119 Little Lion Man

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“Even the smallest person can change the course of the future.” --- J. R. R. Tolkien.

BEFORE PILLOW TIME

When you are in Clovis, which is snuggled in the wealthy northeast offskirts of Fuckno, you have four options if you want to leave, which are these:


You can head west, and then drive along the northern part of Fuckno, through streets that lead to the pre-planned, gated communities of the isolated rich folks.

You can head north or east, and either way, you will be traveling toward the desert’s dusty dunes.

You can head south and by-pass most of Fuckno’s sordid filth and despair by skirting its dirty petticoat, ending up in the “Sunnyside” lower east section, where old money has always lived, perhaps always will. They do not gate themselves in. They invented the Neighborhood Watch Program. They will know your shit.

Or, you can remain in Clovis, and make a nice life for yourself serving the wealthy folks who have a good life style and they frown down upon Fuckno with accurate but not arrogant smugness.

They are correct.

I opted to head south. One day soon, my friend Joey, the Little Lion Man, would live there in Sunnyside. His mom was currently being courted by a good business man who owned a chimney-cleaning service, and once they married, she would work his books, while he amassed an empire of clients who needed to have their fireplaces cleaned each year, in the fucking desert.

Wait, fireplaces in the desert?

Who would need that?

Why, rich people who had the air conditioning running all the time, and they lit up their fireplaces to illustrate their wealth at their dinner parties and such.

They had money to burn, so to speak. The Reaganomics of the 80’s was trickling down to the chimney sweeps, in the dusty bowl of Fuckno, Califorthemuckymucks. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Never the two shall meet.


My intention was to avoid angry drivers by heading south, and then take a stab at the heart of Fuckno, where Joey lived in a small apartment with his sisters and mom, on Belmont Avenue.

During the past summer, he and me and Katheena, (when she was my lady), well, we would hang poolside with ice cold brewskies and bask in the golden warmth of the only thing that has ever held any meaning or significance for me in that high desert valley hell hole.

The Sun.


Like you, I am affected by the Sun. Grey clouds hanging overhead for more than two days in a row will make me ugly.

Well, more ugly than I am, that is.

+++++++++++++++++++++

Joey’s face smiled when he opened the door; me standing under his outside light.

“Weeee-ill. You look like you been to the---“

“Joseph, can I get a drink of water?”


You must always properly hydrate yourself in the desert. You can drown in the dust.

He pulled me in, patting my dusty back.


+++++++++++++++++++++


We sat poolside in lounge chairs, with glasses of Pepsi and ice, and he shook his head.

“Dude. Why did you do that to all their food?”

“I dunno, man. I don’t know what the fuck is going on with me.”

It was true, but Joey had a clue.


“I been missing Nolei. You missing Lorelei. No doubt.”


I stared at the green lights under the pool water, which refracted up and out on our faces with liquid black lines that wavered across.

“Fuck.” I sipped from my glass. I looked up into the night sky, and although the light pollution from the city occluded my view of the stars above, I searched for a jet stream, something to show me that the sky was full of people who would not crash, who would not be lost, who would go on with their lives in an eastern land where it snowed.

There was hope in the east. Sometimes, people will land on their feet.


Joey set his glass down and stood up. “Weeeee-ill. Let’s go see Katheena. She knows something about this.”


Damn. Such a long-assed day already, and I was beaten down like a dog in the dirt. All dusty, tear-streaked face and all.

“No. Not tonight. I need to get me some pillow time.”

Joey shrugged. “OK, man. But tomorrow. We will go check her out tomorrow.”


I didn’t know why it was so important for him to see that bitch right then.

But I would. You will too. Next time.

You have forgotten that Katheena and Lorelei talked with each other, as women often do. Even women who may have first been at odds.

I’ll never pretend to understand how their brains operate.


Nope.


But sometimes, I’m thankful that they do not think in the manner that I do.


Sometimes, they may have some answers.


Huh.


+++++++++++++++++=

.

118

Dust rained down over me.


My little rocket ship rumbled quietly in the desert sand of the Sans Joking River Valley, where Fuckno, Califuckthisshit slowly crept northward into more farmland to steal from the production of food, leaving a trail of slime and waste in its wake.


Give it a wake, give it a funeral. It was time to get the fuck out.


I opened my car door in the early night, and stepped out to survey the damage.


No one was there. I had ended up swirling and skidding into a desert sand dune bass-ackwards in my panic, when I’d sure as shit seen Lorelei standing in my way in the middle of the road.




