Got Your Bliss, Erin!

Alright, yesterday I was inspired by Erin O'Brien, stuck in an Ohio never-quite-dawning spring. I dashed out on my way to the office and snapped a few colorful shots, including one of cactus flowers just about to bloom. Erin commented, "Bliss".

Today I popped out onto the front porch and the sight grabbed my attention immediately, even though the place is five houses away down the street. They bloomed! Fewer than 24 hours after I first spotted them. I slid into some shoes and headed eastward, intent on those cactus blossoms. Just like yesterday, I knocked on the door to ask permission. Just like yesterday, no one answered and I erred on the side of getting what I came for.

My camera activity attracted the attention of the neighbor across the street, the man who owns the house with the lovely xeriscaped yard with all the poppies. "Whatcha doing there?" I felt it was self-evident what I was doing, but I told him about blogging with those in cold, gray country and confessed to shooting pictures in his own yard yesterday. This man is now my official new best friend! "Hey, after you take pictures of the cactus, come on over and come into my backyard." I had to think about that a little. This is Las Vegas. But he waited for me beside the curb. "Come on, I'll show you."

His backyard is as lovely as the front, but different - quieter, softer colors in the blooms. This man knows a lot about growing things in the desert. I met a sweet gray poodle (and remember, I don't even really like dogs too much) who weighs about 4 pounds and made not a noise the entire time I was there. The patio was covered with assorted pots and containers filled with plants. A dining table on the patio was set for a meal, including beautiful crystal wine balloons. The man told me his roommate is a botany professor at the university here, so they may have a leg up on such a beautifully designed yard, but that - generally - they just tossed out handsful of seeds and the result was what we can see. He offered me seeds and volunteered to help me or advise me when I said I really wanted a tomato crop this year. I was invited to stay for a glass of wine, but told him I needed to get to a meeting. He didn't need to know it was an AA meeting.

As I drove off, I remembered that neighbors used to know one another and enjoyed talking about their gardens and sharing things they had in abundance, like seeds or advice. I knew I would never have managed more than a "Hi!" to my neighbor. For - yes, really - I'm a little shy, a little unsure of myself in certain situations. Now I've got an invitation to "Stop by any time" and assurances that he will pop over when he sees me working in my yard (that could happen!). All because of Erin O'Brien whom I see as never shy. I'm glad you motivated me to get my arse outside and enjoy the spring, Woman!

And the wind continues to howl.

Desperately Seeking Spring - Dedicated to Blogging Friends in the East and Other Environs

The fabulous Erin O'Brien, stupendous blogger from Cleveland, Ohio, was bemoaning the lingering winter in her part of the world, so I said I'd go in search of spring where I live. Oh, here in Las Vegas, Nevada, we gritch (um, that's a cross between a gripe and a bitch) about the constant, maddening wind, then the heat, but right now it is sweet. The birdies tweet softly at 3:00 a.m. and 8:00 p.m. and carry on raucously in between. The cats stretch languorously beside the pool in gentle sunlight that will soon enough be hell's blaze. Is that enough substantiation? Is it really spring? On my short drive to the office today, I decided to check my assumptions.

Hmm . . irises. Bulb plants are among the first flowers to show themselves in spring. No, the slightly bent ones were not trying to run from the picture. They are being blasted by the wind, as was I! Nevertheless, hope springs eternal . . .



Cactus flowers just at the ready ~ that's got to be an omen, right?



Best yard on my block - we appreciate the xeriscape efforts made, low water usage and native plants. The riot of color makes me grin when I pass this place each day. Surely, surely . .



Incontrovertible evidence! It's warm. It's spring. You'll get yours, too!



Since it's still objectionable in parts north and east of my world, would someone mind booking the Wind Festival for an exclusive engagement in your world? It can't make things seem that much worse! That is all.

At the Equinox - Is it Just Me or Have a Lot of Bloggers Drifted Off With Spring Fever?

I was reminded this week of something I forget from year to year. In certain seasons in Las Vegas, some of the houseplants must be watered almost every day due to heat and sun. The current cat population is less intrigued by plants than some I've shared life with, so my store of plants has become pretty impressive, with only the very occasional sound of surreptitious chomping in the night. I wonder why I've never had a chomping cat become ill. They are supposed to be creatures very delicate when exposed to all sorts of flora. Mine gack up premium cat food on the floor while retaining the green leafies with which to fill the cat box. Things that make you go "hmmmmmmm" . .

There are some things I don't want to do. Like run the vacuum cleaner and shop for groceries and the list goes on. I don't mind wet chores like do the laundry, clean the bathroom, wash the dishes. But I don't want to make the acquaintance of dusting cloths and Dustbusters, anything involving Pledge or moving little doodads around on all the furniture. And don't show me a push broom. I detest a push broom. I don't have the arm strength for it. I could do it if it could be done with the legs. I don't like to contemplate sweeping the great outdoors. It's too big. All of this can cause terrible conflict for a woman whose father calls her "snotty clean". So, if you get the picture, I finally break down and do what I must. And crab about it a lot.

The arrival of spring has made me want to roast mushrooms and onions and peppers and corn on the grill outdoors and slide into the pool naked in the dark when the neighbors might not be looking from upstairs next door. I want to sit at the cafe table with coffee and a book in the sun, my cat sitting in my lap. When I wake in the morning, I want to look through the French doors with their glass like crystal. A quick inspection of the yard confirmed that I wouldn't seat my rear on the outdoor chairs in their current condition, feeling reluctant to even put my shod feet on the cool deck. The panes in the French doors may be terminal, but I can take them on one at a time and do my best - it was hell for windy across the dark months. The surface of the grill is shiny clean - I was careful last November, the last time I used it. The hired service keeps the pool and spa sparkling. OK, a mixed bag. Get started. Play music. Ply the ever-loving push broom.

The back yard reminds me of Cell Block 419A at the women's prison. Long and narrow, it holds the pool and a modest frame of walking space surrounding it. When I told a friend the unimaginative light block walls were about 15 feet high, he looked so startled I thought, "Well, maybe I'm exaggerating. I'm not so good at that kind of estimation." I've just gone outdoors in the dawn and measured myself like parents who track a child's growth with a mark and the date on a convenient door jamb. That wall is easily twice as tall as I and, on one angle, reaches to the top of the second story. I feel pretty solid about it again - 10-15 feet high. As there are no structures contiguous to any of the walls, the cats cannot escape the yard (just as the women prisoners could not, I suppose). I had to be "worked" about the escape-proof yard for a long time, as I believe that cats can get out of any confinement. However, I finally became a believer. The cats would have to spring 10-15 feet into the air to head for high ground, and I doubt they will. Food, water and an auxiliary litter box are provided. Virginia Woolf and Bogey enjoy the yard during fine weather.

