post my comment here.</em><br /><br />I started out on horses very young, I think my 4th birthday present was a trip to Knotts Berry Farm where my only memory was the thrill of sitting atop a cream colored shetland pony tied to a center stake and rode in circles forever. Well I also remember getting my picture taken with the saloon girl statue because my Mom would bring the picture out any time she thought there might be an opportunity to embarrassme until my cheeks would reach the same rosy color as in the photo.<br />Every Summer until I was 12 or 13 I went back to Arkansas to stay on Grandpa’s farm. I got to feed chickens, slop hogs, milk a cow or two, and take the old retired chestnut plow horse out of the barn for casual stroll around the grounds.The workhorse was old, flea bitten and mangy, sway backed and slower than Grandma in the morning, but to me he was a wild stallion, a knights steed, a thoroughbred racehorse,and Roy Rogers Trigger, Cisco Kid’s Diablo and the Lone Ranger’s White Feller, or Silver as he later became known all rolled into one. I curried and groomed that old nag, treated summer sores, swamped the stall and brought treats every day. It was a tragic day when I discovered that justbecause a horse was named buttercup, that one should never feed fresh buttercups to any livestock.Poor Buttercup nearly died from colic that summer.<br />By the time I was in my teens I was no longer making annual treks to the homeland. I felt horse saavy enough to hire on as a tour guide in Trabuco Canyon at Beardsley’s horse rental. I fed and cared for a half dozen trail horses, all misfits just like me, it was a perfect summer job. After I got to know the equines I chose my lead horse, Apache. A natural choice becausehe refused to follow the others. I always got a personal laugh when timid riders would gaze at all the horseflesh and thenfocus on Swayback Taffy. She appeared old and docile, but what they didn’t realize is that she spooked real easy and whenclimbing trails she would flinch and buck if a branch swung back on her. It is always important to listen to your trail guide.I had an especial fondness for Shagnasty. He was a right proud Fox Trotter, about 15 hands tall. Grey with black mane and tail, bright eyed amd sure footed. In the corral he was a popular choice for riders, but I reserved Shagnasty and Midnght Lady for the pretty girls with a date. Midnight Lady was very much a gentle lady, but her one flaw was a deep and sincere love for Apache. She would follow him anywhere and not leave his side. Shagnasty was strong, bold and very fast, but if I left a hand full of carrots or apples in a bucket in his stall he could think of nothing else and would invariabley turn tail and run back to the corral about ten minutes into the ride. Sometimes you shouldn’t trust your trail guide. As I said for me it was a great summer job.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-92203489068141873552007-08-13T12:10:00.001-07:002007-08-13T12:14:01.826-07:00memeSue sez I'm supposed to post my response comment to her meme on my own blog,so here goes;<br /><br />x) Smoked a cigarette<br /><br />( ) Crashed a friend’s car<br /><br />( ) Stolen a car<br /><br />(X) Been in love<br /><br />(X) Been dumped<br /><br />( ) Been laid off/fired<br /><br />(X) Quit your job<br /><br />(x) Been in a fist fight<br /><br />(X) Snuck out of your parent’s house<br /><br />(X) Had feelings for someone who didn’t have them back<br /><br />(x) Been arrested<br /><br />(x) Gone on a blind date<br /><br />(x) Skipped school<br /><br />(x) Been to Canada<br /><br />(X) Been to Mexico<br /><br />(X) Been on a plane<br /><br />(X) Been lost<br /><br />(X) Been on the opposite side of the country<br /><br />( ) Gone to Washington , DC<br /><br />(X) Swam in the ocean<br /><br />( ) Felt like dying (felt like I was gonna die a few times)<br /><br />(X) Cried yourself to sleep<br /><br />(x) Played cops and robbers/Cowboys &Indians<br /><br />(x) Sang karaoke<br /><br />(x) Paid for a meal with only coins<br /><br />(X) Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t<br /><br />(x) Made prank phone calls<br /><br />(X) Laughed until some kind of beverage came out of your nose<br /><br />(X) Caught a snowflake on your tongue<br /><br />(X) Danced in the rain<br /><br />(X) Written a letter to Santa<br /><br />(X) Been kissed under the mistletoe<br /><br />(X) Watched the sun rise with someone you care about or love<br /><br />(X) Blown bubbles<br /><br />(x) Made a bonfire on the beach<br /><br />(x) Crashed a Party<br /><br />(X) Gone roller-skating<br /><br />(X) Gone ice-skating<br /><br />1. Any nicknames? Cook, Preacher, Michaelpipes, Modo, Hey You!<br />2. Mother’s name? Dusty<br /><br />3. What is your favorite drink? Diet coke<br /><br />4. Tattoos? one<br /><br />5. Body piercing? Ears? yes<br /><br />6. How much do you love your job? Scale of 1 to 10? ummm retired, but I have enjoyed all my “jobs” even the Navy<br />7. Birthplace? Arkansas<br /><br />8. Favorite vacation spot? Australia<br /><br />9. Ever been to Africa? No<br /><br />10. Ever steal any traffic signs? Yes<br /><br />11. Ever been in a car accident? yes<br />12. Drink Cup size? “Umm shouldn’t this come with a handle?”<br />13. 2 Door or 4 Doors? 2<br /><br />14. Salad dressing? Homemade Bluecheese<br />15. Favorite pie? cherry<br /><br />16 Favorite number? 9<br /><br />17. Favorite movie? McClintock<br /><br />18. Favorite holiday? Halloween<br />19. Favorite food? Lobster (favorite ethnicity - mexican)<br /><br />20. Favorite day of the week? Friday<br /><br />21. Favorite brand of body soap? I’m a guy, you know the one with a volcano on the label.”<br />22. Favorite TV show? Ozzie and Harriet<br />23. Toothpaste? it comes in a purple tube…<br /><br />24. Favorite smell? hands down, Baked bread (well maybe Janet)<br />25. What do you do to relax? read, write, “World of Warcraft”, play with the critters<br /><br />26. Message to your friends? You have been the most important ingredients to our recipe for life.<br />27. How do you see yourself in 10 years? Maybe by looking into a three dimensional holographic mirror?<br /><br />28. What would I rather be doing? Traveling<br /><br />29. Furthest place you will send this message? the blogosphere<br /><br />30. Who will respond the fastest? Sizzle (I cheated and looked)<br /><br />31. Least likely to respond? The dead… greatful or otherwise.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-4757443857946987832007-07-16T21:09:00.001-07:002008-12-11T21:45:19.638-08:00Uncomfy FoodsThis post is in response to Sues Blog at the following address:<br /><br /><a href="http://thetornpages.com/?p=924">The Torm Pages Blog Ewww</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSHQzrYZ0Lw3xT7Htywz4XQi7xGsplDWMLRccud8zHP2LGLywLS7feqgeHJRUkH2utAfl05EVsAMUSPBb_H7sju4D5a0RZF3F8mhaYp6HAXI0ismS2od6Y2SMIKh1I-2gzK_Gt0izLyBE/s1600-h/balut.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5088015704425942962" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSHQzrYZ0Lw3xT7Htywz4XQi7xGsplDWMLRccud8zHP2LGLywLS7feqgeHJRUkH2utAfl05EVsAMUSPBb_H7sju4D5a0RZF3F8mhaYp6HAXI0ismS2od6Y2SMIKh1I-2gzK_Gt0izLyBE/s200/balut.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In the Philippines there are supernatural creatures infamous in the country’s folklore that can put a crippling chill in the spine of grown men by the mere mention of their name. On nights when the moon is high and the weather balmy and the air thick and wet, and when the residents of small villages leave their windows and doors wide open to escape the oppressive heat that smothers the Malay Archipelago, this is when the feared Aswang are said to appear. The Aswang live among the general human population and are not easily identified. They can take the form of women by day and werewolves by night. These are the merciless and murderous shapeshifters that hunt small children and the frail elderly. They may also take the form of a bloodsucking female vampire who seduce and kill. Or they can resemble something Westerners would describe as zombies or the undead on an eternal search for human flesh with a special fondness for liver. An Aswang is also able to cast spells in order to subdue the victim then use her wickedly long, serpentine tongue to penetrate the skin and to feed off of the blood. As with many of the Aswang’s Western counterparts, they were once human but became possessed by evil spirits and turned into creatures of the night. There are several ways to turn into an Aswang and it is rumored that one certain method is to eat balut.<br /><br />There is a delicacy infamous in Filipino culture that can put a crippling chill in the spine of grown men almost as quickly as talk of Aswang. That delicacy is the notorious balut. Balut is a popular Filipino street snack and is essentially a duck egg with a fetus inside, typically between seventeen to twenty days in gestation. In the Philippines balut is so popular that it is equivalent to what the hot dog is in the U.S. There are balut vendors who push around carts full of fetal treats and bark their wares in a sing-song chant of “baluuuut, baluuuut!” Balut is also a popular aphrodisiac for men. But even with the good vibes and positive spin surrounding balut, the stigma attached to eating it overshadows all the warm and fuzzy aspects of this very disgusting dish.<br /><br />Balut is the culinary heart of darkness. If you eat it, you have reservations about doing so. If you know about it, you have strong opinions regarding it. Ask for it in a restaurant and the clerk will visibly react. Devour it at a table with others who aren’t eating it and you’re guaranteed to dine solo. Explain balut to the uninitiated and be prepared for your audience to run away from you as quickly as possible while seeking sanctuary in something soft and comforting like a Ding Dong or Ho Ho. I know all this because I’ve had these things happen to me whenever balut is present, physically or conversationally. I have struggled and continue to struggle with eating balut. Superman has his kryptonite and I have balut. It is probably one of the (if not THE) exotic foods I fear most. Why am I so freaked out by balut? Well, how much time do you have? For starters, balut will haunt you after you ingest it. It stays with you forever. I’m not suggesting that I believe in the ghost stories about being possessed after eating balut. I’m speaking more to the traumatic imprinting that might occur when you consume this culturally complex cuisine. Even when I try hard not to think about what I’m eating, somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind I’m aware that I’m eating a fetus, life that is yet to be, something unborn, taboo food. Also, this awareness has nothing to do with political-religious beliefs. It is simply the unappealing idea of eating a fetus.<br /><br />I did not grow up eating balut. My first exposure to balut was my first tour of duty in South East Asia when a Filipina aquaintance let me sample one of these eccentric eggs. She invited me to her home in Bagio where she was to prepare it. Back in those days I was slightly more daring about trying new and strange foods than compared to today. Also, I prided myself on being the “been there, ate that” guy. No exotic food could shock me. I’ve seen it all…or so I thought. My friend returned from the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear rather nefariously. She explained to me in plain language that balut is a boiled duck’s egg with a fetus inside. She continued on to illustrate that when I chew on the egg I may come across feathers, a beak, bones and other bonus treats that aren’t included in your standard hard-boiled egg. Intellectually I understood what she was telling me. Realistically I could not have been more unprepared. There on the table was the first balut I’d ever seen and it had my name on it. But before I was to breach the balut’s shell, my friend instructed me on the basics of eating balut. First, I had to tap the pointy tip of the egg’s shell and make an opening large enough only for the broth to trickle into my mouth. Next, I needed to remove the shell and season the egg with salt. Lastly, I had to decide whether to wolf down the balut in just two bites or less, so as not to visually encounter the fetus, or to nibble on the egg and eat it section by section, being extra cozy with the partially formed duck. Lesson over.<br /><br />So I went ahead and tapped the tip of the egg, created a tiny hole and took a quick swig of the soup. It was nice. Light and subtly sweet. The next thing that happened is a lot like what happens when you crank the handle of a jack in the box. You know something is going to pop out and you know it is going to startle you, but just because something is predictable doesn’t make it less shocking. It came time to open the balut. I peeled off a sizeable swath of shell. Suddenly and without any warning the fetus was exposed. In my hand, clear as crystal, was part of a duck fetus imbedded in the whites with a random feather jutting out. The blood drained from my face, my knees buckled and my breath quickened. I dropped the balut and told my friend there was no way I could eat any part of that gruesome egg. My friend’s eyes widened and brightened. I think I even spied a string of saliva dangling from an incisor. She grabbed the balut and said, “That just means more for me.” She then ferociously devoured it as if it was the most delicious thing she’d ever eaten in her entire life. She seemed a little intense when she ate the balut and it was worrisome to me, however there was no Hannibal Lecter styled flourish at the end, just a dainty belch.That happened over thirty years ago.<br /><br />I’m older now. Less idealistic. More cynical. Maybe more callous. I don’t know. All I know is I have a score to settle. Balut beat me once and I wasn’t going to let it happen again. I could do this. Who cares if it’s a little baby duck that will never see a glistening pond or swim with a paddling of other baby ducks. I mean, really, what’s there to be afraid of? It’s not alive like Korean “live tentacles”. It’s not potentially poisonous like Japanese fugu. And I don’t really believe in those silly ghost stories about being possessed by female vampires after eating balut. The worst thing about it is that it looks kinda gross (ok, extremely gross). But so does a chunk of blue cheese to some people. The fear is all in my mind. I say; bring. It. On.<br /><br />This was easier said than done, however. Balut is readily available in Filipino grocery stores but much harder to get at Filipino restaurants, and I wanted to eat it at a restaurant. Pinoy-Pinay in Panorama City, north of North Hollywood, California is one of the few restaurants that occasionally serves balut depending on whether or not the balut guy delivers a basket that day. When I showed up, it was there. I suppose it was destiny. The servers behind the counter at this turo-turo or “point-point restaurant” were suspicious of me as I went through the buffet line and only asked for the balut and nothing else. As soon as the balut hit my tray, I grabbed a far corner booth, tried to blend in and started to unwrap the foil that encased the balut. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, then chipped a chunk of the shell’s top off and took a drink of the broth just like the first time. Although, this time around I couldn’t help but ponder the idea of whether this liquid was really a broth or closer to amniotic fluid. A provocative yet unappetizing thought, perhaps. Regardless, the broth slash amniotic fluid was faintly nectarous and pleasant. After sipping the very life force out of the balut and delaying as long as possible the inevitable ingesting of the fetus, I began removing the shell patch by patch until the balut was completely exposed. In front of me in its entire ghastly splendor was something that resembled a Star Trek teleportation gone horribly wrong. As Scotty will eagerly tell you with his guttural accent there is a small chance that when a person is teleported something could go awry and when the person is finally reassembled on the other side he could end up with his insides on the outside. Vile, I know, but this is what my balut reminded me of. The albumen or whites was covered by a sprawl of blood vessels, deeply etched all over the egg like red tribal markings. In another spot was a knot of unidentifiable nerves that looked vital. Over here was something resembling fibrous tissue of some sort. The whole shebang was coated in a slimy membrane that shimmered in the light. This was worse than I remembered and definitely a very bad beginning. I decided that I would do this in a big way and really face-off with my food. Which meant I would eat the balut bit by bit and expose the fetus and then eat the fetus without any barrier between it and me. My palms began to sweat as I deliberately took the egg apart piece by piece. Every time a chunk of egg was removed it was like the whole jack in the box syndrome again. I wanted to stop but I was morbidly curious and could not. The next chunk of albumen came off. And the next. Then the next…<br /><br />Like a jolt there it was. The fetus: head, eyes, beak, little wings. No feathers this time, thank God. The sight of it threw me back into my seat. No matter how much I thought I was prepared for the balut, I still couldn’t handle looking at it. It turned my stomach. My throat constricted. My body was doing everything it could to dissuade me from putting that thing into my mouth. This fetus was a mad scientist’s experiment. It was an H.R. Giger creation. It was a bad acid trip. This fetus was many things but the one thing it certainly wasn’t was something I wanted to eat. But I had no choice really. Here I am. There it is. Here goes nothing. I took another deep breath, shut my eyes and did it quickly. (Sound advice for lots of things in life you don’t want to do.) I went right for the head and upper torso just like Ozzy Osborne used to do. Then I braced myself and waited for what I thought would be the unavoidable and unnerving crunch of tiny bones and the stab of a sharp beak. Miraculously and inexplicably, there was none of that, only the gentle sinking of teeth into egg. I dodged the balut bullet. Suddenly despite the daunting monstrous excuse of a meal presentation, it was inside of my mouth. Inside of me. Now if I could actually focus on the taste and not the terror. And, you know, it kind of tastes good. Sort of. It tastes, appropriately enough, something like duck. It also tastes like duck liver, and a few things I prefer not to dwell on. I was very relieved that it was over. But I was also disappointed. How could a food inspire so much fear, controversy and ghost stories and ultimately taste common, banal, even boring? How was this possible? And how very anticlimactic.