So, I just posted two blogs I found that were written in Memphis this summer but somehow never got posted. I just found them, and tossed them up here.

Hell, it's the least I can do.

I don't know if I'll ever blog again. Memphis seemed to kill my creativity, while running built it back up again, in somewhat more of an innocuous, benign manner... And then I came to Seattle and got involved in the Panic (Peter Panic, that is) and I think I may have quashed all creative impulses in my being.

We'll see. As for now, enjoy. Someday I'll tell y'all about the Panic. Oooh. What a production.

Whatever. We all hit rock bottom sometime, huh?

Here's looking up to you. Stay there. For your own good. For the love of god.

If you can't, I recommend running.

Sometimes you've gotta try something just to see if you can do it.

I believe in this mantra, wholeheartedly. Sometimes, if for no other reason, you've just got to find out if something is in your power. You've got to push your limits, and test your abilities.

My mind drifted to this idea - something I've been telling myself for a few months now - as I lifted my new copy of Runner's World out of my mailbox this afternoon. "Beat the Heat" jeers a two page spread as the magazine falls open in my hands. "Beat the Heat." "Outrun the Sun." Countless tips to stay cool while running in the summer months. "The Badwater Bandana."

But see, I know all this.

I've spent the last few months boning up on heat training techniques. On the pros and cons of clima-cool. On the dangers of heat exhaustion. On the dangers of heat stroke. On hydration. On hyper-hydration. On the dangers of hyponatremia. On proper electrolyte and carbohydrate replenishment. On the importance of acclimation. On sauna training. On the efficacy of cooling the body by cooling the neck as opposed to the chest. On the techniques required to keep a core temperature under 105 degrees during prolonged aerobic exercise in extreme temperatures.

I knew about the Badwater Bandana. Thank you, Runner's World.

You see, being an acting runner, my schedule is not entirely flexible. In fact, it's incredibly inflexible. Rarely do I know where I'll be 18 or 20 weeks down the road; rarely do I know where I'll be going next. Therefore, scheduling, training for, and finally completing a marathon in the standard recommended time frame with the standard recommended training is next to impossible. It's impractical. It just won't happen.

But see, you know all this. These are life's little incongruities.

So the past few years, I've taken to keeping a regular training schedule, and then simply ramping up when I find I can do an event. For example, last June, right before I came out here to Memphis, Tennessee, land of Elvis and catfish, I found I would be passing through (roughly) Bend, Oregon, on or about (roughly) June 24. I also found an event calling itself the Pacific Crest Marathon that would be taking place right (roughly) then. So, four or five weeks out, I made plans. I ramped up. I tapered. Then I flew to New York, packed up an apartment in three days and shipped it west, flew back to California, packed up a (smaller) apartment and put it in my car and drove 15 hours to Bend, got up the next morning and ran a marathon. Not the best conditions, but you make do with what you have, right?

And as I sat in my Memphis apartment, enjoying the 95 degree mid-April weather, I realized that my schedule would lighten up right around June. So, I started looking.

Now marathons are hard to come by in the United States in June, July and August, and for good reason. I found a few small races, but most were out of the way, and next to impossible to get to on a budget. The only prospect was a little one in Las Vegas, Nevada. Now, while Las Vegas is relatively cheap to get to (uhm, get to) from most anywhere, it is rather cheap by even those standards to get to it from Memphis, Tennessee. So. Vegas it was. Problem? Oh yes. The race itself.

The Running with the Devil Marathon.

Yes. The usual 26.2, but this time starting at noon in the middle of the Mojave. With temperatures regularly hitting 115 degrees, 2150 feet of verticle, and little to no cloud cover I figured that this might take just a little more preparatory work than my usual ramp and taper.

But you know, sometimes you've gotta try something just to see if you can do it…

So I started my research, and I started my heat acclimation. I quickly found that heat training in Memphis, Tennessee is not a bad plan. Memphis has rather a good amount of heat. And catfish and Elvis both take a little acclimation. So I trained. I planned all my runs in the early to late afternoon, hitting the hottest time of the day. I ran short days in the sun, long days in the sun, only doing speedwork and tempo runs inside. I hydrated. I slowed down. I did all the right things. I ate well and worked hard and drank water all day and all night.

And then, I did something I haven't done in years.

I quit.