I determined I'd approach my tasks in a linear way, starting in one corner and working my way around the rectangle. "Come on, cats," I called. They joined me, first tiptoeing on the narrow tiled strip separating pool from spa, drinking a little chlorinated water. Soon enough they found places to perch where my frenetic activity wouldn't disturb them. My BFF had sent me some new music and - hey! - it was good. She was right: the one song was very much like our conversational e-mail thread about our individual journeys. I peeled off some layers of clothing, grinning at Virginia Woolf languishing in the sun, eyes scrunched up at half-mast (does she need sunglasses?), shiny black nose sniffing at the air. This wasn't so terrible! I alternated using the hated broom with very conservative squirts from the water hose and even a few blasts of air from the compressor. I'm thorough in most everything I approach, and finally that yard was spotlessly clean, not a cobweb to be found, no leaves blown into crevices. I'd applied SprayWay cleaner to every glass surface (forget Windex, reader!) and finally sat for an iced coffee and a read. When I got up to go inside, there was no telltale powdering of fine desert dust on the rear of my black shorts, a pretty good testament to my efforts.

When I came inside, I was pretty energized, so I started attacking other tasks. I was joined in the bedroom by Virginia Woolf as I put clean, deep green sheets on the bed. I didn't actually look directly at her, but more saw her out of the corner of my eye as she came pussyfooting through the French doors. It's when she jumped up onto the dark green sheets to play the bed-making game that I noticed it. That cat looked as if she'd been dredged in flour, preparatory to immersion in a deep fat fryer for an order of cat crispies. I saw golden eyes, black nose and powdery white cat. And she'd found whatever it was in the yard! WTF? Oh, yeah, I was going to have to wash and dry the sheets again, but I wanted to know what dirty substance lurked in the yard. I paced and inspected, I crawled on the cool deck until my knees were chopped meat. I looked in the precise location where that cat had basked in the sun. Nothing. Have I mentioned there are some things I don't want to do, like dry household tasks or sweeping the great outdoors?

A blushing factoid to tell on myself: I consume true crime stories, mostly about serial murderers. I have a handful of favored authors I follow avidly, my tastes refined through the years I have read such things. My mother perverted me in the 1970s (or maybe early 1980s) with the Ann Rule book about Ted Bundy and I've read countless volumes since then. In bookstores, I slink off to the remote aisles where such books are displayed and then place my selections face down in my arms as I continue to shop. I intersperse these reads with biographies, poetry more recently, and other "good" books. But I continue to feed my need.

Now, I'm a well-known wiener about things violent or bloody. Usually I cannot read the pages describing what the killer did to the girl or the disrespect shown to the body. No, I don't have a secret penchant for the stereotypical 1940s gumshoe - tweed jacket, balloony trousers with the waistband under the armpits, a fedora and his face veiled in cigarette smoke. Sometimes the descriptions of the ballistics or DNA evidence make me yawn. So what's the attraction? I am utterly fascinated by the fact that completely bat-shit people walk around among us disguised as the next door neighbor. I want to know what makes them bat-shit. What happened in their childhoods and what makes them bat-shit part of the time but able to blend in part of the time, and - please - what makes them think particular atrocious acts are sexually gratifying? The other thing that pulls me in just a little (I don't want 85 pages of details, but I do want to know generally) is how detectives solve cases. Because they almost always do - more and more cases, some of them cold for 50 years. Hey, crazy people, don't do the crime! You can't get by with anything.

So I'm reading the latest one, quite a find, twisting and turning with a huge cast of characters, a favorite author outdoing herself. It draws me, in particular, because it features a Pacific Coast lifestyle including sportfishing boats, something I know about. I just spoke of this in my last post. The murderers, in this case, were incredibly stupid, but they were young and pretty and expert at that blending in thing. They killed a married couple by beating them up a little (not fatally), tying and binding them up a little (not fatally), then tying them to the anchor of their boat and tossing them into the deep. A witness said the couple had to have heard the anchor chain running out across the deck, knowing it would finally pull them in. It did. Yes, it was the lighter of the boat's anchors, but that's hardly humane. This scenario has freaked me out. I'm not sleeping well at night for thinking of it. I've been on the ocean in the dark. I've heard the chain run out into the sea, though I wasn't tied to it. I cannot imagine the horror those people must have endured.

Now, since 1-1-11, we have Investigation Discovery. 24 hours a day, it shows televised versions of some stories I know well. Whereas I rarely sit down to watch TV, I do often have it playing for white noise. Sometimes a case I've read about will be featured and I can hear the voice of that interesting detective or of that poor mother or of the brave ordinary citizen who was smart enough to recognize bat-shit when he saw it. This morning I was half-reading from my daily reflections and affirmations books. It was still dark outside and I would read my books with more focus several times during the day. This was my first run-through with the first cup of coffee. I heard the names spoken quietly on TV. My fishing boat story that I'm currently reading! I sprinted and leapt into the recliner, nearly tipping it over. Frightening. Bat-shit. Walking around among us.

Maybe I Should Just Walk

I come across sometimes as very level, a soother, a comforter, a nurturer. Peaceful like. Optimistic. Philosophical. And I am. Yet, sometimes I have trouble giving myself those gifts as easily as I give them to others. Sometimes, no matter how much I learn about how many things, I jump from earth to the planet Freak Out in a nano-second. Sometimes, no matter how much I learn, I waste angst and energy on feeling certain I will collapse - yes, this latest trial will be the one that fells me! Despite staggering evidence to the contrary. Actually, I do all right for a girl. But I don't like freaky stuff about my money and I don't like freaky stuff about my cars. Occasionally, "I can't handle this. I just can't." flits through the cranium.

I do not understand cars. I do not know how a combustion engine works. I do not get the physics, mechanics, or anything else elemental to cars. I want to put in my key and have the car fly me, like a magic carpet, to my destination. No, I'm neither lazy nor stupid. I have enough IQ to understand about cars. I know how to Google and read. It's just not intriguing to me. That's what the father, the husband and the significant other were for. While I fed them. A fair division of duties. But I don't deny that the ignorance feeds the fear when something goes wrong with the car.

Recently at a staff meeting, the men guffawed at me as I told them whenever a car does something to me - oh, say, like having a flat tire - I want nothing further to do with that car ever again. Sell it! Of course, I don't literally sell a car over a flat tire, but when the occasional car problem arose, I was pretty good at talking Ex into trading cars with me permanently. My current car is an unremarkable, sensible, economical, age and size appropriate vehicle of a color that is variously described as gold, silver, gray or champagne. Its actual color name is radium. The car is four years old and it just turned 21,000 miles. It has been well maintained and has produced none of the normal, pesky troubles that cars sometimes do. No, no, Lucy Sue has been a pretty good car, causing me few worries of the usual sort. She is, however, a lightning rod for the "that can't possibly have just happened" sort of mishap.

During our four year relationship, the side mirrors have been knocked off three times when I've been nowhere in the vicinity of the car. Once the mirror was dangling by its electrical cords and twice it was lying in the street. One morning, as I ate my 10:00 a.m. cucumbers at my desk, I watched as a gigantic pickup truck crashed into my car and nearly tore the back end off of it. Both back windows have gone awry and have been jury-rigged with suction cups to keep them closed with the glass in a completely upright position. Hey, the motors for those windows cost about $300 - $400 each and the economy was scary! I'll replace them now that I'm more comfortable about the economic rebound. And neither of those back windows was heavily used. I don't believe I've transported anyone in my back seat more than 10 times ever. For fixes with suction cups, and to secure a dangling mirror after a 5-mile drive to the office with it dancing in the wind, I rely on Cesar who has been called the Mexican MacGyver. He is resourceful. He knows how to do a lot of things with little at hand.