<br /><br />Regardless of this relatively benign experience, I am still skittish of balut. I simply can’t look at it. The sight of the fetus disgusts me like nothing else. I snicker at people who can’t eat fish with the head still attached or a whole roast pig or a Chinese roast duck. Balut really is not all that different from those dishes. But at the same time it is worlds different. Maybe what bothers me is the baby thing. I’m uncertain because I do enjoy baby octopus. Maybe it’s the vulnerable nature of the fetus. This could be part of the reason. Or maybe it’s the sickening sight of a partially formed creature? To much like a bad horror movie production than comfort food for me. I prefer my food fully constructed and a little older. Would I ever try balut again? Well, there is another traditional approach to eating balut that I forgot to mention. It involves drinking a shot of liquor after every bite of egg. So if there’s a bottle of Jack next to that sack of balut, you can count me in as a definite maybe. Or maybe not.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-20644761157155538492007-07-16T19:33:00.000-07:002007-07-16T19:46:42.012-07:00I've got answers?I responded to a friends request for volunteers to play along with her in a game she called<br />Becky Has Questions, I Have Answers... So I guess I will call this Sue Has Questions, I Can Beat Around The Bush With Something Resembling Answers With What May Just Be Idle Ramblings Of A Seriously Long Winded Warped Mind. (is the title long enough?)<br /><br />The premise:<br /><ol><li>If you had the option to go back in time and re-do one event in your life, would you take the chance on a different outcome? </li><li>Being a chef, what is the one thing you enjoy cooking the most – and the least?</li><li>What is your favorite meal to EAT?</li><li>If you were given the choice of being a famous writer or a famous singer/musician, which would you choose? (Since I happen to know you are extremely talented in both areas!) </li><li>An easy one: What is your favorite color?</li></ol><p> </p><p>The answers</p><ol><li>I don’t know if just one event would have made much of a difference in my life, I do believe that if there were one event that might have changed the coarse of my path it would have been to stay in the Navy when I was younger. I had worked my butt off as a pollywog finally gaining my sea legs and was just coming into my own when I left the service for the “girl next door”. We were engaged and planned on being married as soon as I was discharged, as Debbie being an army brat wasn’t fond of the military. Debbie met a jarhead and was introduced to the world of drugs and parties while I was undergoing separation duty. By the time I returned, she had moved in with her new friend and was intoxicated daily bye 7a.m. I don’t try to second guess if I could have done anything to help her avoid some of the mistakes I made earlier in my life, she made a choice and ultimately lived with it. It didn’t take me long to realize that I wasn’t all that heartbroken as I should have been over the ordeal. If I had remained in the service, I would have traveled more, the military was about to pay real wages and I was moving up the ranks after several years of “growing” up. I loved being at sea and always had wanderlust. I was good at what I did and took pride in my performance and was a good mentor onboard ship. I think it would have been a good life and I really enjoyed the fantail band Cinnamon Reign that I played with and miss that life at times.<br /></li><li>It is a toss up between Saucier, Garde Manger, or Boulanger/Patissier. I worked at Sam’s Seafood as a Saucier making all the soups and sauces for the evening meal, then worked the fast paced shift as expediter or relief bartender as the need arose. The restaurant was owned by the “Skipper” from Gilligan’s Island; Alan Hale Jr. and was a lot of fun to work for. The atmosphere was laid back yet romantic with Polynesian music and a Koy pond complete with an eight-foot rock waterfall gurgling in the background decorated with elctric fireflies like at Disneyland’s bayou area at the end of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. After hours the employees and often Mr. Hale would set up a table in the lounge and play poker or Mil Borne until dawn. I was performing with a group called TNT in the Orange County area at the time as well and with Mr. Hales generous help we were able to get gigs at places like Jaspers, Moonrakers, Reuben E. Lee’s, The Rusty Pelican and more. Garde Manger was the position I shined in at the Aircoa Sheraton Hotel in Newport Beach. I was an apprentice there and working full time, carrying a full load at Orange Coast College, working a few graveyard shifts at U-Totem Mini Mart in Costa Mesa and teaching the (don’t laugh) New York Hustle and West Coast Swing at the Arthur Murray School of Dance in Newport Beach just down the street form the Sheraton. I also tried singing waiter at a restaurant across the street, but I just couldn’t fit in with the staff. And my stint in the Navy gave me my bakery roots, a job I didn’t much care for in the service but volunteered for because it got me first liberty whenever we pulled into shore. So I learned well and spent my landlubber days in exotic lands as a tourist instead of pulling inane guard duties while docked. It is a skill that served me well over the years, and when I opened my first restaurant I included a bakery as well as a catering service, which greatly expanded my income potential. Then later when I faced hard times and was in need of work, I accepted a job as poolside Hotdog vender at the newly built Ramada Express during their grand opening. As it happened, a drunk driver struck the Pastry Chef while he was walking home from work one night and was hospitalized and eventually retired from work. Chef Albert Hall III asked if anyone had experience as a pastry Chef and much to everyone’s surprise I came forward and stepped into the position, a decision chef Al never regretted. Later after the County of San Bernardino finally picked me up as a deputy, it was a close call between long challenging hours of Casino kitchen work and the better paying adventurous position of sheriff’s deputy and I chose the call of the badge. Who knew that in a few years I would be the head of Bakery operations and the R.O.P. training coarse and get the opportunity to design my own multi million-dollar bakery for the county? So it is very difficult to nail down what my favorite food prep is, but I do know I don’t care for working with anything with fresh tripe in it, I had a really bad shipboard experience involving a hangover and cleaning tripe in the hot humid south East Asian tropics one time.<br /></li><li>LOBSTER!!!! Hands down my personal favorite, preferably Brazilian or Zealand Rock lobster, spiny lobster is ok and so is Australian, Main or New England lobsters. Don’t bother offering me Langoustinos or fresh water lobsters (crayfish) I will hold out for the real thing. I love mostly broiled lobster tail, or BBQ’d lobster kabobs, lobster thermadore, lobster Newburg, lobster bisque, crisp lobster salad with mango and lime dressing, I love the rich sweet flavor with a hint of smoky slightly charred delight of a brazier or barbeque grill permeating the tender pieces of lobster. Ok, now I’m hungry.<br /></li><li>Hands down I would choose famous writer. As much as I love to sing and perform, I am not a crowd person, and if I were a famous in-your-face musician on CD labels and concert tours, I would loose much of my privacy. If I were a famous writer I could remain a recluse and not show my head to the public any more than necessary to promote my books. Then I would take time out to form a little local garage band as a hobby. I do love being a big fish in a small pond.<br /></li><li>Easy she says… I once liked the color green as a child, but my fondness for blue emerged in my teens. As a young adult Black became the understatement that defined my inner angst and by mid twenties avocado and persimmon pleased my palate. Disco broke the barriers and introduced me to bright psychedelic flamboyant color and chrome combos (I never adapted to pastel leisure suits) and wild paisley prints, I wanted many colors that would make me dizzy by bursting out in conflict of one another. This was followed by a brief brush with the combined red and black colors of some mystic significance I cannot recall at this time (probably involving a troubled woman). Then as my business like side settled down to take the helm of my journey; I preferred the influence of earth tone browns. Later as my independence gave me more personal definition I found comfort in power combinations of banker gray suits and bold red ties. Now days I am more fond of Silver, Pewter and Black and White.<br /><br /> </li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-18993404637247123872007-07-12T12:50:00.000-07:002007-07-12T15:36:26.352-07:00Anniversaries mean many things to different peopleThirty-seven years ago I met the love of my life. I walked into a Sizzler Steak house on Tustin Avenue in a city in Orange County of the same name and approached the cashier with a sense of apprehension. It wasn’t because the young girl behind the cash register was strikingly attractive with only a Farrah Fawcett hairstyle and a v-neck honey-caramel butterfly blouse with little pastel flowers visible above the counter top, or the smile that took my breath away impeding my heart from beating for a very long personal moment. I was filled with anxiety because I was new in town, nearly penniless and desperately in need of work, any kind of work.<br /><br />After she asked if she could help me and stared directly into my eyes, I knew straight away that this extraordinary person was and always would reamin special to me. I didn’t seem to know very much else at the time though, as I stuttered and mumbled my miserable request.<br /><br />“May I have an application?” I managed to convey in an awkward technique typically engaged by mimes and interpretive dancers but in my application I merely appeared lame and Special Olympic bound, much to my magnificently sad credit.<br /><br />“Sure thing, we happen to be in desperate need of a broiler cook right now, Grant’s son quit again. He’s the boss. Well Grant is, not his son. Greg, that's Grant's son. Same name as my older brother but you probably don't know any of them, do you? How soon can you start?”<br /><br />“Uh, I was thinking of something like dishwasher or busboy. I don’t have a lot of experience on the grill.” I explained in a painfully embarrassed confession of my absolute lack of ability.<br /><br />“Ever barbeque at home?” She asked.<br /><br />“Well, sure, and I used to help Duke Sherod, the owner of the Trabuco Oaks Steak House on the grill when it got busy some nights. He was teaching me prep work and…”<br /><br />“Sounds like your qualified to me. Here I’m going on break let me help you with the application. I know what Grant likes. Oh by the way my name is Janet, do you want a soda or something?”<br /><br />It is oddly strange that I cannot remember my own phone number some days, but I can recall every detail of that meeting. The conversation that took place and even the clean but worn padded red vinyl booth we sat in to talk. I remember the washed out gilded frames around pastoral scenes of banal bovine bliss hanging on the wood paneled walls, and the bright sunlit parking lot coolly visible through the large tinted polarized plate glass windows surrounding the dining room. I can still see her sweet smile and large nutmeg brown eyes, and I can once again hear her infectious laugh and feel the self confidence that gave me the strength and belief in myself to follow her lead and pad my resume even as I write this.<br /><br />From the very first day I met Janet I have measured all women to her caliber and found none that compare. We became fast friends and over several years we endured the rigors and challengs that comes with growth and responsibility. I protected her when she was vulnerable, and encouraged her when she was adventurous. It crushed me to learn upon my return from Viet Nam that Janet married my best friend, and hurt even more years later when they divorced. I never wished pain on either of them.<br /><br />I lost track of Janet after she left my friend Michael with her two year old son Chad and did not see or hear from her for twenty years. Then one day I received an email from Chad. It seems he tracked down his Dad and then me through the Internet. After a few pleasant rounds of messages he asked if I remembered his Mom and said she spoke of me often and then said that she wanted to know if I would mind hearing from her. I was elated (understament). I could not believe after some correspondence that we lived so close to one another, since neither of us lived in Orange County any more. We shopped at the same grocery store, visited the same Walmart and Target stores. We went to the same soccer park, the same movie theatres and the lead singer (coincidentally named Randa Lee) of the Randa Lee Express band which I was playing in at the time had her hair done by Janet’s best friend from grammar school. We dined at the same restaurants and yet we never bumped into each other over the twenty years we co existed in each other’s backyard.<br /><br />For me our reunion was magical, an answer to all my prayers. It was a second chance to do what I should have done twenty-five years earlier. I asked her to marry me, and Janet accepted. The wedding was beautiful as weddings go, full of hope and magic and promise of a perfect future. Unfortunately for me, Janet found our married life less than fulfilling. Romance and passion aside, once the novelty wore off I guess she found life with me competitive and tedious. She left me two years later (and by leaving I mean she tossed me out keeping all my stuff). To give her credit, she was the perfect housekeeper; she ultimately kicked me to the curb and kept the house, both of them. I would like to say that I have learned my lesson, but I am a fool of fools who still loves only one person. Some say I am broken but that I can be mended. But I know better. I am missing a part of my heart that cannot be repaired or replaced and must learn to live with my real enough handicap; the knowledge that I found true love and couldn’t hold on to it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-87819044053137009062007-06-30T11:13:00.000-07:002007-06-30T12:09:07.374-07:00Twenty-two dollars and some change plus a two-dollar tip<p> <br /></p><br /><a href="http://i118.photobucket.com/albums/o96/michaelpipes/table-not-square.gif"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://i118.photobucket.com/albums/o96/michaelpipes/table-not-square.gif" border="0" /></a><br />I bought a delivery pizza and paid $3.00+ for this slice (the apple cost $.60) from a popular national pizza franchise. I won't embarrass the company by naming it, so we will just give it a fictional name like A Table Not So Square; a name just randomly picked from my imaginary hat. I found myself caught up in the moment last night as I stared at that miserable dry hunk of crust with pre cooked pre formed artificial "topping product" piled loosely above unmeltable cheese-like food stuff. The pizza sauce was so thin it soaked into the crust leaving a feint pink paint brushed effect on the pizza. So as I analyzed and determined that a slice broke down to roughly a dollar a bite I became uncomfortably aware that I had just been culinarily raped by the delivery girl and even as she left I still tipped her two dollars (it would have been more, but she forgot the soda that I was billed for and she had no idea how to remove the charge and would not relinquish my pizza without payment in full. The tip would have been less, but I don’t like spit in my pizzas either) after she promised to return with my beverage as if she believed I would wait eagerly by the door waiting with school girl applomb for the revisit that would never come.