Her wheels were dug in pretty deep, buried in dirt. It took some scooping by hand to make a path for her treads, and this was much easier and warmer than in snow in a north-eastern land, far away, where I wanted to go.

What the fuck was happening to me?


Seeing ghosts and crashing my Celica while I was running away from a bad situation, man, that chust did not add up. I didn’t think that I was going crazy or anything, but then again, that is what any crazy fool will tell himself or anyone within earshot.



I rocked her back and forth with her easy stick shift like a good driver, and when it felt right, I chugged her forward. She made it up over the hump, and we were on the road again like we had planned it that way all along.



Evidently, I had driven out into the offskirts of Clovis in my blind fear, my escape mode. And now I had to figure out which way was home. Luckily, none of the drivers I’d pissed off driving through red lights moments before had followed me with road rage.



Cursive writing in black rubber scrawled my panicked path upon the sun bleached tar, in the twilight of that late fall night. I could see from which direction I had come, and I wanted to avoid those whom I’d caused to panic as well. I went south, instead of heading back west.


Anything to avoid the west.


Anything to get the fuck out of Fuckno.


++++++++++++++++++++


The bed I’d saved up for and bought months ago held cold comfort to me, all freshly showered and sparkly clean.


The water ran red with desert ochre and other rusted metals from the dust I’d accumulated during one hell of a long day.


I stared up at the ceiling, listening to HGTTG on public radio. Arthur Dent made awesome sammiches for the Golgafrincham to celebrate.


That would be cool, to drink beer to soften the blow of teleporting to a spaceship, to escape the destruction of the Earth.


New worlds awaited. I would grab my towel and wear my bathrobe forever after like a starlit Hugh Heffner.


Instead, I sank into a deep slumber, like a pebble drifting down in a jar of honey.


I did not awake until the morning sun had passed from peeking into my window.


It shined down outside from directly overhead, and the whole place was silent. A note on the counter read that my mom had taken my little sisters to the mall for some winter clothes.


This was how I would awaken each day, after my mom would finally bail out of Fuckno, with my sisters in tow. I never left Fuckno, you see, until much later.


Oddly enough, I felt quite all right. This is how it was in the morning for me back then. The troubles of the previous day slept soundly while I awakened in amnesiatic bliss, for a few minutes at least.

The sun shined on the back patio and beckoned me to come outside, coffee mug in hand, to partake of one of the only things that California would always use to bring a smile to my face.



Unlimited warmth.



You will see what I mean tomorrow, my friend.




LINKS.




Cartoon about House, for your Sunday pleasure.



Playing a piano with your friend Dick.





Speaking of raging dicks, Rage comic Collection, for \b\ dude Jambo.


Speaking of \b\ Wikileaks dude: Hero or not?




Speaking of massive dicks, now the U.S. wants to follow China with internet censorship?



Bizarre Signs site. Start off with Dream Boyfriend. Huh.




Cheesy space pic compilation. But me likey space. Sorry.




Cool cave pics. Reed Flute style, yo.



Interesting read, below the cartoon. You may not like this. It’s odd.





Don’t land on your face. Someone may put a win foot on your back.



Or, you may win in another way. Confessions of a welfare recipient.




God Help You.

God Help Us All.


---willies out.









OK, one more for ya.


Some Memorial Day BBQ recipes from them gawd damned Canucks up north of us.








.

117

Well hey there my friend. Get all packed up for our ride. Don't forget your towel.

The streetlights lights flashed by at an amazing speed, blurry in the rain. Light can not deal with refraction very well, and I was refracted. It was not raining outside, you see.

What the Hell had happened in the desert?

Why the fuck did I say all those mean things and then done that to the food?

What was I running from?


++++++++++++++++++++++++


Cars entered each intersection as I blasted through under the red lights, and they screeched to a halt, blaring their horns at me as lights bleared through the window screen in front of my wet face.

A fraught, red-lit face baring red-lit teeth leered back at me from the windshield mirror I leaned forward into with white knuckles gripping the steering wheel that held no air bag, no form of protection, no safe haven from harm...

...I was completely in escape mode.


In the back of my mind I knew that I was not treating my little Celica all that well, but at least she did not complain to me. She was True to me.


Even if I wasn’t true to her. She would die from my anger and my bravado, in a chapter to follow soon.

Neither of we travelers knew what the future held for us.


At that moment, she was all I needed. She did not let me down. It was two against one. She was always that way.

I had built her to be that way, if you recall.




You can escape from a bad situation in your rocket ship, unless it is you who is the bad situation.


You may not find a mental escape.