I've been readying myself for a road trip. On my journey, I will have cell phone signal for only the very first and the very last miles. There are few settlements, with few services along the highway, and only two small cities. One wants to feel secure setting out on a pleasure trip, so I decided to ask for help to get the car in order. Cesar and I are simpatico. He understands which are my hot buttons, what distresses me, and what needs to be explained to me. He completely inspected the car to this standard: "Cesar, I want that car in good enough condition that you'd let Isabella drive it to Phoenix." Isabella is his 3-year old daughter. It is time for an oil change whether I was traveling or not, so that recommendation didn't surprise me. New air filter? Check - expected. "Les, you need to buy tires." What? They only have 21,000 miles on them!" The tires were cracked - baked for four years in the desert blaze. All right. Tires are important. He went and got the tires put on the machine for me. We've talked spark plugs and serpentine belts, transmission fluid and tire pressure . . . and I'm learning some things. Who knew?

The time was drawing near to the weekend Cesar would take my car home to work on it. He went to the parking lot with a pad and pen and came back up the stairs looking a little startled. "Les, your hood won't open. I'm going to call around, but I've heard when this happens, you have to go to the dealer and it can get pricey." Grand! "All right, please find out. My trip has already been delayed twice." All we need is to get the hood opened so I can get the oil change and Cesar can work his magic. It's not like the car is on its last legs, and I don't want to pay a fortune for this.

In our work world, we are nominally related to David's business partner, George, who owns a mechanic shop among other enterprises. He has a relationship with auto body businesses and other helpful services and he's generous with advice to any of us who work in the secluded little office plaza under the stucco arch. He's good to us when we take our business to him, as well. I had the brainstorm that Cesar should ask George if he knew how to apply a can opener to my hood. "Toss your keys down, Les, he's going to take a look at it." And soon enough I saw George ascend the staircase headed in my direction. He opened it! With no special tools, not at his shop, but right in the parking lot with only his know-how at work. He had news of Lucy Sue's latest weird malady. After four years of use, a cable has stretched out like worn elastic under the hood. The expected result of that is that the hood can't be opened. These cables are meant to last the life of the car, but no. "You're going to have to have it repaired. You can't go around unable to get inside the car." Yes, well I intended to have it repaired and asked if this was going to cost me $5 or $5 million. "Would you like me to find the part and take care of it for you today?" I would. I have an agenda to stick to.

George stepped pretty lively coming back up the stairs. "It's a special order part. It will take a week to get here. The good news is I can give you parts and labor for $144.25." None of that troubled me too terribly. The price was far less than I expected. And now the hood would open for Cesar to complete his part of the great send-off. Why was George so distressed? "Do you have any duct tape up here?" I rummaged around unsuccessfully for awhile and he said he'd look for some down in our service yard. "Leslie, the hood won't close and latch now that it's opened. We're going to have to tape it down and wait for Thursday." ?!#*?!#* Tape it down? With duct tape? Folks, I've been married. I don't have all that much faith in the infallibility of duct tape. I didn't say anything. It took me awhile to gather my wits. I walked out onto the deck. Peering over the rail, I spied George and his assistant feverishly applying tape to the car. "Men, does that even have a chance of working? I don't feel really secure about this." They responded that I certainly wouldn't want to drive on the freeway, and there was a chance it might work. ?!#*?!#* "Stop sticking tape on my paint job. Order the part. I've got it now." I radioed Cesar to relate the turn of events and he could tell I was worked up. "We'll tie it down, Les. It'll hold. But he's right! Don't go on the freeway." I vacillated between thoughts of just renting or borrowing a car and thoughts of the hood snapping off, coming through the windshield and decapitating me. Maybe I could drive one of our war wagons for a few days - no, they're not reliably in the lot when I arrive and leave. Have I mentioned it's windy in Las Vegas this spring?

After he tied the hood down, Cesar took pains to tell me all of it. "There's a little gap between the body and the hood, Les. There's some play in the rope, so you might see the hood bounce a little. Come here and give it a tug so you'll know it's well-secured." Driving home the first evening, I learned how fierce wind resistance is and how that affects gas consumption. The next morning, I asked Cesar to check the rope, because the gap appeared a little wider to me. He said it was taut. On Saturday, I drove slowly down rather empty streets against a pretty good crosswind for four miles. That wasn't so bad. When I turned north into the headwind, I knew I was in for a ride! The wind was fierce, and the hood moved up and down like it was breathing. My eyes popped, but I arrived at the office safely. Ten to twelve men have stopped me at various locations to say, "Hey, lady, I think your hood is up." It charms me that people are kind, but I admit to having the occasional crabby thought, "No shit, kind sir. Did the two inch gap between hood and body give it away?" Thursday arrives the new cable kit. I'm ready.

In my ears right now: The Three Stooges, and you may hear them, too.

Something that charmed me: Some of the homes have taken up golf and this made be grin from the first telling because my men are less like country club types than any humans I can think of. I'm reminded of a line from a really poor movie, "It's a country country club." That would be more suitable to this group. But Cesar has recruited them, and they go quite frequently. They are tearing up craigslist and garage sales finding clubs and bags and shoes. The Badger has a collection of golf balls for them, found in the streets when he rides, and these men are fun to watch. I remembered an old clip from the Three Stooges and located it. The film is old and was made long before my guys were born. But it has made me believe in reincarnation. Cesar is Moe - he's the smartest and runs the show. Justin is Larry. And Matt is Curly - he looks like Curly, he's as loud and goofy as Curly and he sports the same haircut.

Wrestling Bear

The names of persons I use here are those of my followers, easily located on the sidebar. If the reader will indulge me, I don't feel up to creating all the links today. I appreciate my followers, though, and display each of you proudly. But right now, I'd rather spend my time visiting your posts which have gone up since I took a breather. Also, please indulge the use of "today", "tomorrow" and "yesterday". Sometimes things don't punch a time card. It was all written across a short time frame this week.

It's a delicate phrase (that conjures up quite an image when applied to me!) - "wrestling bear" - that means "dealing with stuff". Sorting out the jiggle in one's Jell-0, the junk in one's trunk. Handling one's problems or chewing on stuff. I'd just completed conducting a whirlwind, 'round-the-world magical mystery birthday tour on my bus and I ran out of gas. Precipitously. I knew I needed to apply the brakes, park the bus and retreat to some quiet place. I stayed off the blogs almost 100% for 3 1/2-4 days. I didn't give up e-mails as completely. A girl doesn't want to lose her oxygen or blood supply. I added extra walking miles, read a complete book, ate some foods I hadn't enjoyed in awhile - no, this does not mean overeating. It means consuming good foods that require some actual preparation. And I am better for all of that. Clearer headed. For you see, although when we enter the ring, the bear expects to win the match and I expect to lose it, that's not usually how it shakes out.