(And never did, in case there are any of you optimists still out there.)<br /><br />When did frozen grocery store pizzas become better than pizzaria pizzas? I knew we were in trouble the day I pulled into a truck stop, and as I browsed through the aisles I spied a Pizza Kiosk also sporting a popular national name we will refer to as pizza shack. There was a young girl selling pre made pizzas run through a microwave oven to customers from behind a small counter. The selection was limited and the quality of the junk food was compromised but yet there was a long line of customers waiting to order.<br /><br />I need to spend more time in the kitchenUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-11653829754773049122007-06-26T22:31:00.001-07:002007-06-26T22:33:15.599-07:00sweet mysteries of lifeOK. Here’s one of those, oh so fun mathematical problems. There are seven books in a series, I bought them all, but of course they arrived at different times, but they all arrived. Maybe. Definitely according to my records. I read book one and kind of enjoyed it, so I ordered book two, three and four. While I was reading book two I ordered book five, six, and seven. They came in less than numerical order after book two, and I ended up reading another book outside the series between books three and four. By the time I started book five all the books were in except books six and seven. After I finished book five I was ready to start and actually began the first few pages of another book outside the series when book six came in the mail on the very day I picked up a Peter Straub paperback. I set Straub aside to read book six and book seven came in hardback version the very next day. I was settling into book six when it occurred to me that a vague reference to a previous death of a cousin in the books first chapter has now been referred to in the past tense several times by the middle of the story and actually the tale seems to be evolving around here to unknown facts from the loosely mentioned previous event. <br /><br />Have you ever been reading a book and fallen asleep? Most anyone who reads does this at some time or other. I do it frequently, often dreaming about the subject matter I’ve been absorbing. But sometimes, not very often, but on some rare occasions I realize midway through a chapter that my eyes have been closed for several pages. Invariably, I am able to convince myself, though barely; that I nodded off and lost my place in the book somehow navigating backward in my unconscious efforts and upon awakening found my book open several pages from where I left off. So that it only appeared that I continued along the books pathway with my eyelids closed. This explanation train arrives in a timely fashion from common sense yet embarks on its journey to points unknown with me feeling edgy and enveloped in a sense that I am strangely gifted in the rare art of pulp fictional paperback scrying. The logical clarification hardly leaves me feeling any more sated than the arcane theory of magic and otherworldly perception. <br /><br />Somehow this knowledge does not help my equation very much; it merely muddles the factoring assumptions and misdirects my course of calculations. I went back to my previously read books and inventoried the titles. Book one, check. Book two, check. Book three, check. Book four, check. Book five. Wait a minute where is book five? Book six is in my hands and book seven is the yet un-cracked hardback sitting on my nightstand with the Straub thriller patiently parked below it. So I stretch and limbered my arthritic fingers and begin counting again, one two three four five six. Six of seven books accounted for. One alleged story unread, one book unaccounted for. Basic math says one and one make two, one missing book and one missing story line seemed to equal out in my mind. My assumption would be that the missing book IS the missing story and I would of course be correct in a sane universe. <br /><br />I went to the Internet and addressed my online Bookshop ‘til You Drop web page of choice and reviewed my transactions thinking to myself that clarity has finally struck the chord of truth and shown me that obviously I stepped out of sequence with my series and have yet another book to account for. I am quick to blame myself for such over sightedness as I have numerous priors in fanning this kind of flame of confusion. I returned to basics. I investigated the correct number of books in the series. Seven. Good. I Compared titles with books already in my possession. I went to the page describing the missing book and as I read the product description, my fingers trembled and a little bit of drool leaked down onto my beard as I realized the subject of this book was already known to me and in fact I was certain I had already read the story (maybe in a past life?) and I remembered with the recall of one who recently absorbed the information in considerable detail of what that adventure entailed. Now I was back to my unstable reality where uncertainty ruled the realm and I began once again from the beginning, reading the back covers of each book and reviewing the stories in my mind. When I came to book four the plot was familiar, in fact so familiar it matched the online description of book five to a tee. There you have it, book five was improperly represented with the wrong product description. That is why it seemed all too familiar! Relief and reality joined hand in hand once more to set me in a determined effort to find a sensible solution to this mystery. I turned to the back of book four and reviewed the preview of book five in the excerpt that was provided to encourage readers to buy the next installment. <br /><br />The story line was certainly different, but no less familiar. I have read book five, I know it, I remember it, and my records show I received it, but I cannot find it. It is missing. I searched the house once again. I went outside and searched my pick up truck. I dug through the trashcan. This book five is now a mystery in more ways than one. So in conclusion, I have read books one through five, book six still refers to events unknown to me (maybe I mentally blocked out a few chapters of book five?) from an inferred previous tome of unknown description. Book five has fallen through the cracks of space and time and is unavailable for discernable review, my mathematical skills are in irreparable despair, and I am sitting here writing instead of reading. What would life be without a little mystery?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-63186095755937822962007-06-16T12:04:00.000-07:002007-06-16T12:10:43.759-07:00Billy Bob And Billy Jean<br /><br /> I lived in a small duplex in the Surrounding San Diego area for a time with a girlfriend name Jazelle, she wore her blond straight hair in a long ponytail that reached down to the small of her back and wore fringy leather vests and hip hugger bell bottom jeans with a peace sign sewn just above the bottom left cuff. She was a serious thrill seeker, loved surfing, sex in sleeping bags, and jamming on the back of my bike. We were by all standards the perfect match made in Hell, destined to be together for weeks. I knew that she might not be the right one for me when one day we encountered a minor mishap; the front forks on my chopper snapped on the freakway (here name for it not mine) while traveling about eighty five miles an hour in the fast lane. After dropping the bikes frame to the asphalt and skidding into the center divider spewing sparks like it was the 4th of July I scraped myself from the bike seat and with trembling hands, legs and torso stepped back and assessed the situation. I noticed right away as I fumbled and failed to light a cigarette that the road had ground away the bike frame and eaten into the engine block, fluids were leaking onto the blacktop like the choppers own blood, and life had seeped from the engine until it was obvious there would be no resuscitation for this sad puppy. As I shook from the realization that death had just narrowly missed grabbing us by the nape of the neck and hurling our limp bodies into the oncoming traffic, I looked over to Jazelle to see her jumping up and down yelling “Far freaking out man! That was so righteously bitchin’!” It was that very moment that I realized something needed to change in my life.<br /><br />Soon after the near death experience, I presented Jazelle the bad news, explaining that I realized I wasn’t good enough for her and that she should move on to someone more worthy; like, I don’t know, a secret agent or a shark hunter, someone who might have a minimal chance of survival while being around her. She was, much to my surprise tearfully shattered. I secretly suspected that Jazelle would leap at the opportunity to be free of me and be gone in a split second. But she told me she really wanted to make our relationship work and she did this with a completely serious face. She told me she would prove she could be just as fun at home as she was on our road trips and somehow after gazing into those solemn sincere eyes I held my resolve in check and agreed we should rent a place giving cohabitation a chance. I know I wasn’t thinking with common sense, after all, if I couldn’t deal with her part time, what chance would we have together ALL the time?<br /><br />Well this ill thought plan was put in motion, we found the small duplex in my price range, and could have had the whole house for a little more money per month, but we had plenty of space, and frankly I couldn’t afford the extra cash after replacing my recently departed chopper. Jazelle set up housekeeping, decorating our home in Post 60’s hippy fashion with macramé plant hangers, Indian rugs hung on the walls accented with posters and neon paints, avocado furniture in the front room, tangerine dining set in the kitchen. Waterbed, lava lamps, strobe lights flashing in rhythm to Janis Joplin on the stereo, black lights shining on love beads hanging across the doorways, we were one cozy little family.<br /><br />In fact it was kind of sexy. For a while… then Jazelle started with the incense, which wasn’t bad really, then she began hanging talismans and dream catchers all about the house. Finally, out came the ouija board. That was a little creepy, and Jazelle was showing signs of captivity syndrome, all twitchy and nervous and yes getting just a little too bitchy for comfort. I am an easygoing kind of guy, I let a lot flow off my back, but I was at the point where something had to be said.<br />When I confronted her, Jazelle broke down in tears quite atypical of her usual hard-core personality and said that she was afraid of the house. “How can you be afraid of a house?” I asked, and she said that things were happening while I was away playing Navy and that she didn’t want to be alone in the house any more. Well that was weird even for Jazelle. I was at a loss for words. She said she could prove it and brought me to the kitchen table where she had the Ouija board set up. I examined the board; it was crafted with Egyptian styling, a trademark stamp depicting the board as manufactured by the Kennard Novelty Company and a copyright by Elijah Bond dated 1891. To each corner were faded stencils of icons, to the upper left, a sun, to the upper right a crescent moon, and in the bottom left and right corners a single star in each. With arched stenciling there were two rows containing the entire alphabet, below that in a straight progression were the numbers one through zero. Just above the line of numbers was the crystal pointer which rested directly over a skeletal “joker” looking pattern that although faded or maybe because of the fading, oddly appeared to be laughing in a most disturbing manner.<br /><br />“You see?” she cried out.<br /><br />“I see an ouija board thing, so what of it?” I asked fairly exasperated and just a little shaken over Jazelle’s sudden change of personality.<br />“The pointer thingy! It’s…it’s pointing to the symbol for death! My death! Your death, our death...I don’t know, death!”<br /><br />Well I spent most of that evening calming her and after a couple of wrong turns managed to get her to see the foolishness of her fears and settle down. I took her out to dinner then brought her home, tucked her in bed and promised everything would be just fine then slipped into the front room to get some needed privacy and rest. I was not accustomed to playing caregiver, at least not on this level, and although what she said made no sense to me, I could tell she was deeply disturbed by something. I put some music on and let the earlier events of the evening slide off of me like so much baggage. The entire day onboard ship had been stressful enough, this was way beyond the call of duty. By the end of the cassette, a weight lifted from me and I was floating in the twilight of calm and stress liberating bliss. I was too mellow to even change the tape, I just sat back enjoying the quiet hassle free moment.<br /><br />I heard a cupboard slam shut in the kitchen. I must have dozed off for a moment there and Jazelle had gotten up. I groaned and raised myself from the couch and headed for the kitchen. “Whatcha doing honey?” I asked as I came around the corner. No one was there. Now that was weird. I must have really been out and dreaming some funky shit, I thought to myself. I turned to go back into the front room when behind my back I heard the cabinet door under the sink slowly creak open. I turned with a shock and watched as the door gently rocked on it’s hinges and laughed at myself for being so jumpy. I reached into a drawer on the other side of the kitchen and grabbed a screwdriver and some WD-40 to fix the lazy cabinet door once and for all. When I turned back to the sink, the door was closed. Now I understand about unbalanced doors with loose hinges forced by gravity to swinging open, but how do you explain it swinging shut again? Obviously there is one, I was just at a loss to figure it out that night. I went to the fridge and pulled out a beer, thinking I really needed a case of this stuff at that moment. I returned to the couch, put another tape in the stereo and kicked back, mulling over the peculiar events that had just transpired. I settled down and drank my beer and feeling much better as I finished the last drop from the can, I was thinking another beer might be in order.<br /> <br />Just then the cassette stopped in mid song. Cursing my bad luck just knowing the stereo deliberately devoured my favorite tape again I grumbled and started to get up from the couch one more time. As I stared at the silent stereo I heard an awful clamor in the kitchen, and the front room plunged into darkness. I stood there trying to recall where I kept the flashlight for such emergencies when a pair of headlights shining through the window lit up the room. It was an eerie bluish haze that spanned the area, but there was enough light to make out some details. I walked to the kitchen, still wanting a flashlight and was pretty sure the breaker box was located there as well. As I came into the room, my foot brushed against something shadowed in the dark, startling me into keen awareness of my surroundings. I searched with my foot and tapped against what felt like a small box, probably Screaming Yellow Zonkers size. So that was the commotion I heard in the kitchen? Some rodent attacked the munchies supply on the counter? I laughed at myself, Jazelle sure picked a night to freak out, she had me on edge and susceptible to my rather enormous imagination. I found the flashlight and went over behind the table and locating the breaker box I reached for the switch. To this day I don’t recall if I actually flipped the breaker or not for at that very moment all the lights came back on and I was staring at the kitchen floor. Every single box, can and bagged item from the cabinets were scattered all over the ground. Once again horror chilled me to the core, freezing my actions for several moments. My mind just could not wrap itself around the sinister event that had just taken place in my home. Grabbing a broom for defense and a beer for courage I stood in the middle of the room taking in all the damage. A cabinet door swung closed, and others just sway lazily on their hinges, innocent enough looking to make me reconsider my diabolical assumptions, and sit down at the table and finish my beer.<br /><br />“Pretty funny joke” I proclaimed out loud to the joker skeleton laughing absurdly at me from his Ouija resting place. Of course I realize if a sly mouse can attempt to hijack my Zonkers, then it doesn’t seem so far fetched that a pack of wily rats might have tried knocking over the entire kitchen surplus taking advantage of the brief plunge into darkness and scurrying away the moment the lights came back on. I got to hand it to them for ingenuity but tomorrow the traps come out. It just then occurred to me that there were headlights at the window earlier, and I wondered who could be there. It wasn’t that late yet, at least not in my world, midnight was not an unlikely time to find visitors at my doorstep. I am nocturnal by nature, although there weren’t a lot of acquaintances that kept the same hours as I did it left me to ponder over who the mysterious night caller might be as I reached for the front door. Damn, I didn’t hear anyone pull away, but the car was definitely gone.