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

As the lights bleared in my eyes, a sole figure appeared before me, off in the distance.

A ghost, a memory, a lost soul in the desert of the Sans Joking River Valley…


In this dust bowl of Hell.

From a watery grave.


I swung to the left and my little bitch lost her footing. I had lost my footing earlier, but I chust didn’t know it yet.

More cars blatted their horns of various musical accompaniment as I headed to a crash, and I responded with a scream into the general direction of my skid.

This is what you must do when you are losing control.

You peer into the face of the deep chasm, and the chasm looks deep into you.

If you scream, it might save you.



It’s a sort of therapy, when you think that all is lost, and you will die.


I was out of control.


And I was an asshole, lest you forget.


I was a creep.

I didn’t give a fuck about Katheena anymore; that awesome, beautiful young lady who would eventually hold more than her weight in mettle, as you will see in a further chapter.


I’d lost control of the Swallower Shituation, and that could have been a true connection to physical happiness for quite a while, perhaps a lifetime? Who knows how long the physical aspect can hold together that which has not much else to contribute to anything at all?


I’d also lost control of playing a violin, when I didn’t have all that much play, and she held all of the strings. I was running from her.


Why?


I was truly out of control.

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

You see, there are exceptional moments in your life when you can look back, if you are fortunate to have survived, and you might see the fork in the road.


Which path would you take?

The road less traveled?


Or are you a tourist? Just looking for the next Mickey D in a land where they have invented and perfected the flavor of life?


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


My Celica swung around and around while I dug hard on the brake pedal.

It’s all you can do when you are out of control. You panic.


Do Not Panic.


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



Lorelei was the One.


I should never had let her slip my grasp.


All of the memories and ghosts of the past may never leave you to rest in peace.


You may find yourself wondering how you could have done things better, how you could have changed things, if you could go back in time, at an escape velocity of 88 MPH, if only you knew how to construct such a device.

But there exists nothing like that at all.



So what does a young punk do?



A young punk will face his demons.


A young punk will consider Punkology.





This is the point where we begin to see it all come together.







Tomorrow.






Thank you for following me along this sordid path all this time, my faithful friend. There is Redemption at the end of this long, true tale, in a way that you can not imagine.



You will see.



Promise.






LINKS


Hug a freedom warrior, if you could, for what they do.



Someday, I will rock you, like a Daft Punk Cover, on guitar, baby.





Simple ideas that make sense.






Pyromaniac skillz?



RCjet




Makes me hungry.



More food here.



Don’t be an asshole, Anon. There is good that you can do, /b/




Like, make some good artwork for a record album?





Or, why not a private spaceship?



Think about Dark Matter. Hmmmm…






Also, for we nerds, Gandalf talks about filming The Hobbit.






God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.





OK, One More For Ya.


Don’t be stooopid.

“I have black friends on my flag football team, send in the white women to fix that.”

WTF?

.

116

I had lost my innocence. This was in no cense.

Censeless, so to speak...


Huh.

“There is only so much that shit thou canst take.” ---Shakespeare, ca. 1609, The Folios

This lamb for the slaughter would not be the scapegoat to this party of laughter.

Here's a find from my son Gabe.

I stood up and looked around at everyone, and they stopped what they were saying to each other and looked back at me. I hadn’t known it, but they’d been only ribbing me earlier, and then turned back to their own topics of discussion or amusement when I sat down.


I should have remained cool, shrugged it off, and then after I finished my plate and had a belly full of ribs I would probably have been introduced by Glinda to them one at a time and found more ribbing, but a gentle sort, as large, gregarious sorts of families often do to each other.


I could have told them about my own tribe, about growing up witnessing the oppression of my own people, that sort of stuff. We had some things in common.

But I didn’t wait until later to do this.



You know that it is human behavior to be self conscious when you regard yourself as “the other,” or, “the outsider.” Just as when folks speaking a language that you do not speak begin to laugh, you always think they are laughing at you. Correct as that may be, this curious trait of human behavior also occurs when you can not quite make out what others nearby are saying to each other.

Especially after they have, in fact, been laughing at you.



So I sat there, trying to enjoy the wonderful flavors each cook had put into their own dish for the family feast, but all I had going on in my head were three things, which were these:


1. They were staring at me, laughing and whispering behind my back.

2. They were bad people.

3. They were going to get me.


Of course, I was wrong on all three accounts, except for two folks. Two of Glinda’s cousins were going full steam ahead with number one up there above. They were nine and eleven years old and they thought I was cute.