And so . . have I bent anyone's ear (or eye, since one reads the blogs) about liking things that work as intended and disliking things that do not? Ahem. Blogger is a mixed bag of stuff for me. A free platform to write and interact with others. But I'm sometimes left with Blogger egg on my face. Do other bloggers get into such a twist as I do when Blogger conspires against them? The answer is probably "yes", "no" or "maybe". But I get into a twist. I've blogged about the Starbucks mug given to me by a very young woman who considers me her mentor. It says "Meticulosity: an extreme attention to detail." Little Jazzy laughs and says it would have helped her to have seen that tattoo on my forehead the first time we met, but she soon figured it out. That's how I am - I give attention to the small stuff. So imagine my horror today to look at my own blog and discover what Blogger or the gods had done to me on Kass' birthday post. I spent hours sizing the pics so they'd line up side-by-side. I'd spent forever downsizing the YouTube clips that had nothing but one photo and the soundtrack. I'd been meticulous about the size of the photos so Elisabeth's head would not be 1/6th the size of her husband's famous onion tartlet, and what was I looking at now? Why was Tag's poem spaced with so much open air running through it? How come Kim's beautiful gifts were oversized splats in the middle of the post, with miles of pink air space? How in the world did I post Kass' birthday at 2:00 a.m.on her birthday, yet 3 comments had been posted on April 24th the day before? Look closely, those of you who wrote to say, "Where did my comment go? I know you posted it. I saw it." [For the record, I post virtually every comment except those I'm asked not to - the ones that are a shoulder tap kind of message. I've now fixed that up by attaching an e-mail account to the Profile.] And why, the Sam Hill, did it all look completely different again one hour later? Yow. I don't know the answers. I am not required to be knowledgeable about everything, and I cannot be such. First these things made me crabby. Then they made me crabby about blogging.

It struck me that I posted my first blog post exactly 11 months ago. Blogging has fulfilled me and frustrated me. It has connected me with both like-minded and polar-opposite people. It has taught me to appreciate how well some people do things that don't even intrigue me. But their passion draws me. I've watched some bloggers simply disappear and others announce they're taking a break. Some who are taking a break pop up for a moment at the most wonderful times. I read both Kass and Elisabeth at some length commenting on the amount of time the blogs take up and I'm right there with you, ladies. Writing for my own, commenting to those I follow. I am struck, after my bear wrestling, with something that unsettles me. I work far too much. Old news. I walk way too many miles which also takes up too much time. Seven-year-old news. I spend too much time time blogging. That's news. And I do little else at all too much. Hmm.

During this week of experiencing some malaise, I forgot to go check that newly attached-to-my-blog e-mail account. It's one I've rarely used, and I forget to check it very frequently. Thank you to those who dropped me a note and I'm sorry if I seemed a tortoise before responding. Friend Tag, who was in my real e-mail account, you'll know I wasn't handling it very well, either, or something you sent would have seen the light of the blogosphere by now. It's coming! Even when I have to arrive late, I still arrive. Full of sincere apologies.

Yesterday, I drove home through a war zone. The weather is the enemy and the wind the most ferocious weapon in its arsenal. All I had at hand was a very small Nissan. The more ballsy forecasters had predicted wind gusts up to 70 mph. They were right! I left the office going south on Rainbow. Every side street acted as a tunnel, slamming me with crosswinds that moved my car around. I remembered the reminders on TV ~ "Keep both hands on the wheel!" No kidding. I knew what I was in for. Turning west on Desert Inn, I started to buck the headwind. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced. Oh, yes, I am the woman who camped through a night of 75 mph gusts, but I remained in the tent. I didn't have to see anything. Now, the traffic light standards bounced and that always freaks me out. I had to stop at the store. Cat food and coffee creamer are big copy in my home and I was nearing empty on both. My aunt did family day care for decades and she had a saying that would make most misbehaving little boys pause: "If you don't stop that, I'm going to snatch you bald-headed." I know the feeling. And I don't like my hair mussed up. This morning as I walked, I had mainly very black thoughts as I passed downed trees, many window screens torn from homes, tumbling trash cans and various other distasteful flying objects. I learned on the news that small, private aircraft were overturned and a carport roof was torn away in an apartment community. Some Las Vegas-y attention-grabbing event scheduled for 8:00 this morning was expected to be cancelled. If the girls still wanted to sky dive in their bikinis, that was one thing. But it was deemed unsafe for the aircraft to be airborne. Justin said it best: "Imagine. Bikini tops and bottoms and half naked girls flung all over the valley." Have I mentioned I am sick of it? Sick to death of it? Literally almost ill from it? It's now been 36 hours. It's about the same as 36 hours ago, although some brief periods have been more tolerable.

So what shall I do with myself, because I'm fairly in a snit? Mr. Insomnia crawled in with me at 1:30 this morning and never let me slide from his loving embrace. Someone hacked our bank account number at work and created several fake checking accounts with their names (multiple entities, multiple names, multiple IDs given) and our account number. One even had our logo and company name replicated, and a very good rendition of David's signature! Yes, Wells Fargo Bank is behaving in a very helpful way and, thankfully, the rotters didn't hit us for nearly what they could have, had they been higher achievers. But the inconvenience has been staggering. No checks, no credit or debit cards for 10 days to 2 weeks. I may need to pay one week of payroll in cash. I have three - count 'em - posts in draft form that I can't complete. They're painful, each for a different reason. I've invested too much in them to hit the delete button, but I avoid them studiously because they hurt.

Here's my plan. Tomorrow night is the 2-hour massage. I'm going to wave good-bye to David Saturday and take the wheel. Last May, he and his wife booked a Mexican cruise to celebrate 5 years of marriage. Remember that nasty little illness we first called swine flu? The cruise was cancelled. They're going for their 6th anniversary now. While David's away, I'll start the e-mails to plan my girlfriend-visit trip away. I've hung home too long! But before that, I'm going to the desert. I'm going to the place that has a convenient parking lot, so I can just pull up. I'm going to the place where I went in the winter and did my DIY primal therapy, screaming at the heavens and throwing fiery balls of my anger off the planet. I'm going to the place that will be replete with cactus flowers and horned toads ~ I know about these things. For in this place, at this exact time of year, in the year I was 52 . . . the cactus flowers were abundant and I held 52 horned toads in one sunny hike.

And, now, the Kass Birthday Grand Finale. Tag just kept spinning birthday joy after I'd stopped checking my e-mail box. Here is what he spun for Kass starting with my lame 4 lines and continuing with brilliance:

The lovely Kass, so fair of face,
Exudes a state of natural grace.
But while she shares with us a grand felicity,
There's also that spark of raw electricity.

An accomplished young lady of many phases;
A heck of a poet, she has a way with phrases.
Her home is Sugarhouse, I believe that's Utah.
Is there really such a thing called a Hoppy Taw?
Very crafty! I've heard she redoes the undone and
shoots strangers in restaurants without a gun.
A dangerous hobby, it sounds to this friend,
but she's just keeping up with the latest trend.
Time to end my contribution. It's getting late.
Great idea, friend Limes, on a way to celebrate!
Friend Kass, you are loved by many, it's clear.
So lets do this again same time, next year!

In my ears right now:


Something that charmed me: I don't feel too charmed, actually. But I'll find something . . . OK, here we go. I let my post sit in the box overnight, even though I was pretty sure I was done. When I re-read it this morning it pointed out to me that there are reasons I'm not feeling all that charmed and I do have a plan to change the dynamic. One step forward. Then another one. Do it again. And I remember that the last time I went to the place of primal screaming, fireball hurling, cactus flowers and horned toads, I returned cleansed. It's lasted a long time. I just need to go get another dose.

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

Some Things that Charmed Me

It's already Saturday! What a week! Ups and downs, undulations and perambulations. Charm and razzberries, sunshine and flowers.