I just quit running. God, it was killing me. I was exhausted all the time. I couldn't stand it. I hated my life. I felt like a slug. I ate little. I drank little water. I quit all exercise all together. I stayed inside. I slept a lot and was still exhausted. I became an insomniac, and was still exhausted. I just wanted to close my eyes and cover my head and never, ever, ever see the sun ever, ever again.

Sure, that's why they call it acclimation. Just because you can do it once doesn't mean you're conditioned to it. Yeah, yeah. Just because you can run one 5:15 mile doesn't mean you can run three. I know, spare me.

I still agree with my first assessment, however: sometimes you've gotta try something, just to see if you can do it…

Fortunately, Runner's World must have heard about my lapse and published this cute little article just to shake me from my reverie. How clever of them to time it so that it landed in my mailbox, and subsequently my hot little hand the very day I would have returned from Las Vegas had I not quit being a runner. Kudos to Runner's World. Good for them.

I guess I should see if I can't stumble around the block tomorrow morning without throwing up.

Still, sometimes you've gotta try something…

I guess there's always next year.

Runner's World doesn't tell you everything.

It was probably about six months ago when I first came across the new 5k strategy published by Runners World, supported with scientific data and all sorts of powerful facts, and decided, heck, let's just go out there and give this one the ol' college try.

See, scientific data and facts are powerful motivators for me. I believe in them. If you tell me something is true, and then cite a scientific study, I'm likely to believe you. Hell, I'm likely to tell others. If what you're telling me suggests that I try an experiment myself, well, I'm likely even to do that.

What Runner's World had somehow happened upon was the idea that runners wishing to PR in a 5k distance race should, quite simply, go out too fast. They had the data to prove that it works, and so, somewhat (I believe) irresponsibly, Runner's World decided they should advocate this technique.

So, like the type-A personality science-and-truth lemming that I am, I went along with it. What the article suggested was that the runner start the race 6% faster than their usual 5k pace, which, to any performance driven (type-A) runner, sounds really sweet, because look at how fast you'll be going! In actuality, 6% faster than your usual 5k pace means 6% faster than the pace you can hold for the race distance.

Yes, start running a pace you can't sustain. Great idea. Haven't we always been told never to do that? Haven't coaches and runners alike always advocated against going out too fast, risking the degradation of pace, or worse yet, of total shutdown before the finish? Isn't the backbone of endurance athletics the ability to access personal performance levels, apply patience, and, yes, pace oneself?

Well, yes. And no. According to Runner's World.

The point here is that the 5k is such a short distance that the amount of pace degradation will still not be enough over the 3.1 miles of the event to detract from the time gained by going out too fast.

And I though, "sweet." So I decided to try it.

Now, my 5k PR previously was 19:21, for a pace-per-mile of 6:14. Now, the Runner's World "Fast 5k Calculator" (they wanted to make it easy for everyone to try this) told me that I should go out with a starting pace of 5:50 / mile. Wow. Pretty sweet, I thought. I've never run sub-6 miles before. Awesome.

So, I gathered some friends together, which is odd for me, because usually I like to fail by myself, without other people watching. But, hell, I thought, let's make a party of it. So we did. Fortunately, all my friends decided to either run or walk the course as well (at my sudden urging), which worked out well for me, since no one would be able to see what might or might not happen.

And the gun went off. And I set what I though would be a 5:50 pace. Fast. A Fast 5k. Thank you Runner's World. And I round the first corner, having to lean into it cause I'm going SO FAST! It was awesome. And mile marker 1 comes up, and I look up ahead - one guy. There's one guy ahead of me. I'm second! Sick! 5:39. Oops. Oh well. This is awesome, I think. There's only two more miles - I can do this no problem. I can probably even hold this pace for the whole thing! Runner's World rocks!

But Runner's World doesn't tell you everything.

Oh my God it hurts. It hurts so bad. This fast 5k thing is so ridiculously painful. The problem is, you're purposefully setting yourself up to fail, with the only caveat being that you won't be able to fail completely before the finish because the race is so short. Now I've been hit in the face with a snow ski and lost all my teeth. I've taken some nasty spills on a road-bike that left me unconscious. I've been in car accidents. I've taken falls from great heights. The thing is, these things are quick. They happen in an instant. Sometimes, if they're bad enough, you're body goes into shock - thank God - and spares you the experience.