I stood up and I heard folks whisper things like the following:

(Shhh, white boy gonna say something. Hold on, hold on, listen…)

(Check it out, Homeboy gonna give his oral presentation....)

(Hey, what he doing now? Ohh, he going after a second helping, but look like he gonna be sick...)

(Yeah, he making room for more chitlins first, that’s all. It’s understandable...)



I was not all that understandable. I was done being under those who were standing on top of me.

It was my turn to stand up.



It had been a weird fucking day, you know. Glinty McFlintlock seemed like the strangest person on Earth when Glinda and I’d first encountered him, but at this point in the day, he now seemed like a kindly old gent who might sit down and share a beer with me and reminisce about an old stable that hid a hearse under a rotten tarp for the last half century.

I coulda hugged ole Glinty, toothless as he was.


I was alone.

“I think I’ve had about enough of this, thank you very much.”

Glinda looked up at me and her jaw dropped. She just stared at me.

(Well, if he full, he don’t need to be telling everybody, just go lie down and take a nap…)



“I can see you staring at the white boy, and that’s cool. I kinda stick out here.”

(Well, you do now all standing up and shouting at folks…)



“But you should know something about me. I am not just a white boy.”

(Oh no. He also a white girl trapped in a white boy body…)

(I told you he the fuzz! Put that shit out!)

(Shhh!)




“My friends, I am also an Indian. Yup, I am a half breed: half white, and half red.”

(Wait, that make him pink, don’t it?)

(Oh, he about to sing “Cherokee Nation” now…)



“You missed out on getting to know me because you can’t see past your own troubles.”

(He starting to trouble me now…)

(Wilfred, sit back down. He just scared…)



“It’s time for me to go now.”

(You got that right)



“Don’t try to follow me.”

(Boy crazy)

(Did he say “Don’t follow me?”)


“I don’t have any money.”

(OK, that does it. That’s enough now)

“White boy. You done talking. Get the fuck out.”

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

Yup, I had just insulted a whole group of people with one sentence. A group of people who had shared their delicious feast with me no questions asked. They had no idea I was diddling their pretty daughter/niece/cousin/grand daughter in her twenties.


I was her good friend who had driven her to her first professional photo shoot for her port folio, in my car, and that was pretty cool. They had a congratulatory feast in her honor, which was also just an excuse to cook up an awesome dish and bring it to a cookout, like anyone ever needs an excuse to do such a thing…


But then I’d gone and stood up, acting a fool, talking about being an Indian half breed and them missing their chance getting to know a Real Indian, and don’t follow me or try to steal from me.


Yeah, it was indeed time for me to get the fuck out.



Except,



I was still scared.



So I flipped over the buffet table to distract them.


I know. That was fucked.



It also had the opposite effect. They were suddenly focused on the asshole who ruined all the good food which flew out of the containers and platters and splattered on the ground.


Glinda dragged me out to the front of the house while folks were getting up out of their seats.


“What is wrong with you?! Why did you say all those mean things and then do that to the food?!”


I was busy trying to open my locked car door. Don’t look at me that way. I lock my doors at night, and I am surrounded by my tribe, my family, up here in the woods of Maine. I’m just an asshole.


I had no response for her. Well, none that was adequate for her, that was. I jumped in and cranked my little bitch awake, and gunned the engine.



All those pissed-off people, (well, those who weren’t gently lifting the containers off the cement patio to try to save their loving creations, that was,) were too full to move all that fast, and so sadly, there is no exciting car chase and gunfire in this part of the tale I have been telling you all these years, my friend.


No, there was simply a mentally exhausted, angry, scared, lost young asshole, who had a lot to learn about other people. Measly.


I needed to learn some true manners.



That would be the next time. You will see.




LINKS


Your actions will always have repercussions. You make waves in the world. Here’s an example.









Some folks will see through your intentions. They may swear against it, quite a bit, but it might be quite honest.








But you may find yourself a good captain, as I did, long ago. She may even be capable on the water, and be able to catch fish for dinnah.






This should not make you feel small in any way.





Or you will fail. (Please turn down your sound for this very short fail. Don’t want to hurt your ears, my friend.)








So, what do you do next? You try to win. But fail again?








How about having a brewskie while you are in Space? That would be cool.



Huh.




Perhaps you may need a new perspective.





Well, not like this.



This might be cool.








What is meant here, at the Mighty TDC, is to be cool like this, for something that means quite a lot.





Ya know.







God Help You.

God Help Us All.


---willies out.














OK, two more for ya.


A musical find from my dotta, a gold heart whom me and my lady Lisa have taught to steer clear of liars and cheaters.