I will run as fast and hard as anyone from dealing with problems or disputes. I'm not confrontational or aggressive until pushed very far back into a corner, when I spring out like the tigress I normally forget lives inside me. I tend to spend far too much time attempting to shoulder the responsibility for the disagreement, even when I had nothing to do with causing it. And while I do this, the pressure and negative feelings build. I'd sidestepped a time or two, including replying less than honestly to e-mails that asked, "Are you angry with me?" I was angry. And hurt. But I didn't say so immediately. And I kept brooding on it. It should be noted that I have ridden in this disagreement rodeo a time or two, yet I almost never fail to mount up the same way again in the next round. Slow learner. It's been my observation that many things between human beings begin to form blocks, and this was no exception. It was time to stick a pitchfork in this bale of hay. I did. I presented my issues with words, not tears. I presented them calmly and I don't believe I used one curse word. I didn't threaten any grave consequences. In fact I went the opposite direction from any statements like that. I was met with calm listening to my lengthy grievance, no defensive statements offered, no excuses. "I know. That's what I did and I'm so sorry." Oh. OK. An apology. For a sticky wicket with a lot of angles to it. I felt the weight lift from my shoulders and I reminded myself how long I'd let the problem trouble me. I remind myself to keep trying to learn new things. Try new ways. Trust the people one cares about to come up just as good as they are.

One morning this week, I wore a lighter jacket to work. The pea coat had had to be brought out again when March and earliest April proved fickle, but now it seemed a bit much in the morning. I wore the jacket home that evening and back in to work the following morning. That evening, I forgot the jacket on the coat tree at the office. Because I felt so warm the word "jacket" never entered my consciousness. I didn't need one. That same evening, the display on my dashboard let me know that the temperature down on the blacktop, near where the sensor resides, was 88-degrees. Tangible evidence ~ we're warming up! Quickly. Oh, to be sure, the wind still howls off and on, but I see sunshine and I feel it warm on my skin. Including the skin on my backside. Yes, that's what I said. Read on.

Joseph and Justin struggled up the stairs with a 9' x 12' foot 100% wool Oriental rug to be cleaned. I could tell by their facial expressions it was incredibly heavy. It is extremely valuable and is going to be donated to a charity to be auctioned, so we want to take very good care of this rug. The morning the rug was to be cleaned was extremely cloudy and overcast. Joseph, who has 35 years experience cleaning fine carpets and rugs, explained to me that was a good thing because we do not want direct sunlight on this monstrous piece as it dries. All the technicians began to mill around getting every van and steam cleaning machine ready - we had a couple of large commercial jobs to do and it was all hands on deck. Joseph asked if I'd pull the corners to fold the rug in half if the sun came out. The sunlight wouldn't hurt the backing, would continue to dry at least half of the rug and the men would flip it over upon their return. "Sure!"

The sun came out in its full glory and I was pretty thrilled just to have reason to get up from the desk and go outside. I duly took one corner of that rug in my hand and started to pull. I pulled my arm, I pulled my back, and I pulled that rug not one inch. Giving an ill-considered mighty tug, I lost my grip on the wet wool and landed on my caboose on the warm deck. Mortified, I sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. Had anyone seen me? Well, no. I'm up on the second floor on the back of a building, thankfully. I'm pretty dogged. I tried at each corner of that rug several times, landing right on my rump time after time. By now I was deck warmed and possibly even taking on an abrasion every time I landed. I had to approach this differently. Hmmm . . what if, instead of taking a corner and pulling with brute strength, I pulled forward just small sections of the thing, straightening everything out after each small tug? Yes. That should work. I couldn't step on the rug with my shoes, so I took them off and peeled off my tights. I yanked and tugged at small portions of that floor covering for 45 minutes. Its surface was slippery, and - yes, I did go down on my rear a time or four.

I went back into the office wet, scraped up, banged up a little, but that rug was protected, perfectly aligned, fringed end lying over fringed end. The men came in between the two large jobs. Joseph thanked me for folding the rug as asked. Cesar commented that I looked as if I had been wrestling bear. A little worse for wear and tear. I allowed as how I figured that rug weighed at least as much as I did. In his Jamaican accent, Joseph piped up, "Oh, no, Leslie. Wet wool holds an additional 30% of its dry weight. That rug weighs about 450 pounds right now. Did it give you any trouble?" Yow.

It's well known that blogger friend Kass makes me both laugh and cry. Her influence makes me want to be unruly. I'm always interested in checking out the blogs she follows. Chances are, I'll be interested in them, too. I picked something up on Kass's Redoing the Undone blog. [In this instance I am not going to print the link to Kass's blog, as that would be redundant just for this post]. Reading Kass's post, I followed a link to the blog of the very talented and funny Kim of *Numinosity* [yes, there will be links]. Of course, going to Kim's blog led me to some of her followers, and suddenly I found myself in the presence of a group of most felicitous women, mostly of a certain age. Many of them are artists or artistes. All of them are whimsical women who know how to have a grand time. And through these women, I learned about Candace. I learned that Candace wants to travel. Candace, you see, is a rather plain little rag doll who is feeling somewhat housebound. Kim's good followers have volunteered to host Candace in locations spread far and wide, to take photos of Candace's adventures, and to write in the journal that Candace will bring along. Readers, I promise you many laughs if you click on these few links and read the posts and commentary. Candace is going to have one good time in many different locations.

This morning I learned that Candace has already been having fun at her first stop - Seattle. [This is a must-read, folks!] I've been angling for days to get a chance to host Candace in Sin City, but Kass and I were each a few days behind the other good women who volunteered. This morning Kim pointed me to her follower, artymess, from the U.K. I e-mailed quickly, made a connection with Lorna, and . . . Candace will be arriving in Las Vegas after international travel from Great Britain. Oh! The plans I have for Candace. Certainly the Neon Boneyard and the Bonanza Gift Shop! Since she is a girl of the desert (at least part-time, I believe) herself, she might enjoy some hiking nearby, or even camping out in some of the wonderful places I know about. Surely, she'll want to take in a Las Vegas show, and I'll be the designated driver so she can become as lubricated as she would like. I'm sure she'll want to visit my little business and meet all the homes who are already splitting their sides at the very notion of Candace's travels and so many silly and fun loving adult women across the world. I want to take her to Massage Envy where we will enjoy the Girlfriends Massage, both tables and two therapists in one room with us. When we're tired from all of our adventures, I will embellish Candace's dress with sequins and beads. Or maybe I'll even whip up a couple of new things for her. I want Candace to meet beloved Dylan and Virginia Woolf, and I'll remember to place Candace's little bed in a locking cabinet or a closet that can be closed. Virginia Woolf likes to carry small objects in her mouth and hide them. Candace doesn't look very large to me. And - hey! - have I mentioned I'm expecting a visitor sometime in the future? Welcome, Candace. Viva Las Vegas!

In my ears right now: I am also charmed by artists who cover the material of other artists. I like hearing music I recognize, but having it contain a little twist or surprise. Like, "Hey, who knew?" Or, "I like this version as much as I liked the original." This has been in my ears all day. And may I just say that I love a woman who wears her cowboy boots with a skirt? I am such a woman.