<br /> <br />“Oh well,” I thought to myself, “I ain’t much in the mood for company anyways, but it sure would have been nice to have some help putting all that stuff back in the cabinets. Good thing for the rats nothing was gnawed on or I would have bypassed the humane traps and went for the back snappers.”<br /><br />After stowing all the gear and squaring away the kitchen, I gulped down one last beer, I decided to quit while I was ahead and turn in for the night. I quietly snuck into bed not wanting to wake Jazelle, and most certainly not feeling up to answering any questions about recent events. I felt her warm breath as she snuggled up to my shoulder and I settled into a shallow sleep filled with wicked dreams. The remainder of the night passed all to quickly and I was up and rushing to get ready for work and worrying that I was going to miss revelry again. I kissed Jazelle gently on the forehead, normally I would have kicked her ass out of bed when I rolled out, just because I could, but this morning I thought that she needed her rest after yesterdays anxiety attack. Besides, I wasn’t sure what I would find when I slipped into the kitchen to make coffee. Much to my relief, everything was in its proper place.<br /><br />At lunch I was ordered by the Lt to go downtown to the Public Library and collect some information in the microfiche department from Miss Darling. I could imagine a spinsterly gray haired old woman tending to books slightly older than she herself and figured if I played my cards right, I could probably finish off the afternoon with this one job. The Lt had been informed his inventory was ready for pick up, but mistakes happened, and one mistake was sending me on a task so close to the pool hall downtown. I jumped in the ships assigned jeep from the carpool and cruised on over to the old town district then parked in front of the pool hall walking the half block to the library. As it turned out mistakes did indeed happen and the Lt’s order was in but had not been brought up from the archives yet. I was sent down to one of the lowest sublevel basements by the quite matronly librarian, and as I thanked Miss Darling with a smile and a wink, she sharply corrected me in a hushed librarian manner.<br /><br />“Mizzzz Darling is in the lower basement and you will quietly report to her this instant!” Ouch, the only thing missing was for her to wield a ruler and she would be the spitting image of the cover girl on this months Mad Magazine.<br /> <br />I marched heavily down the stairs several flights, descending into dustier, darker, mustier surroundings with each level. Finally I reached my destination. It was poorly lit and hazy in the grimy storage room, and as I looked about, all that was visible to the naked eye was not the orderly rows of shelving that neatly bore the support of the Dewey Decimal System, but half filled boxes and stacks of magazines that had fallen over from aspiring to reach far too high. A lone desk, bare of any familiarity save for a computer terminal and a single microfiche machine sat in the center of the room paired with an empty chair that had seen better days. I called out in a bare whisper, “Miss Darling, ma’am?” and received no reply. I wandered among the stacks of yellowed newspaper bundles scattered across the floor and softly called her name again. After the previous night, anything could spook me, and of course I had to find myself alone beneath tons of aged concrete in a dark and dismal room cut off from the entire world.<br /><br />“May I help you?” A firm but tender voice rang out from the unnatural silence. <br />I jumped at once, and croaked in a nervous murmur “ I, I am here to see Miss Darling, uh pardon me, but do you know where I might find her?”<br /><br />“You already have” came the melodic voice “and there is no need to whisper down here, no one but the dead can hear you.”<br /> <br />At that moment a youthful vision of splendor appeared from behind several large stacks of belligerent magazines, wearing a knee length light blue dress that put curves in all the right places, her tawny gold hair was tied with two baby blue ribbons making cute pig tails that captured the preciously scarce light in the room and accented her sapphire blue eyes that were slightly hidden behind oversized glasses set in a thin frame and resting low on her button nose. I cleared my throat and explained that I was sent to retrieve certain microfiche information requested previously by my Lt and was here to offer my services in any way that I might be of assistance. Suddenly I had forgotten about the pool hall, the previous night or what day it was for that matter, all I could see or think about was that lovely girl standing before me.<br /><br />“Are you ok?” I heard. “You spoke to me but all I got was something about reprieve civilian fishes pitied by the rest and you need my systems’?”<br /><br />Damn my nervous mumble. “ I said I was here to collect some microfiche information for my Lt.” I stammered, “And offered my assistance if you need It.” There I got it out.<br /><br />“Oh,” she smiled “you must be the Navy guy. Are all you sailors so shy?” The day was just getting better and better.<br /><br />“No ma’am,” I replied, “ Shyness is my specialty, I have worked strenuously for years to perfect my own personal form of shyness and quite frankly anyone you meet out there trying to be shy was probably trained by me.”<br /><br />“ Shy but not modest, a peculiar combination of traits.”<br /><br />“ Those are two shining attributes to my personality, but not the strongest traits to my character Miss Darling.” I said leaning against her desk. I swore I could sense it slip just a fraction under my grasp.<br /><br />“Then I hope patience is one of your ‘stronger’ attributes as I am still searching for some of the information your lieutenant asked for, and please call me Sam.”<br /><br />“Sam?” I asked. “That is such a coincidence, you can call me Darren.” I smiled back at her, I felt a little foolish afterward for the slight play on words, since she obviously never watched an episode of Bewitched, and now she didn’t know my real name. After my fumbling first impression, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing after all.<br /><br />She dropped a stack of papers on her desk and started back to the rear of the room telling me to have a seat and make myself comfortable. I swung around the desk and started sifting through the assorted paper work and realized the Lt was searching for historical references to our ship. I wondered if it was official business or some trite hobby he was absorbed in that brought me here. I finished an article about a family picnic held at Balboa Park in honor of the returning Destroyer Escort, my returning Destroyer Escort and was wondering why I hadn’t heard about a picnic for ship’s personnel when I noticed the next article down, An Ode to Billy Bob and Billy Jean. The title was pretty corny, but the subtitle grabbed my attention; Duplex murder/suicide Friday night. I looked at the ancient date of the article and read further. The Crestmore duplex apartments located in the lower east section of San Diego was the scene of the subsequent arrest of Jackson Pole, a known dealer of drugs and prostitution for the apparent slaying of person or persons not yet divulged to the press. Pole, a 34-year-old felon is being held without bail pending further investigation. The suspect has been under investigation for fraud, extortion, drug peddling and prostitution for several months. This follow- up story reveals the shocking truth of what happened within the walls of the fateful Crestmore home. The Crestmore home is the very house that has a diabolical history of death and tragedy for more than 120 years.<br /><br />The introduction though disturbing and written years ago had a ring of familiarity, so I read further;<br /><br /> Billy Bob and Billy Jean were married right out of High School. Both were raised on small Indiana farms and Billy Bob joined the Navy just like his two older brothers. After Boot Camp Billy Jean came out to San Diego and shared a small efficiency home with her husband for a short time until he was shipped out for a six-month tour of duty. After Six months Billy Bob’s tour was extended and Billy Jean was left at home very bored and quite lonely. She met a man who took her out dancing, to exotic parties and introduced her to drugs. Before she knew what happened, Billy Jean was getting high, sleeping around and running ‘errands’ for her pusher boyfriend. After 18 months overseas Billy Bob finally returned home and one hot August evening showed up at their doorstep with flowers and chocolates and a reservation to the most romantic resort he could afford. As he got to the front of the house he left his car running and dashed straight to the door, fumbling with his keys he could not get the right one to work, so wanting to surprise his lovely bride, he ran around to the back of the house, slipped open the bedroom window and crawled in. <br />Misfortunes often step into people’s lives whenever dire circumstance allows and this was certainly one of those tragic occasions. Billy Jean was passed out on the bed with her pusher boyfriend Jackson Pole who was awakened when he heard some commotion and in a fit of fear and desperation, or perhaps in cold calculating deliberation shot Billy Bob to death as he came through the bedroom window. <br />The police came and arrested Jackson Pole for involuntary manslaughter and knowing this man for his reputation wished to God they could do more. They searched the crime scene well into the night and most of the next morning for evidence of drugs or paraphernalia but found nothing. The boyfriend wasn’t a stupid man, just ruthless and coldhearted. The car that Billy Bob left idling in the drive glared its accusing headlights into the front room of the house, its engine idling in vain until finally after overheating it too died, leaving the headlights to run off the battery well into the early morning when the car was towed away. With what little evidence there was bagged and tagged and sent down to forensics, the investigating officers returned to their station to file reports and Billy Jean was left alone in an empty house.<br /> <br />Billy Jean was crushed by the tragic events that had unfolded the previous night. Riddled with guilt and mentally distraught she tore through the house looking for something to calm her down, knowing Pole had cleverly hidden his stash somewhere where the cops wouldn’t find it, she searched well through the rest of that day searching for relief from the pain that tore into her heart and soul relentlessly. Reflecting and retracing Jackson’s steps in a moment of clarity, she recalled the pusher boyfriend spending a lot of time in the kitchen after shooting Billy Bob. She went through each and every kitchen cabinet meticulously until she came across a box of rat poison that she found in a cabinet under the sink. She emptied the contents into the basin and discovered a baggy containing a syringe and a plentiful supply of uncut heroine. Not knowing or perhaps not caring of the potency of this drug, she sat down in the front room after injecting a massive overdose and waited. Waited for emotions to fade far away, waited as she sat without sensation for her life to fade even further away. Perhaps it was the drugs, maybe it was the guilt, but the last thing she saw before she slipped into deaths comma was a pair of headlights shining into the front room. <br />Her body was discovered days later when a detective came by to follow up on some questions about the tragic murder of Billy Bob. He found Billy Jean collapsed in the drive in front of the house, her body covered with chocolates and roses.<br />I sat in that deep clammy cellar and waited for the feeling to return to my legs, I sat still, silently oblivious the world outside. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding faster than a drum solo; I felt the blood slowly leaching from my face back to other needy extremities that had been without for far too long. I could not focus my gauzelike gaze from eyes that were blurred and distracted, I could feel how close to unconsciousness I had come and slowly shook my head from side to side in denial.<br /><br />“No,” I thought to myself,” “this isn’t possible!”<br /><br />“Here you go, that’s everything, and I must say you have that shyness thing down to a tee. Most boys who come down here won’t leave me alone unless I agree to a date. I rather like your approach. You may have my number.”<br /><br />She passed me a slip of paper and I folded it up in my hands with the article that was already there. I absently pushed them into my pocket and offered a feeble thank you and walked out. I couldn’t get out of that cave fast enough. I ran up the stairs, I ran away from my fear, I ran out into the sunlight and drove straight back to the Naval yard without so much as a thought of the pool hall, or anything else for that matter. My mind was locked in neutral. I was afraid to think anything, afraid to relive the information that slammed into my mind with the force of a fleet invasion. I was afraid of the truth, afraid of the past, afraid to go home.<br /><br />I sat in my shipboard office compartment and stared at nothing, I sat there in silence, I sat in stillness, I sat alone too terrified to assess the information I had obtained. I sat and thought of nothing. I have no idea how much time slipped away, how long I sat there, but at some point my Lt turned up and said, “There you are! Did you get what I asked for?” I faced him and placed the papers in his hands. “Is this everything? Did she find all I requested?”<br /><br />“Yes sir,” I responded finally. “There was also an article.” I hesitated. “An article about a picnic…” I searched my pockets and pulled out the half folded half crumpled paper and held it out to the Lt. “ It says there was a family picnic for the ship sir.” I offered.<br /> <br />He took the paper giving me a suspicious look and I told him “There was another article about the apartment I live in written by Steve Carroll I believe his name is and it had some pretty gruesome things to say about that house.” <br /><br />“I know that name,” Responded my Lt “He’s a ghost chaser, thinks of himself as some kind of Kolchak or something, I wouldn’t listen to anything he has to say.”<br /><br />I thought about what Lt said and realized I was just being irrational. It is funny really, when you think about all the coincidences that led up to my hysteria, but in the sensible light of day it all really did seem like a fools dream. Come on dead people reliving their worse nightmare at my expense? It is laughable now that I look back on it, all right? I’m just glad no one was around to catch me playing the neurotic simpleton. I figured this was a story I would keep to myself for many years. After all the family already had too much ammunition for holiday get-togethers as it was.<br /><br />By the end of the day I was back to my old self and was seriously considering using a phone and calling Sam. Tonight Jazelle and I needed to have a very long serious talk. It was her freaky superstitions that got me all worked up in the first place. I kick started my new bike and hugged the wind as I road home, and then bracing myself for an emotionally draining evening I walked through the front door. <br />I was received by the blur of a vision charging straight towards me, I flinched and pulled back expecting a blow, but it was the old hyper Jazelle leaping into my arms and smothering me with kisses.<br /><br />“I am so sorry about last night, lover. I don’t know why I got so worked up. We have a lovely home and I want to spend the rest of my life with you!” she assaulted me with another barrage of kisses and hugged the very breath from my lungs.<br /><br />“I’m glad you are feeling better…” I started to say.<br /><br />“You are the most wonderful man in the world you sexy thing and I am going to show you how much I approve of you tonight!” she wiggled and giggled in her flirtatious way and said “The flowers and chocolates are the sweetest thing anyone has ever given me. How did you know that roses are my favorites?”<br /><br />She held me close and I couldn’t breath. She planted kisses on me and I couldn’t feel them. She leaned into my ear and whispered “Honey, there’s a car coming up the drive, are you expecting anyone?”