Runner's World spares you nothing. Just a long, long, ever so long, slow, slow decay into delirium and total agonizing exhaustion. But you won't quit, because it's too humiliating to quit at mile 1.5 of a 5k.

And that's about where it happens. It's was over for me. People started passing me. I went from second to third to fifth to tenth in about a quarter mile. Mile two came and I was ready to call it a day. How could I possibly go another mile? But what happens if you drop out of a 5k? What a fool you look like if you've just been leading the pack. What an idiot I would be. I've done everything I've always learned not to do: way to fast out of the start, in complete oxygen debt, panting like heat-stroked dog, hardly able to keep my feet moving. But I do. I do. I can't let anyone see me quit.

The last tenth of a mile was like the last 10k of a marathon: unending. I felt like I was sprinting but was probably lucky to be pulling a 7 minute pace. Finally, the finish. I grab my finishers card and look at it. Sixth. Huh. Sixth. That's pretty cool. I look up at the clock. 19:00. WHAT? 19:00.

Yes, indeed. It worked. Runner's World, although they didn't tell me everything, was right. And here's why I think they can call this sketchy little article a safe bet: there are only a few people who would actually go out and try it. There are only a small handful of people who would actually go against their own better judgement and the advice of nearly every running coach and professional in the sport. There are only a few. And those few are the same few who would be the only ones to actually finish the race they have, in such a reckless manner, started.

The type-A's. The few. The sore. Me.

it's humiliating to want things.

whether my own personal version of this neurosis extends to all things or just to people i cannot be entirely certain.

nonetheless, i can imagine myself in some african bazaar or third world market, three days without water, searching as vendors would rush to crowd me with expectations; sweeping insensitivity they elbow me with ultimatums and second-guess my responses, mocking my fragile desire and forcing me to turn away. my back to the bazaar, my eyes firmly planted on the desert i continue on, leaving behind that which i most crave and most sorely need, martyring myself for my own neuroses.

why? how did this happen? when did it begin and why? when does it end?

and does it?

not funny.  ever so sorry.

oily marks appear on walls
where pleasure moments hung before
the takeover, the sweeping insensitivity of this
still life

hide and seek

a decade
squandered or spent?

a code:

class ($life) {
  if ($this->life == $this->career) {
   switch ($this->relations) { 
     case 'professional':
        $this->priority = 1;
        break;
     case 'family':
        $this->priority = 8;
        break;
     case 'romance':
        $this->priority = 9;
        break;
     case 'finance'
        $this->priority = 32
        break;
    }
    while ($this->relations == 'finance') {
      $this->financialWherewithall = $this->financialSolvency/$this->priority;
    }
    if ($this->priority < 5) {
      unset ($this->everythingElse);
      $this->effort = TRUE;
    } else {
      $this->effort = FALSE;
    }
 
    if ($this->effort == TRUE) {
      $this->aptitude = $this->financialWherewithall * $this->need;
    } else {
      $this->aptitude = 0;
    }
 
    $time = time();
    $this->success = $this->aptitude * $time;

  } else {
    refigure ($this->life);
  }
}

what you say?  that you only meant well?  well of course you did
what you say?  that it's all for the best?  of course it is
what you say?  that it's just what we need?  you decided this
what you say?

three things motivate: none are independant, none are less important, valid or integral

hide and seek

three things motivate:
none are independant, nore are less important, valid or integral

hide and seek

three things motivate:
none are independant, nore are less important, valid or integral

hide and seek.

ransom notes keep falling out your mouth
mid-sweet talk newspaper word cutouts
speak no feeling no unbelieving
you don't care a bit, you don't care a bit

if ($life != $career) {
  return;
}
if ($financialWherewithall > $livable) {
  return true;
} else {
  $this->life['value'] = $people * $financialWherewithall;
  if ($financialWherewithall < $appropriate) {
    $this->life['value'] = $people;
    if ($people < $enough) {
      $this->life = FALSE;
      $this->success = NULL;
      exit();
    }
  }

just a gypsy, once again....





where to?

(1, 2 or 3? please vote.  remember, it's always easiest to vote for 1 in any case, does it matter?)

thanks

ok. first road bike crash in my new triathlon training. takes me back to when i was twelve, riding around the neighborhood... all the crashes, the road-rash. it's cute and sad when you're twelve. it's just plain pathetic when you're thirty-three. and it hurts like a mother. i've got bandages on both hands, my elbow, shoulder, hip, and ego, and a race on saturday. whatever. so i look to my triathlon forums for support. (what a geek.) anyhow, enjoy...