Something that charmed me: Well, I've been charmed a lot this week already, but I have big plans for tomorrow. I need some sunshine. I need Vitamin D. In a bad way. I have an outing in the works. A day in the sunshine exploring a new place and new things. The weather is suited to shorts and a T-shirt and a baseball cap. Lots of water will need to be packed in, sunscreen and the camera tucked into the front flap of my backpack . . .

April 8, 1968

If you've ever spent a moment on this blog, you're aware that I'm sentimental and maybe sappy. I'm a person who feels things deeply, and it's been said that I am very loving. I nurture and encourage and cheer for those I care about. I feed and fetch for those I treasure. I'd make a very fine Labrador Retriever. I'm known to collect and bond to some odd little signs or icons such as an image that pleases me or a date on the calendar or a tune. I internalize those things and they become an integral part of me. The date of April 8th, and specifically April 8th, 1968, is such a thing. Why that date? Why not September 14th or some other target on the calendar? I wonder. Were the stars aligned in some way on the day of my birth that portended April 8th would be an important day for me some 15 years later and for the remainder of my time? I don't know. I'm not that brilliant. But I know about April 8th.

Because the date is special to me, I went searching to see what had happened on it in history. Oh. Ponce de Leon claimed Florida for Spain in 1513 and the U.S. House of Representatives met for the first time in 1789. In 1879, milk was sold in glass bottles for the first time, and on April 8, 1912, two steam ships collided in the middle of the Nile, killing 200. In 1935, Congress approved the Works Progress Administration (WPA) and on 4/8/1939, King Zog of Albania fled the country (for reasons I did not further research). On April 8, 1946, the League of Nations met for the last time and on the same date in 1952, the year of my birth, President Truman seized the steel mills in order to avert a strike. The Supreme Court later ruled Truman had overstepped his authority, which pleases the union representative in my soul. In 1963, Lawrence of Arabia was named the movie of the year at the Academy Awards and in 1974, Hank Aaron slammed that 715th career home run to break Babe Ruth's record of 714. Chicago was the first rock group to play at Carnegie Hall on April 8, 1971 and on this date in 1986, Clint Eastwood was elected mayor of Carmel, California. In 1992, on April 8th, Arthur Ashe disclosed he had contracted AIDS.

Some notable persons claim April 8th birthdays, including Ponce de Leon (Looks like he claimed Florida for his own birthday gift!), the American actress Mary Pickford, ice skater/actress Sonja Henie, U.S. First Lady Betty Ford, the comedan Shecky Greene, TV host John Bartholomew Tucker, Peggy Lennon of the Lennon Sisters singing quartet, conservative Republican U.S. Representative Tom DeLay [sorry, Badger!], Dukes of Hazzard actor John Schneider, John Lennon's son Julian Lennon, and the actress Robin Wright Penn. Whew! The world has also lost a few notables on April the 8th, including the actress Claire Trevor, singer Laura Nyro in 1997, Kurt Cobain of Nirvana fame, U.S. contralto singer Marian Anderson, rock producer Phil Ochs, the artist Pablo Picasso, and the Roman Emperor Marcus Antonilius. Yikes.

But what about my April 8th? The one in 1968? It was a Monday, the first day of what we called Easter vacation, now known as spring break. It was sunny and warm in southern California. Dr. Martin Luther King had been assassinated three days previously. Both the 40th annual Academy Awards and the opening day of National League Baseball were postponed from April 8th to allow the country to mourn. The new socialist constitution of East Germany took effect and WKPI TV Channel 22 (PBS) in Pikeville, Kentucky, began broadcasting. It was a busy day! Number one on the charts in the U.S. was Otis Redding's posthumously released (Sitting On) The Dock of the Bay. In the U.K., the Beatles would earn another gold record on 4/8/1968 for Lady Madonna.


Let's leave the world behind and go to Inglewood, California. It was a lovely Los Angeles suburb at the time. Truly a nice place to live, with good schools, a large shopping area, tree-lined streets, tidy middle class homes with flowers in the gardens. My Granny always wanted to live in Inglewood rather than L.A.-proper, because it was such a nice place. I was stretched out on the living room carpet, transcribing lyrics from one of the tunes on Bob Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited album. The 33 rpm record spun on the Heathkit stereo turntable my father had built. I'd scribble some words and then lift the turntable arm, just to gently put it back on the vinyl to catch the next phrase or two. Bob Dylan is not easy to transcribe. I was killing some time. I tend to be (still today) prepunctual. I'd dressed, applied makeup and fixed my hair, leaving way too much dead time to deal with before 10:00 a.m. He was punctual. I didn't have to wait until 10:02 a.m.
Across my threshold that morning, with the sun shining over his left shoulder, stepped a young man. We'd only talked on the phone, and had specifically set up our first meeting to take place right at the beginning of spring break. I didn't know at the time that the really good looking youngblood would be a person who would become and remain important in my life. I just knew that I liked him. A lot. Immediately. This man and I have been many things to one another across the decades. And - oh, yeah - there was that 30-year stretch when we didn't know if the other still existed. I've written about the relationship before, with probably the best rendition being this one. However, an interested reader could go to my posts with the label 1968 and read from the oldest going forward if the story of two insignificant people allures.

No, the purpose of this post was to simply celebrate the fact that sometimes in life we meet another human being and something in the cosmos begins to whir. Sometimes we're fortunate enough to be able to recognize that something just clicked and this fellow human being is one we want to spend time with. Get to know better. Keep. It has been stated that when he and I are in the same room, the light bulbs spin in their sockets. I think that is a good analogy. That is the kind of energy produced when these two elements are placed in close proximity. I think about the John Lennon lyrics, " . . life is what happens while you're busy making plans . . ". It hasn't gone the way we'd have predicted. It hasn't gone the way we sometimes wanted it to. It hasn't gone according to Hoyle and it hasn't gone by the rules. It hasn't gone by the book and it hasn't gone the way anyone else might have designed it. And it hasn't gone.

Here are the photos, taken by our respective mothers. They were taken within a couple of years of 1968, at most, so this really is the way we looked. Blogger friend Kass had asked me in comments once if I had pictures of us at the time. I confessed that I did have some, but I was reluctant to show mine. Oh, I know what I look like, so that's not the deal. And I remember that white eyeshadow was outlawed the very next year after the picture was taken. I love my John Lennon glasses that had real glass lenses, and I remember that watch with the wide blue band. But I am troubled by the look on my face. I remember the morning well. It was my birthday. My mother insisted on taking the photograph over my objection. My mother and I were engaged in mortal wrangle at all times. So the face you see belongs to a very angry young woman at whom a camera could be aimed, but who could not be forced to smile. In fact, I believe I see a little jut to the jaw that says, "If I snap my neck from all the muscle tension, that's OK. But I will not smile."












Who knows where the time goes? I don't feel very differently. And what will happen next? I don't know. I'm not that brilliant. And I'm reminded that when people are put together, watching the chemical reaction is rather like looking into the kaleidoscope, all the little colored pieces moving into another configuration and then, yet another. One can't predict that.













I may not be brilliant, but I know the good goods when I see them. It's good to have connected with the Badger. Now I think I'll go learn some new things. Those are my most frequently used labels. That's what I do. Connect with others and learn new things. It's good to have you in my life, Badge.