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-37170513807705492482007-06-15T13:58:00.000-07:002007-06-15T14:00:48.086-07:00BorrowBorrow. It is such a diminutive, innocuous word. Commonly used on any day in just about any situation. One might for instance request from a stranger in the bank or at a department store register; “May I borrow a pen?” or to a friend or relative one might ask; “Can I borrow some money?” How often it seems we use the word “borrow” in our daily lives. By definition it implies you are going to return said item. Sometimes though, it is used without the objective of returning the item, such as asking a neighbor to borrow a cup of sugar. There is certainly no direct intention to return that same cup of sugar to your neighbor; it more implicitly conveys a possible acknowledgement of an implied debt of courtesy. It was this last case just a solitary year ago, that quite nearly cost me not only my life but my very sanity as well. <br /><br />My name is Michael Wining and until a year ago, I was a carefree bohemian ne’er do well. At the tender age of twenty-five I lived my irreverent life to the fullest, or at least so I thought at the time made possible in its entirety due to the vast fortune my grandfather left me. I went to only the select snob parties, dined at the finest restaurants, and reveled with the beautiful people. I thought I was in heaven when I gave it any consideration at all, but one late night in July I fell from my towering heavenly bliss and descending deep into the very bowels of Hell’s torment itself.I had been on that particular night barhopping with some friends in the gaslight district of San Diego when I decided I was at my celebratory peak and the appropriate time to go retreat to my lodgings was eminent. I think it was around three or four in the morning. All the clubs were closed down to regular folk and only the caustically wealthy remained after hours. I was feeling reasonably excellent and so in the mood I decided against driving in favor of a brisk stroll back to my Hotel room. The decision was a logical choice reached by illogical means, the last bastion and defender of the drunken and inept; the very least outcome of the evening I desired was a DWI to un-mellow my high. Besides, I reasoned, the hotel was only a few blocks away and an early morning stroll would suit me well. I offered my goodbyes, paid my tab and a departing round of drinks and left the bar. I was well on my way to the hotel when I reached into my jacket pocket to get a cigarette. I pulled out an old cigarette pack but crumpled and tossed it aside as the packet was empty. It always amazes me how much I smoke when I imbibe and at that moment found it difficult to believe I finished off the entire pack in such a short time. I was traumatized, I only smoked Helmars Turkish Blend Cigarettes and looking around, it was obvious a small local convenience store would not be likely to carry them much less even be open at this early hour. A quick glance at all the dark storefronts on the street confirmed my suspicion. I cursed the world, feeling serious nicotine deprived spasms coming on merely from the knowledge that no nicotine was immediately available. A moment of clarity set me walking a faster pace with the realization I had another pack in my hotel suite. All sane thought was pushed from my head with the single exception; I needed a smoke, a thought which may not have held a dollop of sanity in and of itself if I were to believe the surgeon general. <br /> <br />About a block from the hotel, I was wheezing and beginning to acquire a sweaty and unhealthy flush to my complexion. I found myself once again cursing the world for not having another pack of cigs on me and cursing the local shops for being closed between deep gulps for breath. I was about to break into a vigorous amble towards the hotel when the whistle of a soft melody drew my attention. I saw a man, the melody stopped as I exchanged a subtle glance with the stranger standing beneath a streetlight. He was leaning against the pole, dragging slowly on a recently lit cigarette, by no means reminding me of a macho smoke commercial. I stopped for a moment, sizing him up as I thoughtfully observed him deeply inhale a lungful of nicotine.<br /> <br />He was of diminutive stature, a small man, maybe 130 lbs. He wore tan khaki pants, a smart sports shirt with hibiscus blooms patterned in Hawaiian fashion covered by a cerulean blue nylon windbreaker with a logo I couldn’t quite distinguish. His footwear were stylish deck shoes wrapped around clean white ankle socks made visible by the short wader cut of his khaki cuffs. I guessed his age to be maybe late forties or early fifties. My brain, inhibited by the absorbed alcohol judged him as not likely to be a threat. Cautiously I approached, hoping he proved to be a Good Samaritan who would facilitate a fellow smoker with the gracious act of sharing. As I drew near he turned his face towards me. He had green eyes the color of dirty dollar bills; the most penetrating I had ever seen and they watched me approach with a modest sparkle of amusement in the recessed corners of those dusky verdant portals.I cleared my throat and asked him, “Hey Buddy, would you happen to have a cigarette I could borrow?” It was such a simple question.<br /> <br />He looked me up and down, obviously trying to assess the situation. His eyes met mine again, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine but I shuddered once and ignored it considering the cool hour of early morning. Then he smiled at me, “Sure Buddy, always happy to help a fellow smoker.” With that said he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack. Tapping it on the side of his hand to get one out, he said to me “You know my Mother, may she rest in peace, always taught me to be careful with my grammar. She was a stickler for grammar my Mother was. ‘Sammy’ she would say, it was her pet name for me, Samael is my given name but she often called me Sammy. ‘You must always use proper grammar. If you don’t, people will think you are uneducated. Say what you mean and mean what you say.’ That is what my Mother rest her dear soul, would say.”He handed me the cigarette he pulled from his pack and I took it, thanking him as he lit it for me. That is when the impression of Heaven actually materialized wrapping my mind in a cocoon of pure ecstasy as that first puff was like sheer manna to me. The nicotine beast within was finally placated. I stood there for a moment, my eyes closed; taking pleasure in the exquisite taste when I remembered Samael was still standing there beside me. I opened my eyes and found him staring intently with a big wicked grin on his face. “You really must have been dying for a smoke Buddy. I never saw anyone enjoy a drag like you just did.” I returned his smile, “My name is Michael, nice to meet you. Yes, I thought I had another pack on me but I was wrong, I was just now trying to get back to my hotel to get one. Thanks again for the cigarette.”Samael just waved his hand, “Oh please, no need to thank me, I am glad I could be of some small assistance. So you are heading back to your suite, what hotel are you staying at?” he asked as he took another cigarette from the pack and lit it for himself.I continued to smile, I was in a self indulgent state of nirvana and felt no menace from Samael as I looked down at him and I thought to myself the least I could do for my grinning savior was to lend a sympathetic ear to bend for a few moments while I finished my cigarette. He struck me as a lonely man just wanting some one to talk to; why else would he be out on the streets at such an early hour in the morning?“I’m staying at the Sheridan Grande Hotel.” Samael let out a small but sustained whistle, “Wow, that is some pricey accommodations you have Michael, I once knew a lady who worked the night shift there, Maggie was her name. Nice enough girl but she had such extremely poor grammar.” He spoke wistfully.With my nicotine addiction temporarily satisfied, my bladder then spoke up to warn me that it was a good deal too full to continue holding the imported beer I had consumed before leaving the bar. “Sorry Samael, but I have to get going, but maybe I’ll see you around and thanks for the smoke.” I turned and started to jog towards the hotel. Just before I got out of earshot, Samael yelled something to me that sounded like “I’ll see you soon Michael.”The next morning I awoke with a pounding headache. I had forgotten all about Sammy and the cigarette and his peculiar grammar lessons by then and I called up room service ordering some breakfast and a few aspirin for my miserable spinning head. As I was eating the few bites I dared ingest without risk of losing everything I received a call from my friend Paulie who proceeded by informing me that he had finally and succesfully accomplished the conquest of a certain socialite he had been after for months. I listened with a half heart while grabbing my fresh pack of Helmar’s and lit one up. I cut Paulie short telling him I had something urgent to do and made plans to meet him later that night at said socialite’s elite gathering on her daddy’s little boat dockside at the Blue Moon Harbor Yacht club at slip L337. <br /><br /> I went back to bed, waking up at five pm in a mood much more to my liking. The pain in my head was finally gone and as I lit another cigarette, I sat at the convenience table, pulled out my laptop and checked my e-mails. I found mostly junk mail except for a few messages from Paulie with jpegs of him and his latest conquest in compromising positions. But one email in particular caught my eye. The subject line just read “Grammar”. I didn’t recognize the address it came from but my virus protector gave it no cautionary disapproval, so I opened it. I couldn’t believe my eyes as I read the content.“Dear Michael, <br /><br />I hope you enjoyed the cigarette you borrowed from me last night. However, since you borrowed it, I assume you mean to give it back to me. I will be around sometime tonight to collect. Remember, always say what you mean and mean what you say. Sincerely,Samael.” I was absolutely astonished. I couldn’t believe this guy not only found my e-mail address but he also was demanding I pay back the cigarette I “borrowed” from him. I glared at my screen for a moment. I had no intention of him coming to collect a cigarette from me. I mean I would give him one if I saw him again should he ask for one, that would only be courteous but this kook claimed he actually intended to collect on a cigarette debt. It then occurred to me that the message was sent in jest and the lonely old guy must have one sick sense of humor. I placed his e-mail address on my ignore list and went back to checking the remainder of my mail and as I did, new mail came in with just the one lone word “Grammar” in the subject line, they started popping up faster than I could delete them and I found myself thinking this nut must have one Hell of a Spam-ware program and I shut down my computer. I tried to put Samael and the borrowed cigarette out of my mind, concluding that if he did show up and things became violent, I could easily defend myself against his age and slight build and then I would just call the police and be done with him. Considering my financial independence, I was used to having scam artists and such trying to fleece money from me. I decided Samael was one of these people. I also decided I had learned my lesson and from that moment on, I would never again ask to “borrow” another cigarette from a stranger. I would make sure I had enough on me.<br /> <br />I hired a cab to drive out to the harbor, where I met up with Paulie and a few other partygoers. It was a great bash, lots of idle conversation, music and dancing; making out and the best liquor that money could buy. It was obvious early on that Paulie and our hostess were going to hook up again and so when the party started to wind down, I thought it best for me to return to my hotel. I looked around for Paulie and our hostess to let them know I was leaving, but not finding them I reasoned they were likely preoccupied. I went topside and debarked the yacht.<br /> <br />As I strolled down the pier I heard someone whistling behind me, it was an unfamiliar tune but a recognizable tone. I quickened my pace, wanting to make it to the parking lot where I knew a line of cabs and limos would be waiting to transport any party goers off to perspective abodes to sleep off the night’s events or on to the next adventure as their recreational motivated constitution allowed. The faster I walked, the faster and louder the whistling became, now I could hear footsteps behind me as well. I started to run as my muddled brain brought forth the memory of the e-mail I had received from Samael earlier that day. I knew I was too drunk to defend myself now and all I could do was get to the safety of the illuminated parking lot, where there would be safety in bright lights and tangible people. I could see a distinct glow up ahead. I was so fixed on watching the lights I didn’t see the anchor that lay across the deck of the pier. I let out a small yelp as my toe caught it and I went sailing across the wooden planks, skidding for a few feet and ended up sprawled face first on the splintery ground. There was a sharp pain in my ankle and I knew I had twisted it or worse. I rolled onto my back and sat up, rubbing my ankle. The whistling had stopped, so had the footsteps. The only light was the faint blush from the full moon hiding behind thin veils of clouds above and I could only see dark shadows. I held my breath, straining to hear any noise but the only perceived sound was the slight clatter of distant carefree laughter coming from another yacht anchored in the harbor. I waited a few more minutes and when I realized no one was coming after me, I struggled to my feet. My left ankle let me know immediately it would not support any weight, so I started to hop on my right foot towards the parking lot. I had hopped maybe 4 or 5 steps when I heard a voice from behind me say, “That was a nasty spill you took Michael, are you okay?” <br /><br /> I froze. I recognized the owner of the disembodied voice immediately. It was Samael. I turned slowly, careful not to put my left foot down. He was standing behind me, the moonlight reflecting off his misty sea green eyes, giving them an ethereal quality. He was dressed almost exactly as he was the night before but tonight he wore a navy pea coat and a sailors wool cap. He was holding something in his had but I couldn’t make out what it was. I started sobering up quickly as he strolled towards me, his face covered in an evil grin that made my blood run cold.“Are you okay there Michael, buddy?” he hissed as he came closer. I opened my mouth to yell for help but he was instantly on me. In a brief imperceptible moment I was tackled to the ground and the wind was knocked completely from me. I marveled at his almost super human speed and strength as he punched me in the head, producing dancing stars before my blurry eyes. I tried to put constructive thoughts toward fighting back but my reeling mind could not settle on anything useful and my stunned empty efforts at struggling accomplished absolutely nothing. My ‘buddy’ Sam produced a pair of handcuffs and locked my hands behind me. He then pulled out a roll of duct tape from his pocket, ripped off a sizable selection and slapped it over my mouth just as my senses were crawling back from the deep nether they had retreated to. As my senses revisited to assess the situation, my mottled and blurred vision cleared as well.<br /> <br />He sat cross-legged on the pier, glaring down at me as I looked at him through questioning eyes. “I imagine right now you are wondering what is going on. Well allow me to explain. You see I am a product of my dear Mother’s insistence that grammar be used properly. She used to beat the dog snot out of me if I used improper grammar or etiquette. I tried, my best to keep her happy but day after endless day I failed and suffered for my inadequacies. In the end I had an epiphany as I cringed in my bed late one night, covered as I was with bruises and abrasions from Mother’s disappointments. It was there and then that it became solemnly obvious that only one action on my part could grant my dear Mother peace, and it was up to no one else in the entire world but me to gain my Mother’s approval by giving her what she truly wanted. So one night as she lay sleeping in her bed, I snuck into her room and placed the pillow over her head. She struggled and screamed as I most certainly anticipated, but amazingly for all her proper grammar, in the end she resorted to cussing and swearing like a New York whore. After completing my distasteful task there was for one brief moment a feeling that I was finally free or so I thought, but alas I soon discovered that was not the case at all. Much to my dismay I found people in this world use improper grammar all the time and it drove me crazy! Like when dear sweet Maggie said to me “You ain’t worth spit.” I corrected her grammar quickly; one quick slash across the carotid and it was over. It was the first time I had used a knife. I uh, I wasn’t used to the blood you see? I did find myself sick on that first occasion but over time I diligently built up a tolerance, yes even a taste, a hunger for the bloody morbid service I perform. I often wondered as a young child what my purpose in life would be one day and about ten years ago I realized my destiny was to stop the mistreatment of the English language and “teach” proper grammar to those poor unfortunate souls in need of education and to ruthlessly butchering any wretched abusive soul who proved guilty of butchering our precious grammar. Take for instance you my young friend. Last night you approached me and asked if you could borrow a cigarette from me. Borrow, do you know what the definition of borrow is? To borrow is defined as to have permission to temporarily use another’s’ possession, with intent to return that item. You borrowed a cigarette from me last night and I have come to get it back. Now where is the item I allowed you to borrow last night Michael my boy?”I stared wild-eyed at him. My heart felt as if it were going to pound a path out of my chest. I didn’t know how I was going to make my escape from this maniac. I tried frantically to think when I suddenly remembered I had a pack of cigarettes in my breast pocket. Quickly I started to gesture to Samael, trying to get him to look in my pocket.