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

04-06-2006, 07:33 PM
Triguy98
HyperActive Trifueler

Skill Level: Int.
Primary Distance: Half Ironman
Endurance Level: 6,7,9

Join Date: Apr 2005
Location: Tampa
Posts: 1,722

The following advice is the best treatment for road rash, even though it is competely insane:

Get a green scrub pad and scrub the crap out of it. You'll open the wounds again, and you'll bleed like crazy, but youve gotta get all the stuff out.

Then my personal treatment method: (i am not a medic or a doc, just someone who mtbs and crashes a lot )

After scrubbing, bust out the peroxide. Liberally cover and then wait to air dry. Then apply antibiotic ointment. My personal preferance is to bandage at night, so you dont scrape anything open and bleed all over the bed, and leave open to air during the day whenever possible. When the ointment dries out, i re-peroxide and apply the ointment again. Repeat.

I find i heal faster this way than washing once and covering it up.

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

04-06-2006, 07:49 PM
tri-ac
Trifuel Regular

Skill Level: Beginner
Primary Distance: Olympic
Endurance Level: 5,3,3

Join Date: Dec 2005
Location: Portland, OR
Posts: 323

Triguy - you're not helping the world believe we're not insane

"To dream that you are attacked by a tiger, signifies overwhelming gloom and disappointing failures. You may find yourself distressed and tormented by rivals."

"To dream of a tiger advancing towards you, you will be tormented and
persecuted by enemies. If it attacks you, failure will bury you in gloom.
If you succeed in warding it off, or killing it, you will be extremely
successful in all your undertakings."

"Symbolizes repressed feelings or emotions that frighten you. If the tiger is in a cage, then it suggests that those repressed feelings are on the verge of surfacing. If you dream of being attacked by a tiger, you may find yourself distressed and tormented by rivals."

*sigh*
*shakes head*

I think that it's probably best not to really embellish this story or try to "write" it, if you will. This is more of a documentary take on the events which follow, standing objectively apart and observing rather than commenting.

That said, while the following happenings have no connection whatsoever with my previous blogs, and should not be looked at as connecting or related events, the reader might find it serendipidous to simply review the blogs prior, especially those involving Jessica.

Now, having said all the above, I will make one brief comment, and that is this: there are many things around us which we do not understand, and for the great majority of these things, basic understanding or comprehension is out of the realm of our human capability.

To the right you'll see a photo of myself and my friends taken on the evening of March 5th, 2007. From left to right are Rory Dale, Carla McDonald, myself (with the beer) and Courtney Oliver (yes, if you were wondering that is the painting from the play Art in the background). The four of us are at my apartment home on Central avenue here in Memphis, and we had recently enjoyed a large meal and had spent not a small amount of time relaxing and quaffing beverages, including a very nice Somona Coast pinot noir. When Rory arrived at my house, he made specific note of the neighbors house, and stated that he "would get in there" by the end of the night. For reference please note the next photo: the neighbors.

In fact, "the neighbors" are not really neighbors at all but a large abandonded stone castle. The castle is for sale, and has been for many years. Memphians remember this as a nightclub owned by a prominant and offbeat resident during the 1990s. The building itself, however, is called Ashler Hall, and was build in 1896. It is listed on the National Historic Registry. I've also included a panoramic of the front of the building, and you will be able to see my building on the left, followed by Carla's old building on the right, and the Red Cross across the street, etc. Most likely resulting from the various beverages consumed during the evening, Rory's earlier idea to "get in there" seemed more and more plausible and entertaining to me and our companions, and we made the attempt at somewhere around one in the morning. Rory scaled the fence first, followed by myself (see photos following). I had a slightly more difficult time as I was wearing Heelies, and having wheels on the bottom of one's shoes is certainly no help when scaling eight foot fences.

THE PANORAMIC:

THE SCALING OF THE FENCE - RORY, THEN AARON (IN HEELIES):

It was only after both Rory and I had scaled the fence that Courtney indeed noticed that the gate about four yards to the left was in fact open and ajar. Finding no interest in the open gate having already scaled the fence, I continued on, following Rory's voice which was exclaiming "I can't believe this car is open" in a British accent. Indeed, there was a car in the driveway. It was a 1948 Chrysler Windsor hearse, and it was open.