This next find is from my son.

Tahoo.










Be true my friend, always.






















.

115 Meet The Violin Family

“Glinny! How’s my baby dotta?! How did your photo shoot go today? Who’s this?”

“Hey momma, this here is Will. He drove me to the shoot today. Will, this is my Momma. You can call her Mrs. Fender.”



“Well hi there Will, welcome to our home. Thank you for taking my little girl to her photo shoot.”

“Hello, Mrs. Fender. Thank you for letting me into your home.”



“Quite all right, Will. You can use the washroom on the left down the hall, if you’d like to wash up a bit.”

“OK, perhaps I should. Thank you.”



“Glinny, he looks like he went to the moon and came back all dusty.”

“Momma, he can still hear you.”


++++++++++++++++++++++


Yup. I was about to meet the rest of Glinda’s family.


I looked in their hallway restroom mirror and saw that my eyes were still red. We’d stopped at a desert gas station so I could rinse out my eyes in the restroom there, and wash the dust from my face.


I would have used bottled water, of course, but that hadn’t been invented yet. Well, except for Perrier, but that was in a green glass bottle, and it was bubbly.

Can you imagine paying money for something that comes out of a tap for free?

That would be crazy, huh?




The fraught face that stared back from the mirror had a ring of mud around it. Like a kid who is dark and dirty, but tries to make himself clean. His hair was dusty, and his mouth trembled. What the fuck had happened in the desert?

Now I had to go meet the parents of a girl I was realizing at that moment… well… she considered me to be her boyfriend.

Parents.

Crazy clown devils.

Black hearses,

And dust.

The dust of centuries, of erased memories, of ghosts from the forgotten Wild West.


It was chust so sad.


I washed up and although my clothes were still quite dusty, (even though I’d shaken off outside the gas station like a dog), I thought I looked presentable.

I would turn out to be wrong.

Check it out.

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

“Will, come meet my daddy. Hey Poppa!”

“Well hey there Sunshine! Who’s this dusty white boy you done brought here into my house? “


“Poppa, this is Will. Will, this here is Mr. Fender.”

“Will, huh? Did you make out your will? Don’t go sitting on the furniture before I take you out back and hose you down!”

“Uh, hi sir. Actually, I’m half Indian.”



“Oh, that right? Mujhadeen?”

“Uh, no sir. Eastern woodland tribe. River people.”



“You should have gone to the river before you came here boy! Gone looking for a bar of soap along the bottom, amongst the rocks. Hehehe. Come on out back where all the food is.”

“Thank you Mr. Fender.”



“Sunshine, he look like he been to the ---“

“Shhh, Poppa, he had the willies earlier.”


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


The huge crowd of Glinda’s family all stopped and looked at me when I came through the rear sliding glass door. I swear, the music stopped, the laughter stopped, someone dropped a spoon that clinkered around on the cement patio, and the crickets started chirping.


I gulped and smiled, and Glinda took me by the elbow to the buffet table.


A mile of potato salads of various competitions were strewn along beside Dutch ovens of slow roasted beef chuck, pork loins, and pans of barbequed ribs, as well as cob corn already buttered and salted up, crisp garden salads, sautéed garlic spinach with parmesan cheese freshly shredded, and home made mac and cheese with buttery crumbled Ritz crackers on top were the ones that called out to me from the ninety-nine others.

My tongue had an instant boner.


“Psst. Who brought the fuzz? Look like undercover narc or someshit.”

“Don’t let him near Aunt Matilda’s collard greens, they illegal!”

“Boy look like he been dug out a desert grave. Mind your brains!”

“Aww, he kinda cute, for a white boy. Be nice.”

“Hey! White Boy! You bring some mayo and baloney sandwiches witcha?”

“SHHH! Don’t be scaring him. He look white as a ghost already!”

“AH HAHAHAHA!”

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

I suddenly lost my appetite. But I didn’t have the sense to leave just then. No, it would go on, until finally I did get a clue.


This is not an indictment against any tribe whatsoever.

I am from a tribe. I am half white, although I can’t prove it.


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


I felt my rage rumble in my belly.

That’s where it begins every time, my friend.

I placed a tiny bit of each dish onto my plate as I trudged along, walking the gauntlet, like a doomed man on death row. It really is the best way to eat at a family buffet. Folks will notice if you do not at least try a tiny taste of their food that they have put their best effort into making for others to eat.

At the end of the table, my dish was piled quite high.


“Lookit that boy. Don’t his momma feed him at all?”

“Homeboy looking to feed the whole graveyard when he get back home!”