“What’s that Michael? You have cigarettes in your pocket? Well let’s take a look shall we?” He leaned over, I could smell the sour sweat on his face and a sickly aroma of stale tobacco on his breath as he rummaged through my pocket, “Ah, here we go, what have we here?” he said as he pulled the nearly full pack out from its storage. I mumbled a prayer as he flipped the pack over and read it. “Oh Michael…tsk. .tsk. .tsk. You really weren’t paying attention last night were you? These are Helmar’s, I don’t smoke Turkish Cigarettes because they make me ill. I smoke only American brands. Well I am afraid now my dear friend you will most certainly obtain a valuable lesson in the use of proper phraseology when putting forth direct questions. You see if you had queried if I had a cigarette I would let you have, you would of presented an appropriate question, using proper grammar. But you asked to borrow a cigarette and since you cannot return the cigarette to me, you must learn a terrible lesson and as we all well know education does not come cheap I fear I must extract a most grievous price from you. Now hold still, it’s not as messy that way.”<br /> <br />Samael stood towering over me, I could feel tears running down my cheeks as I watched him pull out a long sharp dagger from his coat. The metal glistened in the musty moonlight as he started to swing the blade towards me. What happened next happened incredibly fast; I’m still plagued by gaping holes in my memory and don’t recall all the details of what exactly happened. One moment I was praying hard, hoping beyond all hope he would slip and fall over or somehow miss me. Then the next moment, I heard a distant “pop” and saw Samael stop, his knife still midway between his maniacal grimace and my rapidly soon to not be beating heart. He stumbled back, holding the knife out in front of him. He regained his footing and took one more step towards me. I heard an additional pop then I saw a large stain growing on his chest. I thought he was staring at me but he had turned his head towards the harbor. Finally, Samael fell to the ground with a loud “thud” sounding to me like a large burlap sack filled with rotted fleshy fish. I sat there, shaking, afraid to even breathe; afraid any movement might reawaken the psychopath laying just three feet from my face. I sat there a few more minutes until I heard several footsteps running toward me. I turned my head and saw two police officers and a rather large fellow with an empty gun holster peeking through his open blazer. One officer ran over to look upon Samael. He put his finger to Samael’s throat, checking for a pulse. Finding none, he proceeded place a call to dispatch. The second officer came over to me and after checking my vitals located a key and removed my cuffs. I pulled the tape from my mouth.“Sir, are you okay? Don’t worry we have an ambulance on the way, just lay still until they get here.” The second officer spoke.The ambulance came and rushed me to the Alvarado Medical Center. It was there as the doctor took x-rays of my ankle that I found out what actually happened. Apparently Mr. “Gun Holster” was an armed bodyguard for a certain celebrity whose yacht had been anchored in the harbor right across from where Samael ambushed me. This bodyguard said he had gone topside on a routine security check. He was used to fans and paparazzi trying everything to get a glimpse of his employer so he used a pair of night vision goggles to make sure there were none lurking about with the intention of annoying his boss. He said he saw Samael at first but did not see me right away, but when he saw Samael was talking to someone on the ground, he made out my silhouette as Sammy bound and gagged me. He ran back to the captain and told him to call the police. The two officers who had saved me were already at the harbor investigating a report of a fight on the nearby boardwalk when they received the call. As they approached the pier they saw Samael with the knife and myself all trussed up. They ordered him to drop the knife and when he didn’t they fired. The doctor said I might not have heard them because of hysterical shock. They hit him once in the shoulder but he still had the knife and refused to drop it, they fired again, this time the bullet entered his side and went through his right ventricle. <br /> It was discovered after the next few weeks of investigation that Samael Waters, was responsible for at least thirty-five deaths over a ten-year period. He was suspected in several others including the mysterious death of his mother twenty-five years earlier. He was a troubled loner who was raised by a cruel and hateful mother. His was a sad story of abuse and degradation actually, and if he hadn’t tried to kill me that night I might have even felt sorry for him. <br /><br />That was a year ago, eventually the name Samael Waters faded into obscurity, as do most all flash in the pan serial killers. Soon enough the public moves onto another sad and grotesque story that likely has an unhappy ending. People can be fickle that way. As for me, the experience changed my life. I decided to drop out of the party scene and settle for a small quiet little home in a small town where no one remembers the name Sammy Waters or “The Grammar Killer” as one newspaper dubbed him. Here I am safe within these meager walls; here I am free to express myself and to be myself as I was always destined to be. Free to fulfill my destiny and continue what was begun late one night during those sweltering dreadful July hours of darkness a year ago.Someday I will write more about my experience but for now I have work to do. And my work is so very important, I must reach out to my fellow man, I have a lesson to teach. I am the salvation of the uneducated, those who are so blatantly unaware. Now if you will excuse me, the woman next door borrowed a cup of sugar and I must go get it back…Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-81533164967158238042007-06-14T15:53:00.000-07:002007-06-14T15:58:47.461-07:00A Tale Of Dexter IrwinThere was an occurrence only three nights past that put my soul on ice. Not an incident of mine but of someone previously unknown to me. He had revealed in due coarse a personal portrait of unfathomable and objectionably gloomy form so incomprehensibly mysterious that it terrified me to the base of my now jaundiced spine. It is also the reason as for why today I find myself hiding in the dark damp recesses of my mind, apprehensive in respect to the contemplation of returning into the populated sunlight. <br /><br />I sat upon a stone bench surrounded by the vibrant park-like grounds of the university campus, a student of contemporary religion, as well as carrying a minor quite adeptly in courses of philosophy and modern social hierarchy commonly referred to as social studies. There was a blistering Indian summer heat blazing into the back of my tender Caucasian neck, yet my insatiable thirst for educational stimulation kept my workbooks open within my hands. Stooping from where I sat, I reached into my bag and retrieved a pen, preparing to begin my regimental litany of impromptu spontaneous studying which I performed judiciously every day like clockwork for the past three and a half years when I sensed rather than felt a supplemental weight affixed to the searing air beside me.<br /><br />Turning, I saw a short round-faced young man of no more than twenty-five years sitting there; expressionless. His vibrant green hunter eyes wild and inconstant never seemed to focus on one particular thing, yet contained an inexplicable concentration. He had short, thick oily black hair and wore wire-rimmed spectacles of the coke bottle variety; dense lenses oozing out of thin frames. He was sweating a lot even for this unnatural arid temperature and his breath was quick and sharp. After an exchange of the usual conversational formalities, I had learned his name to be Dexter Irwin, a science student here at the university. He had a history of constantly being an oddity even among his fellow scholars and in his own words he described himself as a man who dares to dream and defy reality. A sentiment the bulk of the masses would like to believe they shared, but the conviction and manner in his elocution made it painfully obvious that the masses fell far short of their claims to true defiance, which in truth was possessed by and was indeed a somewhat unnerving reality belonging only to Dexter Irwin. <br /><br />We talked nonsensically for a determined short while of his studies and his pointed interests, and I do not lie when I say that I was intrigued at what he relayed to me regarding his and his family’s exploits:<br /><br />His grandfather, Dr. Fredrick Irwin had been a leading explorer in his day. He had ventured out into the deep Congo, seeking out the traditions and demigods of hidden tribes. Dexter’s father, Hershel Irwin some time in October of 1971 had received a letter of Dr Irwin’s’ sketchy demise and so his Grandfather was consequently never known personally by young Dexter Irwin. In the communication presented to the Irwin family were vague details concerning the “unidentifiable and suspect disappearance of Dr. F. D. Irwin,” telling of how the great silence within his company of six men (excluding the doctor himself) pointed to a mutinous plot of murder, and that the disloyal comrades were feeling the guilty repercussions of such a duplicitous act and now refused to impart any information as to the body’s whereabouts to the authorities. The truth of it was never known, and so there shall be no slander or conjecture speculated here, but the chances of an insurrection within the small group was highly improbable compared to the apparent barbarity of the secret tribes, which the aged voyager had written about in many of his journals. The clans he went to scrutinize (also noted copiously in his diaries) were idol worshiping and united spiritual social clusters of overpoweringly religious zeal. <br /><br />The events surrounding the death of Dexter’s father, the aforementioned Hershel Irwin, were abundantly less suspicious. He had been killed when a storm had loosed itself upon the house where Dexter had spent his childhood. A striking bolt of electricity had shot down from the dark threatening clouds overhead and turned the house almost instantly into a fiery inferno. His father had died somewhere within millimeters of the source of that blaze. <br /><br />From the age of eleven, Dexter had spent the majority of his youth in the custody of his uncle, his father’s first choice of guardian. A stern faced, god-fearing man who fastidiously chastised Dexter for every wrong footstep. He forbade the readings of certain texts, including the surviving remnants of his grandfather’s writings, most of which had burned in the fire at Dexter’s previous home, the place of his father’s untimely and untidy demise. Uncle Irwin was a good man at heart, and he kept a good living as a farmer, but the harsh restrictions he imposed upon Dexter had most certainly resulted in a specific and ominous consequence upon his bright nephew. <br /><br />I discovered I had begun to form an uneasy connection to this unusual man and his history, and after scrutinizing a surmountable sum of profound interest marked in my increasingly curious eyes, he invited me to witness the results of some of his more recent studies, to which I keenly agreed. <br /><br />Dexter’s house was situated unobtrusively upon a quiet prominence some miles away from the busy noise infected city, within a small familial suburb where everyone knew everyone else. Except that nobody seemed to know or recognize Dexter Irwin. He passed through the community without receiving a single sociable glance or so much as an offering or ambiguous murmuring of greeting as even strangers passing by are often known to do in such casual easy going neighborhoods. <br /><br />It was from first glance that the somewhat dilapidated building of archaic design offered its ominous profile, which was leant a peculiar aura from the evening’s autumn orange sky, and yet this modest home was strangely welcoming and amiable in it’s simplicity. Within the confines of Dexter’s suburban cookie cutter structure were the usual happenings of any accommodation: a neglected kitchen where hung all manner of grimy pots and pans along two of the three door-less walls. A forgotten refrigerator was humming furiously in one corner with the door slightly ajar. I watched the light bulb which had previously illuminated the inside of the chilly appliance to reveal various aged cold cuts and other less identifiable food matter, stutter a moment and then extinguished itself completely as if much too embarrassingly mortified to reveal it’s meager content to a stranger. In the other corner stood a breach into the pantry, whose floorboards creaked and complained as it was attacked by the slightest of our dual approaching steps coming from the still-open front door, which led to this dim culinary juncture. <br /><br />Continuing on into a small living room, I saw that there was not much need for furnishings when one lived as alone and excluded as Dexter Irwin did. It contained only a worn-out scruffy old colonial style couch that had broken through its fabric and now displayed discolored yellow padding here and there, and a tiny television set sat alone on a fragile three legged table standing slightly apart from the wall, unplugged and gloomily covered in dust, disgust and self loathing. <br /><br />Dexter led me hastily through that cheerless room and to the stairwell, which we passed moving instead through a heavy ancient and groaning door opening out to a passage that descended by means of some wormed and squeaking wooden steps into a mottled, strangely scented cellar spotted with what could only be described as threateningly active culture specimens of unknown origin. Dexter’s lumbering pace grew to be more eager then, if I remember accurately, for I vaguely but certainly recall the haunting rhythmical sound of his soft shoes upon the steps as he moved downwards in front of me. <br /><br />He explained as we descended deeper into the basement, that he was most proud of his off-site research and efforts. Ambling almost casually through the darkened shadows of the house’s underbelly, Dexter found a frayed cord, which he gently pulled and we suddenly became flooded by a powerful sallow radiance, which came from a single hi intensity bulb hung from the ceiling. Upon my first glance, it was evident that Dexter spent most of his time in his prized basement; for the neglect and decaying final phase of dilapidation the rest of the home seemed plagued by were not apparent here.The sterile conduct of his work beneath the house was emphasized by the hygienic purity of everything I encountered. His (what he had called previously) “laboratory” was a hospitable clean room, and I might have taken some pleasure in naming it a sanctuary for respite from the chaotic world, had it not been for the blasphemous impiety of the wickedly sterile confines. <br /><br />The walls were layered in a multitude of shiny instruments, some delicate and some verging on bludgeoning armaments, many mounted on frames like cherished prized quarry of a lengthy hunt. A large desk spanned one side of the room and was covered in loose-yellowed mature papers and documents, all bearing the insignia of one Dr. F. D. Irwin. Searching through them, I came across one, which caught my eye with dreadfully ardent attention. It was dated October 30th 1971, and read: <br /><br />The indigenous and innate prejudices of these tribal people are amazing even to me. I have tried and succeeded in communicating with the man who I have assumed to be the chief, and am beginning to understand their ways of life more straightforwardly. Their abundance of idolatry for their Nature-Deities has led me to believe that even a classification as Pagan would be too much of an underestimation for me to consider. <br /><br />And one from the following day: <br /><br />My guides and workers have left me. During the night they ran, I heard the breaking of sticks and massive rustlings of leaves too late as they disappeared. I had noticed a strange behavioral pattern as of late; they seemed to gravitate more towards escape than faith and loyalty in me, ever since I had achieved a thriving contact with the people hidden in the trees. <br /><br />There was not an entry for the first day of November, but there was an item dated November 2nd, 1971. It read: <br /><br />By what merciless Gods do these people worship? Their rich and callous treatment leads me only to reinforce an already long-standing stereotype. Yesterday, I saw a rite of ancient alacrity, and it had disturbed me greatly, for they held me as I watched, seeking some sort of wicked approval. They had strapped a young pregnant woman, arms and legs, to a pole on either side with ropy vines, and driven these into the mud beside a nearby riverbank. Squirming and writhing in fearful terror, she had her baby by the way of a sharpened stone slicing into her belly. The infant, slick with blood was drowned instantly within the mired sludge at its mother’s feet, she was then beheaded and dissected, her body parts subsequently impaled upon ceremonial spears held by her brothers and sisters. <br /><br />I will lavish no more detail than this, for that shocking scene which made me gag then vomit, would surely do so once more should I recollect it more intensely. <br /><br />Leafing through the nearby papers, I discovered the missing entry from November the 1st: <br /><br />They marked me today, a simple slash upon my palm. I presume it to be some kind of clannish symbol, though I have seen no other living soul bear it as well. They seem to see me as an ally now, after I had exposed to them some various marvels from our western worlds, to which they reacted at first frightened, then curious, then they gasped with wonder as if those marvels were great enchantments. My acceptance is made apparent by my being the first to taste from each meat that has just come from the bounty of a recent hunting trek, and the numerous trinkets and charms given to me by the village’s women.Perhaps they see me as some sort of hero or champion, or even, in my narcissistic way, as another God.