It was at this point that Rory came up with the idea that he should have the car. Possibly because his own car is currently without a transmission, or simply due to the fact that it was a really cool car, but Rory nonetheless was drawing up plans for an escapade at a later date to somehow liberate the car from it's rather forsaken situation.

I was paying no attention, however. The car, in my estimation, was much less interesting - or downright spooky - than what was inside the car. The contents, to me, proved much more disturbing that the fact that it was sitting there, unlocked.

Barely believing my own eyes, I sat for a moment staring at the numerous objects before hurling one over the fence to Carla, the only other person who could fully understand the scope of the increasingly bizarre situation now unfolding before us. As Carla came over to the fence, this is what she saw:

Yes. A mannequin head. The car was filled with many of them.

Jessica, a mannequin head that Carla and I knew well was from a completely different situation. She/he/it has made numerous appearances throughout January and February, mostly at performances of the show The Wild Party at Circuit playhouse, where she/he/it worked as a wig stand for Queenie's (Carla's character's) blond hair, and most recently Jessica make a brief appearance in Little Rock at a Bouffonts gig (see previous blog).

But Jessica was nowhere to be seen here. She/he/it had nothing to do with this evening. And it did seem bizarre to me that so many of her kind were simply left for dead in a junked-out old car in front of a run-down castle in Memphis, TN.

Not knowing what to think, I began looking into the castle and it's owner, Prince Mongo today. As I google-searched him, I began to get closer to a few answers with quotes such as "Mannequins continuously bring me information from my planet." from a 2005 Memphis Flyer article. To help shed a little light on the issue, I include the following entry from Wikipedia:

Robert Hodges, better known by his self-styled moniker Prince Mongo, is a Memphis eccentric and minor political personality. He claims to be the ambassador of the planet of Zambodia and claims to be 333 years old.

Hodges is famous in Memphis, where he has owned several large nightclubs in the town, including the giant Prince Mongo's Planet — three stories and 30,000 square feet of partying — and another called the Castle, which was housed in a century-old stone mansion. He has also run for and been defeated as a Mayoral candidate on several occasions.

Hodges is apparently financially secure, rumored to be family money, but nobody has been able to verify the source of his wealth. He owns a $2 million Fort Lauderdale home near Las Olas Boulevard. He also owns homes in Virginia Beach and Memphis.

Once, he was jailed for dumping trash in the yard of one of his enemies. He was also dogged by lawsuits over the drunk-driving deaths of two teenagers who died after they were served beer at the Castle in 1992.

He is also notable for a September 2002 run-in with the Shelby County General Sessions Court, which had ordered him to remove a collection of patio furniture, beach umbrellas, mannequin heads, toilet seats, and other items from his East Memphis front yard. He challenged the order in court, appearing in a green cape and goggles, green body paint, and festooned with a rubber chicken. He was charged with contempt of court, sent to prison for ten days, and was fined $13,875. He vowed to fight the case, but on June 10, 2004, pled guilty and paid a $500 penalty.

His stunts have made him a household name in Memphis, and got him featured on the 1980s television show Real People.

Perhaps, however, the most interesting quote I found was this one, from a January 2006 article in the Broward-Palm Beach New Times:

He claims that he's been living winters in Fort Lauderdale for 33 years, but county records show he's owned the home only since 1985. When he leaves for parts north, he still doesn't lock the doors. "Anybody can come in here anytime and take what they please," he says. "I don't care. I'll give anything away. People are always walking off with my TVs. I don't mind. I have a terrible phobia about throwing things away. Why throw things away when you can give it away?"

Hmmm. Anyone know how to hotwire a 1948 Chrysler Windsor hearse?

btw. Prince Mongo does have a mySpace. You should add him.

jessica onstage with the bouffants in little rock. photography by carla mcdonald.

by carla mcdonald.



Diary of Jessica

for those of you who don't know i have recently contracted a virus.  one which, at first glance, appeared to be the delightful annual influenza strain that is currently making its unchecked way through our cast (can NOTHING be DONE??), but upon closer inspection seems to be a slight bit more frightening.

now, i'm no doctor, but check this out:


that, of course, in and of itself is not sufficient grounds for any type of diagnosis, but it certainly, i believe, should give one pause.  it should probably, i believe, provoke one to, in fact, "dig a little deeper" as they say...