“Michael, go help that boy carry his plate before he break his arm…”

“Hey, did he take TWO ribs? I mo beat his wasteful ass!”

“Chuckie, don’t be mean. He need one them ribs for the walk home. Heheheee”


I resisted the urge to chuck my dish at Chuckie, if I could locate him. When you have anger, sometimes you do not think clearly.

But,

This time, I learned how to quell my anger. This is not “pussying out.” This is proper use of common sense.

This is when and how I learned how to hold off and take it, and choose my battle.


You can call it what you want, but it might just save you a world of trouble.

Or not.

Eventually, you will meet your anger, and find that you have rage. Hopefully, you will not find out that you have blind rage.


If you do, please be sure to clean up after yourself.


It is bad manners to leave a mess behind.


Indeed.


That would be very bad. Ya think?




God Help You.



God Help Us All.




---willies out.









.

114

The air blew across our faces from the open windows: desert kisses from the hot, fresh air of the Sans Joking high desert river valley. Fuckno shat in the rearview mirror, and I was heading in the right direction. I was heading East, my friend.

Glinda, the good witch of the West, occupied herself with her make up. Or make down. She was about to get nekkid.

Not for me.

No, this was intended to be for the whole world.

I distracted her from her important work by drifting off the old, crumbly tar on our way to a desert location for her photo shoot. An old, abandoned shack awaited us.

She did not enjoy my little moon rocket, nor did she especially like my driving skills. I fumbled with the radio dial to get some good tunes.

She did not approve.


“Will. Don’t mess with the radio.”


Huh.

This did not bode well.

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



“Glinda, why you look so worried?”

“I never done this before.”




“Me neither. Probably never will. Naked pics?”

“No, they are called nude frontals. But only the top part.”



“Top Parts, you mean.”

“Did you say Pop Tarts?!”



“No! But, well, that might be nice…”

“Shut the hell up and keep your eyes on the dirt.”


“Oh, I am, baby. Hehehe”

“You’re not helping, Will.”


+++++++++++++++++++++


My little Celica skidded to a dusty stop in front of an old, forgotten structure out in the off-skirts of the Sans Joking high desert river valley that held the megalopolis of Fuckno, as well as Baker’s Field a half hour up north, and also a shitty hole southwest from there called “Los Banos,” which means “The Bathrooms” in Hispanish.

A big cloud of dust and flying dirt and rocks rained down all over every damned thing. Glinda choked and coughed, and I took my shades off.

When the dust settled, when I could finally see her sitting there across from me, she was glaring at me.

I got the fuck out of the car.



The shack had once been somebody’s home.

Now it looked to be the sort of place where someone might have planted bodies in the dry desert dust, never hoping for them to rise, to be sown, or seen, again.

No wonder Glinda wanted me to be there with her.


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


The photographer opened the door to the grey shack and and came out, and gleamed his wide, toothless smile. All gum, no rum. His eyeglasses held one and a half lenses, cracked down the middle on the right.

Nice.



Glinda pulled me close and whispered, “Don’t leave me alone with this guy. I wondered why he was so cheap when I phoned him from seeing his advertisement. Now I know.”

I nodded, “Maybe he takes awesome pictures.”



Yeah, who the fuck was I kidding?

“Well hey there you young whipper snapperth! My name’th Glinty McFlintlock, and you are about to have a magical exthperienth!”

Holy fuck.


I waved back at him and swung around to get Glinda’s shit out of the Celica. I tried to keep my hacking laugh to a minimum, but I couldn’t hide it all that well.

Glinda went and shook his hand, and they spoke about the shoot while I kept busy carrying her tools and clothing into the creaky place.

Inside the shack, Glinty had thumb-tacked white sheets all over some walls and grey ones up in between. I knew nothing about photography except that I knew what I liked when I saw it, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt for this end of the deal.

Glinty and Glinda kept chatting away, and he appeared to be a kindly older gent who simply had a bad run of luck with his dental and optometric orifices, that’s all.


++++++++++++++++++++++++


I left them two and went snooping. Around back there sat a stable with tiny glass windows here and there. Horses need air, and lots of it, but there were no longer any push boards to open up as vents for air exchange. Those looked to have been replaced a hundred years ago with different boards and those tiny glass panes.

This necessitated further inquiry, ya think?

You know what you would have done. But first;

When does the statute of limitations end for breaking and entering?

What I mean is, how long can something remain untouched and apparently un-owned before you can break in and take a look-see?

Breaking the public trust, and entering privacy is never to be taken lightly, especially when you go ahead and do it anyway.