“Look, here,” whispered Dexter’s stark accent, which disturbed me from my reading. I am almost glad that it did, for the other two entries which followed the account of the ritual on November 2nd would surely be far less pleasant than I deeply feared. He stood at an extra desk, which was on the opposite side of the room to me. It was covered with a long white cloth, beneath which were the disinfected metallic curves and protrusions familiar to any medical student or coroner. <br /><br />Dexter Irwin pulled the fabric back and revealed a face I had seen just recently. It was in the local newspaper a few days past, one George Thurman, a retired blue-collar professional who had died in a hospital some days ago. I had read his inconsequential name with usual remote neutrality, as I did with most of the obituary records, but I remembered his picture well. It was a photograph displaying the man in the latter stages of his life, bearing a gentle smile and vibrant eyes. Now laid out the victim of a stroke upon a scientist’s table. Dexter explained that his “subject” (as he so sickeningly described it) had been covertly retrieved from a nearby cemetery the night before, and had been unceremoniously hauled back here to his laboratory with neither consent nor hindrance. <br /><br />My stillness was powerfully mysterious and inexplicable, yet grim silence it was all that came from me. Perhaps I was shocked by his grandfather’s accounts, or maybe I was appalled at the way in which Dexter Irwin so fervently illustrated his ideas and tactics for his latest subject, or even as it has faintly crossed my mind recently as I have been hiding so fixedly within my thoughts, my silence was due to a morbid interest and stupefaction in this student’s supplementary learning. Of what it was that kept me quiet, I cannot or dare not say. But silent I was, even so. <br /><br />Dexter commenced in applying liquids and viscous gels to the body of George Thurman, energetically smearing them with a heinous exuberance. He placed on the body, some strange utensils of which their sinister function was just as foreign to me as their shape and design. He bade me watch closely while he “defended his Father's honor” by completing the studies of which Hershel Irwin so ardently loved and pursued until that fateful night when God's own thunderbolt brought his diabolical research to an immediate and terminal disruption.” Having been previously banefully fixated upon the letters and memoirs of the late Dr. Irwin, I had just then noticed the antiseptic luminance of the room retract and fade and that there were a selection of levers, pedals and switches nearby. Dexter had quietly stridden purposefully over to these protrusions and was now initiating a service, which had become so systematic and encoded upon his brain that no dim or no light could ever befall him as an obstacle. He was ceremonious in methodically pulling, pushing and twisting at the machine as if he conducted an invisible archaic orchestra the likes of which were just as unfamiliar yet anomalous as his practice. <br /><br />Then the voltage deprived muted light from the single bulb dimmed even further. It flickered violently as strange electricity surged powerful throughout the dank cellar. The ozone blue of the voltage that flowed through odd equipment illuminated Dexter maniacally beneath his fingers and toward the contraptions he had placed upon the specimen which he so treasured. It lasted only a short moment and then the pandemonium turned to quiet. The hushed echo of my accelerated heartbeat hammered a deafening rage at my ribcage, and threatened to burst out pitilessly from witnessing this following scene. <br /><br />The deceased body of George Thurman twitched and thrashed fanatically, grasping at something unseen in the air. His vivid blue eyes snapped suddenly open, as if he had never died. They bore a knowledge of which I fervently wished to have no part, and I fled the house of the mad scientist Dexter Irwin, replaying the sight of the demented scholar clutching his reanimated cadaver by the dirty and sullied collar, shaking it fiercely and yelling, “Tell me what you saw! Tell me what lies beyond death!”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-14116268864929339812007-05-31T21:36:00.000-07:002007-06-15T00:51:45.991-07:00Coming Out of the ClosetLying beside Jimmy in bed, Betty couldn’t help but feel there was still something amiss in the small house where they resided. She had checked the locks twice on the doors, made sure the stove was off, and that the small space heaters they used were away from anything that might catch fire. Glancing up she could see the gentle line of light the soft muted bathroom bulbs cast out into the room, even though Jimmy told her she was silly and wasteful for leaving them on.<br /><br />He always said things like that to her, that she was being silly, or wasting power, or that she was just being irrational. Jimmy always callously scolded her, telling her that there was nothing to be afraid of in the dark, no boogey man was going to jump out and get her. The truth is he just did not understand her fear, that was what it really boiled down to.<br /><br />Then something caught her attention, a small part of a jacket cuff stuck out from the closet’s double doors. Black and curved slightly, it looked too much like the silhouette of sinister gloved fingers to Betty. With a slight shiver of fear, Betty lifted to her knees on the bed, stretched across the dark gap between her and the jacket, opened the closet doors slightly and shoved the coat’s cuff back into the darkness. As she shut the closet doors securely, and settled down again, Betty realized that Jimmy had been watching her with interest the entire time, building a feeling of dread that sank with lead like weight in the pit of her stomach.<br /><br />“What was that all about Betty? Afraid the boogey man was trying to slip out with the lights on now?” Jimmy asked, in the ever mocking tone he always used when getting ready to let loose a string of insults at Betty. His brow lifted slightly in sick curiosity.<br /><br />“No Jimmy, don’t be so mean about it. It’s just that…” Betty hesitated for a moment, her cheeks flushed with color, feeling the heat rise sharply in her face,” It’s just that I was worried about seeing that in the middle of the night, if I wake up from one of my nightmares, and mistake it for a gloved hand because of my narcolepsy…” Pausing a moment, Betty chewed her lip, thinking desperately of something to say that might cut him off right there so that they wouldn’t end up in a debate about her condition as well as her fears. Finally she whispered softly,” I’m not being irrational Jimmy. I think I was using very lucid prudence on my part because of my...”<br /><br />“Whatever baby, why don’t you just admit you were afraid it was the boogey man, hmm?” Jimmy stated more than asked this as he leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek, but not giving her the time to make a rebuttal, “You need to chill girl. Anyways, are you ready for me to turn the light off yet?” All of this was said with a cruel kind of amusement hanging in his voice, bringing the familiar sting of tears to Betty’s eyes, but somehow she kept them from falling.<br /><br />“Yeah, good night Jimmy, see you in the morning.” She murmured lightly, turning to her side to face away from him, while he clicked off the light filling the room with deep shadows of darkness, the only light left within the small house approached from the bathroom, with it’s door mostly closed like a calm beacon of sanity in the otherwise chilling insane asylum of fear that plagued the uncomfortable nighttime for Betty.<br /><br />“Good night babe, sweet dreams, and don’t let the boogey man get you.” Jimmy said against Betty’s shoulder as he rolled to his side, her back to him, knowing good and well that she was mad, but that didn’t stop him from throwing his arm over her and squeezing for a moment before he simply let it rest there. It wasn’t long before Jimmy was harshly snoring disagreeably against the back curve of Betty’s ear.<br /><br />With the sound of Jimmy’s snoring, and the unease Betty felt being in the dark, even if she did have a bit of light, it was still unnerving to her none-the-less. She couldn’t really explain her fears to anyone, even though she had tried numerous times, but it always ended the same with people telling her she was being silly or irrational and that there was nothing to be afraid of.After a while though, despite fears pungent charge of adrenaline, Betty drifted off into a deep sleep, which came upon her suddenly just as it did most nights. This was simply the way things were for her since the narcolepsy that haunted her had become considerably worse. Of course the medicine helped keep her alert throughout the daylight hours, but the doctors felt she needed no medicine at night because that would make her unable to sleep at all.<br /><br />Some time later, well into that dark hour that is legally set aside for driving broomsticks across the portentous sky and for experiencing frightfully realistic nightmares, Betty awoke from her comatose sleep with a scream caught in her throat. The dreams always seemed so real, and they were never good, ever. Looking around the darkened room wildly, Betty’s feral gaze darted towards the barely visible set of folding closet doors. That was when she saw the shadowy hand coming out trying to pry the doors open from the inside. The awful sight Betty beheld forcefully dislodged the scream in her throat and expelled it up to her lips and beyond in a high blood curdling pitch.<br /><br />Even as Jimmy woke with a start, wondering what in hell was happening, Betty was scrambling over him, still screaming wildly, before she flopped to the floor on his side of the bed, trembling and pointing at the closet with one frantically swaying hand. It was in that moment that Jimmy’s sleep hazed mind registered what was going on, and he couldn’t repress the sardonic smile that crossed his lips as his gaze landed upon the small bit of winter coat sticking out between the double-doors of the closet. Jimmy saw his chance right then and there to teach Betty a lesson about being afraid of anything and everything.<br /><br />Throwing back the covers, Jimmy climbed out of bed, gripping Betty’s shoulders firmly, then giving her a good shake as he said, “Be quiet now, Betty. It’s just that damn coat you were talking about earlier, and I am going to prove it to you.” Shoving her lightly back against the wall, Jimmy made his way over to the baleful cause of all that creepy chaos even as she protested through hysterical tears against him moving towards the closet doors.<br /><br />Jimmy looked at the coat’s cuff for a moment, thinking over how he was going to teach her a lesson, before he glanced back at Betty and spoke. “Look, it’s just one of our winter coats like I said. Looks like one of mine as a matter of fact. Quit being so silly, you just had a bad dream and thought you saw something that you didn’t see at all.” Just for good measure, Jimmy gave a sharp tug at the cuff making the doors rattle slightly on their tracks.<br /><br />Betty watched him horror-struck and with a kind of shame at the same time that she had thought there was more to the cuff of that coat than there was, considering she was the one that brought it to Jimmy’s attention earlier that night. Standing to her feet, with tears slipping down over her cheeks, Betty said, “Fine, just fix it so we can go back to bed. I’m not being silly, I know what I saw, but there is no use in arguing that point with you.” She folded her arms against her chest, her heart still hammering hard, her body still trembling from adrenaline, but feeling a kind of hot indignation that the man she loved did not believe her, or even respect her enough not to make fun of her.<br /><br />Jimmy rolled his eyes, and opened one of the folding doors that led into the closet making as if to push the coat back into the darkness there. But instead of just doing that, he pretended to be pulled inside, making his body lurch halfway into the closet as he began to scream, “Oh, my God! It’s got me Betty! Help me, please help me!” He would have made a pretty good actor, he thought to himself as he continued to pretend to struggle against the mischievously imagined boogey man.<br /><br />Betty shrieked in the same moment that Jimmy lurched forward, paralyzed by her fear, and then there was nothing for her but deep blackness. It took a moment for Betty to fall, but when she did, there was a resounding thump against the hard oak panel that ran along the side of the old antique bed, that thump held within it an almost inaudible cracking sound, a sickening sound if one were paying close attention. Caught by such a high emotion of fear, Betty was pulled into a narcoleptic episode of cataplexy, and in doing so she missed most of Jimmy’s little act by sliding limp fully onto the floor.Jimmy heard the thump, and just missed the whisper of something mildly approximating the sound of bone cracking, an so thought to himself Betty was just backing into the wall in her own ersonal terror. But when he looked around for her, ending his charade in a spew of guttural laughter, Jimmy knew that the lesson he had been trying to teach her, had went unlearned. He could just barely see her prone figure down on the floor, and from the twisted sprawl she seemed to be in, he didn’t figure she was simply hiding from the boogeyman.<br /><br />For some reason unknown to him, the sight of her lying there, missing his self proclaimed clever lesson, was infuriating to Jimmy. He stormed around the bed, and yanked Betty’s limp form up off the floor, shaking her lightly, “What the hell is wrong with you woman? There aint nothing to be afraid of.” But even as Jimmy said this, and Betty started to slowly come around, he noticed the small trickle of blood near her hairline. For a moment it seemed his temper might mellow, but the sight of the tiny crimson rivulet trailing down over her eyebrow only made his rage turn into a sharper anger, his voice become deep and dangerous, “You stupid girl, you are such a baby. I was playing with you, teaching you a lesson and you decided to go to sleep on me. What kind of respect is that?” Jimmy said, glaring at Betty.<br /><br />Betty had not only suffered a terrible fright, but also the torments of her cataplexy left her spent and trembling, fat tears welled up in her now blood shot eyes. Her voice was soft, quivering with the taste of panicked tears, but she spoke nonetheless, “Jimmy, let me go, you’re hurting me, what you did was just cruel and mean spirited, you don’t deserve no respect for that.” She could see the muscles working in Jimmy’s jaw, and with fore knowledge of what was coming; she grimaced, pinched her eyes shut and flinched.<br /><br />About the time she flinched, the impact of Jimmy’s fist caught the left side of her jaw, causing her to bite her tongue causing it to bleed. Betty felt her lip split wide as her teeth dug in deep from the second blow that fell just under her chin. Her face was already swelling. She could feel it, growing larger and malformed by the tick of every new second, and then he shoved her backward onto the bed. Jimmy stormed off toward the living room then, just as he always did when he lost his temper. Betty knew the morning would bring apologies and showers of affection she didn’t want. But that didn’t matter now, because silence had blanketed the room once more, and she was so tired, so very tired of everything. Betty meekly pulled the covers up over her small frame, curled herself into a fetal position and after a while, she fell back into a dreamless sleep.<br /><br />As always the next morning brought exactly what she knew it would. Jimmy served her burnt toast and instant coffee in bed, along with a blood red rose blackend with decomposing wilt around the edges meant to be an apology, he also brought coffee and the local paper for himself. She did love the man, but she was getting terribly tired of all the crap he dished out to her. Saying nothing to him, barely offering up a false smile, Betty ate her breakfast, and then went about the day trying futiley to hide herself and hide her cuts and bruises while Jimmy pretended with practiced ignorance that nothing had happened the night before.