In my ears right now:


Something that charmed me: I've been talking up April 8th for awhile now. Home dudes like me, of course, and they like the Badger. They also like to hear my stories of the days when I was young and dinosaurs roamed the earth. I was welcomed this morning with a flower on my desk and a cup of Starbucks. "Happy April 8th! Truly, 42 years, Les?" As some of the homes were checking out, Matt commented he was going to meet his new girlfriend's mother tonight. It is the good woman's birthday. Then Cesar said, "Hey, it's Thursday! It's my mom's anniversary." Oh. April 8th, huh, homes?

Photo credits for the final four shots respectively: Mother Badger, Mother Now, Limes Now, The Badger

Brain Like a Flea on a Griddle

I can't assign it a light and airy allegorical name like dragonfly or damselfly any longer. To put it plainly, I can't land on a thought and stick to it. This has gone on for a few days and is most unlike me. My head jumps around from thought to thought, lingering on those that really don't matter and darting away from the ones that do matter. Uh-oh. Avoidance. Perhaps I'm lucky, actually. Because I know what has unsettled me. I even know the steps I will have to take to restore order to myself. But I'm not there yet. It will require work of the human being sort with another human being, and I'm not quite ready. So, as unattractive and uninspiring as it is, for today I'm just a toad. Slow moving, unthinking and decidedly not out to change the world. At least not today. It may be fair to call me lazy. Or perhaps, just for the one day, I'm simply not up to participating in the wrestling match required when one carries on a relationship with any other human being. I shall simply plop from one lily pad in the pond to another.

Notwithstanding my recent Sam Cooke addiction, it's now Otis Redding. If one Wikis Otis, one will find a statement saying he had a great ability to emote strongly in his singing. Very true. Wiki says he is the epitome of soul, that American amalgamation of gospel, rhythm and blues and more. I agree. I've written before to say that my 15th year was one that contained both joyous and torturous events. It is one of the years of life about which I have the most vivid memories. Few periods of that time from August 24th, 1967 through August 23rd, 1968 are blank. That part of my canvas is pretty fully painted. One of the headlines in that year was about Otis' plane crash and death. A month later his biggest hit, (Sitting On) The Dock of the Bay, was released. I'm always startled when someone can point only to The Dock of the Bay when Otis Redding's name is spoken. After all, that grand song was the end. There was an entire body of work that went before. And while some may call me an old fussy hen and others simply think I pay close attention to the details, I know this: had I put this tune up on YouTube, I'd sure-as-shootin' have typed his name "Otis" and not "Ortis".

On one wall of my office resides a utilitarian monthly calendar that is used to show when anyone wants a day off. In our world, days off are granted on a first come, first served basis, so this seemingly inconsequential item actually has great importance. At the beginning of each month, we renumber the blocks, change the name of the month, and we're good to go. For no particular reason, Troy re-did the calendar in January, February and March. The calendar was useful, not beautiful, during the first quarter. He never mismarked the date squares and his printing was legible. Last week when everyone was busy on the huge job at the church, I readied the calendar for April. In the header, I wrote "April, 2010" and I drew some simple vines with leaves. Then I was inspired to type, print and put up the best April quote of all, "April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain." The calendar began to be used as soon as April opened. I watched homes put their names up, notice the quote, read it, recoil as if snakebit and elbow other homes in the ribs. Not so this morning! Matt stepped closer to the calendar in order to read the quote. Then he turned to me and said, "Tell me about T. S. Eliot, please, Leslie."

Anyone care to join me for a little more Otis? Yesterday I had to pull the gray pea coat out of the closet. The wind has screamed for days, temperatures below normal, and it even rained. As I pulled the coat on, I reflected that I am damned sick and tired of the wind. It is affecting me negatively. Oh, I'd suffer being so full of antihistamines my lips and tongue stick to my teeth while my nose still runs nonstop. I'd learn to live with making Virginia Woolf a little bed tucked away in the closed bathroom so she doesn't tremble in fear. I'd shoulder the indignity of my hair looking wild for just about half of life. But it's about the miles and miles walking every day in it. Nose running, eyes streaming, chugging up to the end of Desert Inn Road into it, abs contracting with the effort, turning the corners facing into the mighty blast. I have crumpled tissues stuffed into every pocket of every jacket and pair of walking pants, making laundry day a merry hell because no one could possibly remove them all before tossing the clothing into the machine . . . Reader, I have to confess it, when the days go 115-degrees, I'll moan about that, too. But it won't grip me the way the unceasing, freakish wind has. Just one more moan and I'll stop. When the gale shrieks through the streets as it has recently, there is something that freaks me out. When stopped at a red light, one can observe the huge standards that house the traffic lights . . . bouncing in the wind. It scared me in 1976. It scares me now. The newscasters warn us to keep both hands on the steering wheel as the crosswinds can give a car a mighty jolt . . . and I am nearly maddened by it.

Monday, I carried my bags of the week's groceries to the office. I trudged up the stairs like a clumsy, overloaded pack horse, turned into the breezeway and was struck by the irony of the word "breezeway" as I was nearly sent airborne from the second floor deck. I struggled for keys from the purse, my BlackBerry already chirping as homes checked in with me to start their workday. Fumbling at the door, I spotted someone sitting at the patio table. Which one of them was sitting outside in the wind and the cold? Justin? What the hell? For Justin was put on shore leave in December and has been very quiet since. We knew he wasn't having any luck finding work, because some of the others keep in touch with him. Last week in staff meeting we talked about how we still needed more technicians, even after having hired Matt back. There is that much work. David is considering adding to the fleet of mighty war wagons. We are going into conservative growth mode. When Cesar spoke up for Justin, David asked me what I thought. Easy answer. He's experienced. He's experienced in our ways. He's not afraid to ask for the money. He doesn't get called for go-backs. He is something of a leprechaun who charms almost everyone who meets him. So the word spread in the way it spreads in our world, and now, on Monday, Justin was on my deck. He followed in Matt's footsteps, manned up, and asked David to hire him back. Done! Our little group is rejoined, with a few new personalities added. It feels good. Everyone we'd ever consider bringing back is back. Let's go make some money!

I had a wonderful weekend. I do not celebrate Passover or Easter, but I celebrate life and I celebrate Sundays and I celebrate regular old everyday days that have some warmth and friendship and love and shared laughs. I celebrate April. I like to cook a meal to be shared and I like lively conversation peppered with laughs. I like to sit and make plans for future good times. I like to revisit the past good times. I like to share dreams and my opinions and my advice and my support. I like to lull my guests into a relaxed state of bonhomie with food and liquor and then tear them up at cards. I did every bit of that, and more!

In my ears right now: There's no film footage. It's a recording of Otis live in concert in London. Try a Little Tenderness is some kind of song under any circumstances, but oh! This! He makes Three Dog Night sound like three whimpering puppies.

Something that charmed me: I plot a lot of routes throughout our valley. I see a lot of street names. Some of them are simply odd. Others are whimsical or hilarious. GPS told me that #4 was going to turn right at the intersection of Trotting Trigger and Sashaying Spirit . . . . I thought that if my spirit was out in the mean streets, I hoped she would do a little sashay so folks would remember she'd been through these parts.