I wiped one of the dirty panes to get a look inside.

A tarp covered some massive beast that lay dormant for what looked to be a thousand years, judging by the dust.

A long work bench lined the opposite wall, tied in, and upon its surface there were tools of forgotten shapes and unknown origins, all nestled in quietly for a lengthy dust nap.


Well that was good enough for me.

I found a door at the rear of the stable, and saw that the threshold held desert sand hard packed from years of blowing and settling that piled up against the door’s kicker on the bottom.

Looking around behind me, I saw only the occasional Saguaro Cactus, a few boulders, and sage brush and tumbleweeds. The desert sun glared down from directly overhead. He looked unapproving.



The paddle lock rusted in a state of the forgotten and the unforgiving. I pulled on it, and the rusted screws that held in the swing plate broke. I pushed.

The stable exhaled stale breath from the last century.

The sleeping hulk beneath the crusty tarp beckoned.


I tiptoed in like it was a morgue and the dead slept lightly. The tools on the work bench were similar to those I’d used on my own little car, but these were not made out of case metal, all chromed out. No, they looked to be ready to crumble into dust, like the desert silt which now covered them.

The desert reclaims all material, to be desiccated, oxidized, and reduced to a former memory of itself. All atoms become freed in this way, free to roam the country side like the ghosts that they are, to cover the living for a long dirt nap.

I turned back and went to the near end of the cloth-covered behemoth.

The corner of the tarp came away in my hand as I lifted and pulled.


Shit.


Now I would have to make the decision to continue. Removing the tarp would leave whatever was underneath exposed permanently. It would crumble into dust, you know.

I could take a peek, maybe that would be best. Just lift up one little part to see what was underneath.

That actually seemed like the best way to go. Of course it did not occur to me to simply leave it alone and go back out to Glinda’s photoshoot. That was not an option. Curiosity might kill the cat, but maybe the cat dies with a smile on its face?


I grabbed more of the tarp and pulled gently up. It did not have much give. So I tugged a little harder.

The tarp responded with a relaxing sigh and fell away from the side of the car underneath. The whole side of this beast was exposed.


Fuck.


I looked around, expecting to see someone come charging in with a shot gun.

My heart raced as I stood there.


This was not from fear of doing something wrong, or bad.


This had to do with Evil.


The long, black, gleaming car was a hearse.

There was a hand-painted Circle A on the driver’s door.


Anarchy.


What the fuck?

I backed away and fell over something sitting on the floor of the dusty garage. The cloud of dust got in my eyes. I scrambled on my hands and knees toward the white rectangle of light that indicated the door.


The accusing sun blasted my eyes and I staggered from its blare, which screeched in my head like the angry feedback from the amp of an electric guitar played by a devil.

I needed to find Glinda, the good witch, and I needed to get the fuck out of Dodge with her.

Now.


The sensation of a million sharp fangs pierced my eyes as I stumbled about, shouting out to her.

The door to the old shack swung out, and Glinda grabbed me to help me up.

“Will?! What the hell you shouting about? Shoot, you look like you been to the moon and---”

“Glinda, we need to get the fuck outta here. NOW!”


“OK. We done here. Let me grab my shit. Your car is right over here. Get in, I’m driving. Don’t rub your eyes or you’ll fuck them up. Be right back.”

“OK, hurry!”


She did as she said she would, and we left the odd photographer dude there, scratching his head.

She wanted to know why I was so freaked out, and on the way back, I wanted to tell her.


But I couldn’t.


I didn’t have a fucking clue.


==================

LINKS






Wake up. Time for some coffee. Here are some spurious “facts” about coffee. I don’t think that they are correct. You?



The following dentistry tools might have helped out ole toothless Glinty McFlintlock. Or, perhaps explain why he had no teefs?



Antidote: Cool Drawings.


The nightly drama that unfolds in your fridge. Melt Down. David Green et al.




Stare down by a chick who looks like a dude and a chick who has a skirt on. MMA.



Speaking of weird, suicide helps the funeral industry. Hah?






Auto Tune needs to be erased from our collective memory. This is the death knell.






God Help You.

God Help Us All.



---willies out.






OK,




One more for ya.



Scientist from Japan deconstructs a Furby robot, and then hacks it. Very cute.










.

113

Lorelei was my Captain.


Essy was my Director.


Glinda was my Conductor.


She asked me to give her a ride. In my Celica, my tiny but powerful spaceship that had rescued Lorelei, Joey and Nolei from the Dance melee, and delivered us to the moon, if you recall.