<br /><br />And so this went on as it had in the past, nearly every night for another two weeks though he only hit her on one other occasion. Betty thought he was afraid of striker her now, because she had never really accepted his apologies the first day after he had begun to torment her with the closet, but she couldn’t be sure. It didn’t change his sick sense of humor though, for nearly every night when she woke up distressed by the gloved hand coming out of the closet, Jimmy would in turn terrify her beyond all reason with his wicked humorless antics.<br /><br />She still suffered from dour fits of narcolepsy setoff every time Jimmy played his vicious tricks on her emotionally stressed mind. Although in truth, Betty was actually growing accustomed to this nightly ritual as if maybe, just maybe Jimmy’s cruel intentions were not as malicious as she first thought. She noticed that she was able to stay conscious and in control of her body longer each time he pretended to be grabbed by the gloved hand, and she would simply back up against the wall for support as she watched her husband be grotesque. There were even nights when she wished the hand within the glove were real, that it would cease Jimmy’s constant laughter and mocking. It was a terrible thing to wish upon the man she loved, but then again, she couldn’t actually remember why she loved him anymore.<br /><br />After enduring over two weeks of his sickly torment, Betty settled down into bed glad that it was once more Sunday night and she would have the house to herself the following day while Jimmy went to work. The weekend had been long and hard, she had been forced to dwell within the house with his sour scent and ambivolent attitude each day after another night of his disgusting little tricks, and she was sick to death of even looking at him.<br /><br />After they both put their books down for the night, and Jimmy switched off the lamp on his dresser, they lay there in the silentdarkness for a few moments. But of course Jimmy wouldn’t let the peace last, and he curled up behind her, throwing his arm over an unwelcoming shoulder and whispered softly against the shell of her ear, “Night Baby, don’t let the boogey man get you.”<br /><br />Betty shoved Jimmy’s arm off of her, and with venom in her voice that had never been there before, she turned on him and said, “You sick bastard, just shut up for once.” Then she simply rolled over and waited for the blows to begin. And waited. But they never came; Jimmy was far too shocked by Betty’s outburst to do anything about it, which suited her just fine.<br /><br />In the stillness Betty watched the tranquil light filter from the bathroom into the bedroom to mingle among the shadows as she wished for someone elses life, and in exchange for the absense of granted wishes she eventually drifted off into sleep. Before she had lost all conscious thought, Betty heard a small voice, her own voice in the back of her mind whisper, “Things are going to be good tonight. I think I’ll actually get a good night’s rest.” It was a novel thought, but it of course didn’t happen.<br /><br />Not long after midnight, that darkest moment found in virtualy every sinister tale, Betty woke once more from a fit of nightmarish images, her gasping lungs pushing out the screams that fell from her lips. She tried not to panic when she looked up at the closet doors, with its gloved hand creeping out, but she lost the battle, and clamored over Jimmy once more, falling into the floor on his side of the bed.<br /><br />If Betty’s screams did not wake Jimmy, then her bouncing over him most certainly did as she slammed onto the floor like a terrified child when she lost her fight for balance at the edge of the bed. Her actions only pissed him off and throwing the covers back, Jimmy climbed out of bed with small jerky movements and stormed over to the closet. With his hand on one of the closet doorknobs, he turned, glowering at Betty and said, “There is nothing in here you big baby, and this time I am going to show you once and for all. Even if it takes all night to convince you there’s nothing there, and that you are crazy as hell.”<br /><br />All Betty could do was shake her head back and forth, as she scooted on her bottom in reverse to press her backside hard against the bedroom wall. There was something in there, and no amount of useless attempts to convince her otherwise was going to change her mind. No matter how hard Jimmy tried, or how hard he beat her, she just knew there was something waiting in the closet, lurking in the dark, and hungry. She could sense it, even though it was apparent that Jimmy could not. Betty wasn’t quite sure why the thing in the closet hadn’t made a midnight snack out of her husband in all these days, but she knew Jimmy couldn’t cry wolf forever. One day he would see it, but then it would be too late, wouldn’t it?<br /><br />Jimmy turned from her then, and yanking the closet doors open, he stepped inside. “See there is nothing in here.” He said as he turned around in the gloom of the closet with the clothes straining away from him on either side trying to avoid him as he glared out at Betty across the room. “It was just a stupid coat sleeve again, like it has been every….” Jimmy didn’t finish his sentence, and at first Betty wasn’t sure exactly why. But then she heard a strange unfamiliar strangling sound, and squinting her eyes to penetrate the deep blackness of the closet she suddenly understood. Her wish had actually become reality as horrifying as any curse come true, and as disgusting as it was for her to even think those kinds of things happening to another soul, even one that was as mean as the man’s that she loved. All she could do was sit as she trembled and gasped for breath, struggling to keep herself conscious while trying to melt into the wall behind her and watch.<br /><br />Betty watched the black-gloved hand as it wound its way further around Jimmy’s neck. It seemed to be trying to pop his head off like a unwelcome pimple while her man struggled and kicked trying to free himself. But all of the thrashing and kicking in the world wasn’t going to save him now, and Betty felt this deep within her bones even if she didn’t want to know it. Plumes of cold breath and fetid low gasps caressed Jimmy’s cheek, the stench making his stomach roil and protest, threatening to give up all that he had eaten for his gluttonous last supper. There was a rasping sound in those breaths, and Jimmy wasn’t sure he wanted to know exactly what they came from, but he struggled all the same trying to free himself, and escape his ethereal opponent.<br /><br />But once his gaze landed upon the thing that was succeeding at making each breath a challenge, Jimmy wished he would never have known what actually held him. Jimmy tried to form a scream equal to his terror, but only a pitiful choking whimper crossed his lips, as he was unable to look away from the appalling sight before him. Dead yellow eyes stared back at him, rolling and undulating in their deep sockets. He was afraid they might fall out at any moment, fall out into his gaping mouth. Those eyes were terrible enough, but what housed them was by far much worse. What should have been the skin of a homicidal maniac or psychopath serial killer looked unbelievably like scaly, wrinkled elephant’s hide to the horrified Jimmy. Adding to that the things face seemed to be melting without falling away. It would melt down, sickening strings of waxy-leathered scales stretching and dangling precariously before making an upward trek back towards its origin, still seeming to be melting only in an upward motion this time. Again and again the face did this while those yellow eyes rolled on. And then the thing opened its maw, making the scene all the more terrible for it. Razor sharp teeth, more fangs than teeth really, glittered in the dim, futile light the bathroom provided reflecting tight spiky rows of glossy white enamaled bone. Jimmy tried to scream but was ineffectual in his effort. Betty’s voice, on the other hand, high pitched in the throws of her own terror succeeded where his failed. He could hear her screaming something incoherent for a moment, and then there was only blackness as the thing holding him captive in the closet lowered its horrible, stinking mouth over his face, making Jimmy a midnight snack with inhuman finality.<br /><br />Betty continued to scream, but even over her own voice she could hear the sounds of dinner for one being served in her closet among her dresses, skirts, capris , Goucho pants and practical shoes. A sickening resonance of popping wet and grinding noises accented the putrid smell of graveyard breath and death’s release, or more correctly Jimmy’s release to death that filled the gloom saturated room. It was over within minutes or maybe moments but it felt like hours to the woman cowering against the wall, looking on at the horrors she had vainly attempted to warn her lover about.<br /><br />When the creature in the closet was finished eating it stepped out into the dim light spreading from the bathroom. It stood on her side of the bed and watched Betty closely with those rolling yellow eyes. Betty’s breath caught, and she found she could no longer scream even if she wanted to. The creature or apparition stood unnaturally on two hind legs with backward jointed knee sockets and straggly tufts of hair growth scattered sparsely about the lower half of the ophidian body. It seemed to say something, but all that came out was a rasping belch of sounds and then it hobbled casually down the hallway as if it had always lived there with them, and easily knew the way to the front door.<br /><br />Betty sat there listening to the drag, scrape, thump of the things departure, the sound of locks being thrown back, and a door opening. Holding her breath, she waited for the thing to come back for her, but it did not. The boogey man even closed the door behind itself as if to say, “I do have manners ma’am, and I know how to use them. Thank you most kindly for the snack.” And then there was nothing. Just a complete and heavy silence that filled up the entire house, filled up Betty’s heart.<br /><br />After a long while, Betty worked up the nerve to stand and peek over the side of the bed into the closet, but there was nothing left to see. Betty was sure that she had heard the squelching sounds of blood gushing from Jimmy earlier, but there was no evidence to be found. She even turned on the light to make sure, but the closet was just as it had been that morning when she had retrieved her dress for church.Looking down into the monster-free, currently undisturbed closet, Betty said to herself, “Serves you right Jimmy, and you thought I was crazy. Goes to show what you know don’t it?” The smile that had been playing at the corner of Betty’s lips was full now, her eyes dancing with the jubilant autonomy that freedoms new realization always brings with it and she flicked off the light. Going to the back door, Betty bolted it once more without even looking out into the night to see if the boogey man was there, lurking in the darkness, waiting for her. She was pretty sure it had gotten what it wanted, and would leave her to peace now.<br /><br />Going back to the bedroom, Betty slowly looked around one more time, with that crazy sweet smile on her face, before she climbed into bed, pulling the covers up around her neck, murmuring softly at nothing, and no one anymore, “Good night Jimmy, where ever you are.” It was no time at all before Betty drifted off into sleep. A peaceful, calm sleep of innocence, somehow knowing never more would dark nightmares torment her.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-343119606752789504.post-36732060078251174242007-05-29T04:26:00.000-07:002007-05-29T04:49:24.905-07:00A Letter To A FriendO.M.G. What is the penalty for hit and run? You can imagine how I felt after this dream I had about Harry Dresden racing down an old dusty dirt road, which for some reason seemed to be in Iowa. Harry was being chased by the Lord of Thorns, an enormous centaur like creature from a Simon R. Green book that seemed to be something like Cenarius of WoW druid lore. Well in the book Hex and the City, the Lord of Thorns lived in a box and looked like an angst ridden teenage Bromley Contingent from south London with a full rack of antlers sprouting from his head, but in my dream is it any surprise that it would take on a WoW hue and flavor?. A massive Cerynian Hind was charging and bashing his little V.W. relentlessly when I woke in a cold sweat. Unsettled, I grabbed my keys and drove down to the local Slurpy-mart for a fountain soda pop and a (shh…) discretionary Klondike bar.<br /><br />As I drove back home looking at the tunnel of black that ate away at my night vision, I thought of you driving alone when a deer leaped out at your car, when a deer leaped out and struck the hindquarter of my truck. You know the drill, my heart leapt to my throat closing off any breath, and panic filled my mind as guilt flooded my conscience and I slowly turned my vehicle around in the street to go back to the scene. There lay a hapless little doe and I felt like crying for the poor critter, but against my instinct to rush out to see if it was ok, I stayed in my truck and drove home. Call me a coward, call me cautious, but I’ve seen the “When Deer Attack” video commercials, so I remained inside my truck until I got home. I ran my hand over the slight indentation that marked yet another scar of experience on my GMC, and pulled the little tufts of hair from the back wheel well where they clung to the rim like a cutaway from a CSI trailer and I wondered if I shouldn’t be wearing plastic gloves and using evidence bags.<br /><br />I came into the house and went directly to the phone book to look up animal control. At three A.M. I didn’t really want to misdial some poor hard working slob trying to sleep who may just remember *69 in the light of day and turn all Stephen King on my butt by, I don’t know, passing on a family curse or psychically stalking me in my nightmares or something really bad. So I looked up the number and dialed it. Big surprise the office was closed and a pleasant recording gave me another number to call. Now as I was going through this diligent process I became aware that my two kitties had joined forces to circle me slowly in a stalking formation and I really wished I hadn’t brought Stephen King to mind at this wee hour of the morning when everything is so eerily quiet and nasty things seem to happen in his books. But I realized that I had inadvertently marked my self with the scent of an injured animal (I guess I really should have considered plastic gloves) and my cats were reverting to their base natures, Chaos always hungry and Nutmeg half wild as she is, seemed to like me now but maybe not in such a kind way. I dialed rapidly hoping to complete my task at hand and reach the showers before something distasteful occurred within the confines of my house. The new number was the local police department and after wading thru a series of recordings that kept insisting I call 911, but only if I have an emergency, I was connected to dispatch. I confessed my tragic tale and prayed I didn’t violate any public ordinances only to realize from the direction the interrogation was taking it was becoming more and more unlikely. She asked me if I was certain it was a deer and not a large dog, and I explained that although old and addled, I still could delineate between Fido and Bambi and that yea, although it was small, a doe a deer a female deer, it was in the middle of the road and very much a hazard.<br /><br />She acknowledged and accepted my expertise and informed me that if that was the case I had the wrong number, she only had the capacity to take reports on domestic animals and serious crimes like burglary or rape, and that I would need to contact the Sheriff’s Department. I considered asking her what if the deer raped me and stole a hubcap, but quietly and submissively thanked the kind lady for her time and left her to her crossword puzzles.<br /><br />The Sheriff’s office was not the right people to contact either, but more helpful when the late night dispatcher began a thoughtful and thorough investigation into the proper channels for such a report and promised she would take care of the details for me and that I could rest assured that the county was in good hands and that I could relax with her on the job. I felt surrounded by a sense of security as I fended off my kitties with my cane and I heard the dispatcher shout into the background, “Hey Hank, what’s the number to animal control?” as I hung up the phone.<br /><br />The weird thing was the impending sense of the incident I had starting the moment I woke from my dream about deer people attacking a Volkswagon, which brought to mind your several encounters with stray deer just as a deer leaped out at me. The fact that the deer struck me didn’t strike me with shock, I almost expected it, the fright came from my anticipation. I always get the willies when I know what is going to happen before it does. I feel bad for the deer, but I feel worse in that I wonder could I have saved the deer’s life if I only could give credence to prescience? For all that I love to read about it I guess when it comes right down to it I really don’t believe in signs or portents. Someone once told me denial isn’t just a river of regret any more... <em>Don't ask, it's 4 A.M. I didn't understand when I heard it before, and I'm not sure what I mean by it now.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2