Flickering Thoughts Like the Damselfly

I've been Sam Cooke-ing for a few days and I'm not sure why. Oh, yes, I've always liked his music. It's clean. Pure. Nostalgic. But I have been on a heavy diet of it for days, apropos of nothing, and I've re-read the circumstances of his shooting death. The courts ruled that he had been drunk and distressed and that the shooting was justifiable. I have troubled meshing the beautiful sound of his voice with the image of him lying dead on the floor at the Hacienda Motel wearing a sport jacket, shoes and nothing else. The area was bad, even in 1964. It was very near the part of Los Angeles that was to be the hotbed of the Watts riots soon to happen. The reader is forewarned that all the film footage is bad. It is all pre-December, 1964.

Friend Kirk Jusko is brilliant about things historical and political. Often, he posts about current political events and I've told him from time to time that his sharp grasp of these things intimidates me just a little. Oh, I'm bright enough. When I represented unionized public employees, I trained and led large groups of members to Sacramento to lobby the lawmakers. So I'm certainly capable of understanding these things. The trouble is, I developed an easily triggered gag reflex. I sicken early and often. And when the choke begins, I find my attention wandering. I'd rather close my eyes and think of England. However, this morning my mind is on politics. It's because of those damned Tea Partiers and a spot I saw on the local news this morning.

Las Vegas (and the state of Nevada, to an extent) is different from any other place in many ways. We elect political officials who are rogues, scalawags, rapscallions, reprehensibles and worse. Although I vote in every election, I never have voted for the candidate who wins office. I guess I'm out of step with the other citizens. Consider our mayor. Oscar Goodman's claim to fame was that he was the lawyer to the mob. I remember hearing the stories of his legerdemain when I lived here in the 1970s and 1980s. His clients included defendants accused of being major figures of organized crime in Las Vegas. He did it well. He'd once been voted one of the top 15 trial lawyers in the U.S. The mob could afford good counsel. He was elected mayor in June, 1999 and remains mayor today. So much for term limits. Our Oscar is a man with some wild ideas, the grit to say outrageous things, and some really poor judgement, publicly exhibited. He's the kind of man Las Vegans elect to high office.



Our recently completed freeway and highway projects include some beautiful wall murals featuring native plant and animal species in colorful bas relief. These are truly lovely enhancements to otherwise unrelieved city and desert driving, and - yes - the grafitti vandals were immediately attracted to them. Mayor Goodman came up with a grand form of punishment for the felons and called a press conference to announce it! Televised thumb amputation. That would certainly be a deterrent to others with cans of spray paint. I wonder which station on cable TV would get the rights to televise that.

Oscar's love of gin is legend. He tells this himself to any interested party. Visitng a classroom of fourth grade students, he was asked what he would want to have with him if he found himself on a deserted island. To the displeasure of some of the parents who heard the story that evening, Goodman's reply was "a showgirl and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin". He certainly is a permanent fixture at any local event presented by the good folks of Lee's Discount Liquor, being featured prominently on posters and flyers, arm around Mr. Lee's shoulders.

We were out for a Sunday afternoon walk in pleasant conditions. We chewed unhappily on the uncertainty of the school district budget cuts and what it might mean personally, rather than generally. I questioned my companion closely, coming from the union rep's point of view. "What is your union doing about these things? Do you think the district really will take unilateral action and break the contract? They can't win at that!"

This led to my sharing a story I'd seen on the news. Mayor Goodman had a proposal for reducing city expenses in our economical crisis. This was not some tongue-in-cheek local joke. This was the man's, the attorney's, actual proposal. "Let's fire all the unionized city workers and then immediately hire them back at reduced hours and reduced wages. No one loses a job and the city saves all the money it needs to save." His actual proposal. The union rep in me screamed! "They can't do that. They have a contract with these workers and they're required to negotiate any change in working conditions. It's unlawful!" It took the City Attorney two days to notify the mayor his proposal was unlawful. Our mayor is the kind of man Las Vegans elect to high office. And that's enough about him. He's not even the politico I meant to write about.

So last week, over at Tag's fine blog, the commenters were being goofy and I volunteered to go chuck rotten produce at Sarah Palin's tea party in Harry Reid's tiny home town and at Ann Coulter who was speaking in Henderson. I even went so far as to say I might get into a physical dust-up with the women, and Tag gallantly said his money was on me. I was just funning about going there. I already had plans for the weekend. But now I wish maybe I'd changed my plans and gone out to get a feel for the idiots.

Currently there are 22 candidates seeking to unseat Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid in the midterm elections. On the news this morning, I heard about one who reminds me of the kind of man Las Vegans elect to high office. Scott Ashjian is a Tea Party candidate. He is an asphalt contractor who has been a lightning rod for negative press since announcing his candidacy. The news spot this morning was presented to say Ashjian narrowly missed being jailed for felony theft. Wednesday he made restitution for a bad check and court fees totaling $5,575, thereby paving the way for the judge to dismiss the felony charges in court today. There is another $5,000 bad check written to a businessman in December that still has not been resolved.








Last week, Ashjian's contractor license was revoked when he failed to appear at a hearing. He has been directed to pay $2,600 in fees and $37,000 to complainants, which includes another bad check for $981.82. Ashjian owes the IRS $200,000 and is facing more than $1 million in home foreclosures. His contractor business has had a number of liens filed and he has been served with a number of city nuisance actions. That's not all! The Independent American Party and the group Anger is Brewing, an affiliate of the national tea party movement, say they will file a lawsuit claiming that Ashjian filed as a candidate before registering to vote as a Nevada Tea Party member. As his own pack turns on him, one can hope that this Tea Partier will have been hoisted by his own petard. Neither Nevada nor the United States Senate needs this. And one is reminded of the kind of man Las Vegans (and other Nevadans) elect to high office. Have I mentioned I have an easily triggered gag reflex?

I wore one of my pairs of Rocket Dogs today. It seemed a Rocket Dog kind of day. On the rare days I wear my Rocket Dogs, homes get very quiet as I arrive at work and put my first foot outside the car and onto the asphalt. When I wore this very pair to our company holiday party at a well-known sports bar, the room turned dead silent as I walked in grinning. For Rocket Dogs are kicks with a little attitude. When a woman wears her Rocket Dogs, she grins a lot. From ear to ear. At everyone. One needs to possess a sense of humor to sport Rocket Dogs. I have one. And the day must seem just right. It is! Yes, they're at least two inches longer than my actual foot. Yes, they're extremely comfortable. I don't wear shoes that are uncomfortable. Yes, the tights are argyle. Yes, that is my best pair of well-worn, much-loved raggedy ass jeans.






In my ears right now: It's Sam Cooke, and the best of his tunes, dammit. But after a day of merry hell with Blogger, now it's YouTube messing with me. If I have to put up the post and add the song later, I will. I'm sick of monkeying around with it. Yep. I had to try it one more time. Stick a fork in me, I'm done. If that song never appears in this post, I'll put it up on a different one.

Ha! There's more than one way to skin a cat, and I know most of them. Here's my favorite from Sam:


Something that charmed me: I bought some potted hyacinth with florets cinched so tightly, I literally could not tell what color my flowers would be. I put it on top of the birds' home in the sunny window, way up high, so I could watch all the action. I know what color the flowers are, and now - so does the reader. The fragrance is overwhelming! Like the busy season down at the funeral home.