I had my own reservations about this. My car was special because of the 10-10-10 Moonshot, Baby, and the trip back from the Moon.


Always pack away your memories.


Reservations about a reservationist?

Don’t look at me that way. I’ve lived on a reservation most of my life.

But in Fuckno, I was without my home, and I wanted to get back to my reservation.

Until that happened, I had no reservations at all.


So, I agreed.

She wanted a ride to a picture shoot, and then, for me to go and meet her family.

Neither of these things would end well.

You will see.

Glinda said that she wanted to have facial shots taken for her portfolio. I would have gladly helped Glinda take some facial shots, but she was talking about her portfolio.


Now, you know that I would have something dickish to say about her “folio port,” but I restrained myself. She seemed to be quite fraught.

“Hey Glinda, why so worried?”

“Well, Will, the photographer wants me to do some upper body nude shots.”

Again, I restrained myself.

“Uh, why take nude shots at all, Glinda?”


She just stared at me.



I jabbed at her arm playfully.

She jumped back. “Don’t fucking give me a bruise, for chrissakes!”

Hokay. Now she had my interest. I mean, of course, watching a photographer taking nudie pics of a pretty young African American lady would be very cool, but why was she so scared?


Well, you will see some truths here.

First was that I have never and probably never will have the sort of instinct that women in my life seem to be born with and then use quite well.

She was sketchy about this dude. She knew something on a lower level, but kept brushing it away.


Hey, always trust your instincts. These protection skills have been in our DNA for thousands of years before we somehow became enriched with the almighty Logic with which to rationalize such instincts away, and then get ourselves into a bad situation.

Never doubt your instincts.


Second was that I was not as invested in her as she was with me.

I was an asshole at that part of this tale. I chust whanted to escape Fuckno for good.

Glinda did not deserve my detachment. She was an amazing young lady. I hope that she is doing very well. That, my friend, is the third truth here.


Amen.


So I said yes. I would take her to her photo shoot.


I was up for anything with her, or in her.


I mentioned that I was an asshole, didn’t I?


+++++++++++++++++++++++++



The photographer wanted to shoot Glinda in the outskirts of Fuckno, and so we drove there in my Celica at high speeds. And yet, no amount of my expert skillz in drifting in the desert dust along side the old tar of the country lane eased her mind all that much.

Ya think?

Do you think at all?

I wasn’t thinking.

Until I had to do some very quick thinking.

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


Well, it was a cool old house that looked to be the sort of place a fugitive might call home. An old, abandoned structure in the desert will become sinuous in its wooden textures, paint worn away from decades of sand blasting from the desert’s lovely, windy kisses.

Glinda carried three duffle bags of clothing changes in and had me carry in her make-up suitcase.

I kid you.


She did have quite a lot of make-up, and I was glad that I wasn’t her boyfriend, because that would mean much of the chump change I was earning would be helping her out with her warrior face paint.

I chust didn’t realize that I was her boyfriend, unbeknownst to me.


Until later, that is.


So, we met the photographer dude, and he seemed cool.


Glinda made us both wait outside while she changed.

Then she made me wait outside, but within hearing distance, when the frontal nude shots were taken.

++++++++++++++++++++++

You should know that I will be introducing you to Glinda's family. It would not end well.


Next time.



LINKS


I've liked this band since they began. Social Distortion has made a movie short for their new song, like folks used to go for MTV.

Machine Gun Blues.





Mozilla stands up to Homeland Security. Fuck yeah!



MSNBC has a solid story and video of that now dead terrorist megalomaniac asshole, who shall not be named anymore here. His name must be erased from the memory of mankind. Evidently, he was obsessed with looking at news videos of himself. Fucker.



Oops. Al Qaeda pissed about that asshole being killed. Vows retaliation. Um, Hokay. Boo Fucking Hoo. More underwear bombs? Losers.



Lesson, Don’t be a Dick.





Speaking of hard news. Shake Weight news story. Me next!





On another note, here are some good ideas for how to actually contribute to the betterment of us all working together to help move things forward.

This is what sane people do, no?

Here are solid tips for a good meeting when you are going to be brainstorming for some good input. I will be doing this today, when this posts, starting at 9AM, for my tribe. We will have our General Meeting, and I will help chair it.



Antidote to thinking about work: Monster pics.


Hey, let’s go for a ride on my out of control snowmobile. I think I can catch it….

Time lapse vid about cityscape. Kinda cool.








God Help You.

God Help Us All.




--willies out.











OK, one more for ya.


From my dotta.

.