The Marburg virus is the causative agent of Marburg hemorrhagic fever. Both the disease and virus are related to Ebola and originate in the same part of Africa (Uganda and Eastern Congo). The zoonosis is of unknown origin, but some scientists believe it may be hosted by bats.

The disease is spread through bodily fluids, including blood, excrement, saliva, and vomit. There is no cure or vaccine for this deadly and infectious virus. Victims suffer a high fever, diarrhea, vomiting, and severe bleeding from bodily orifices and usually die within a week. Fatality rates range from 25 to 100%.

this, in fact, is not good news.  not good, at all.  imagine then, my absolute horror when my good friend rory showed me this pic from the "night at the park" (reference earlier blog):



thank god his crazy, CSI-style photoshopping techniques were able to pull that out of there; otherwise, we might never have known.

if i don't come out of this within the week, please, PLEASE, someone call the CDC.

photography by carla mcdonald.

so, some friends and i had a little pow-wow at the park here in memphis last night after the movies.  it was rather fun (oh, please, see photo below), but it got me thinking a little about this other-world that i find myself in...  the south.

southerners, i'm finding, are broadcasters of a sort.  they are serious about getting their message out, and they, generally, are rather overt in their manners.  i'm generalizing here, please don't think me rude, evangelical, or racist in any way (well, regionalist, i guess).  many southerners are not like this at all.

but then, many are.

the south is a place of messages.  everyone has one, everyone needs to broadcast it.  even, often times, those who visit the south for a period feel compelled to contribute (witness a blog by one of my coworkers here), however inappropriate they may later find their syndication.

a blog is, of course, more subtle.  the generally zealous southerner, usually a conglomerate body of sorts - a church, a business, tends to resort to signage.  billboards, the like.

now, the midwest has billboards.  anyone who has driven the length of kansas understands the deep lonliness that is culturally embedded in the sunflower state upon reading "worlds largest chicken" and "three legged cow, next left 29 miles".

but the south seems to have a message other than "come here please".  the south has a sort of hubris that is indeed contagious (witness again coworker's blog).  the south has god and jesus christ and - yes - morality firmly on their side.  so billboards such as "he died for you" and "it's not too late... yet", which - admittedly - find place in a fair portion of this fair nation, find a very specific abundance here.  the more specific signs such as "crawville ford.  we sell for jesus" and "keep saying my name in vain, and i'll make rush hour longer. -god" have a real niche here.

and perhaps it is because of this need to broadcast, this overwhelming need to speak - to shout - one's message to the masses that errors happen.  that mistakes are made.  sure, utah's church of jesus christ of latter day saints may have gone a little arwy with the "bored? try a missionary position." campaign, but here in the south, people may be even clumsier.  as the need to broadcast - to erect statues, often those one didn't even design (witness park picture) - to put up signs, to blog incessantly increases, the need to compete increases as well.  the secular business jump in, headfirst and fully clothed, scrambling for whatever roadside space can be found.

so maybe it is the voyeristic nature of the outsider that keeps me picnicing at the park, but indeed the true gold, that rare diamond in the rough, the real reward comes at once in little tiny moments.  little bullets of moments that hit subtly between the eyes.  moments you don't notice until later.  often much later.  when you're sitting at the park.  looking at a statue with a bizarre grimace incorporating awe and disbelief.  that you remember.  indelibly.  your very own favorite billboard.

arkansas.

between paducah and louisville.  northbound.

"charlie's tattoos.  while you wait."

_______________________________


[park picture]

ok.

i got off work the other night at about 11, and went home. i went to sleep. and then i woke up at 4am to the sound of a car alarm going off. and it kept going off and going off. so i got on my computer, but couldn't get on line because the gym's internet across the street that i use wasn't working. so i played solitaire for and hour until this guy finally got the alarm to go off. yes, and hour. and i went back to sleep. and then i woke up and remembered possibly the only dream i've had since the 1990s. it went like this:

i woke up in my bed in my apartment, but everything was trashed and i started to look about and my stereo was destroyed and my computer was destroyed and my piano had been punched with a sledge hammer all over and my closets and cabinets were all over the place and i thought - i've been robbed - which is the wrong thing to think because they hadn't taken anything, just destroyed it. so i went out in the hall to call the cops - which is also the wrong thing, cause there's no phone in the hall - no reason to go out there except expository (i love that the dramatic structure of my dreams is clunky - i should probably stop writing) and when i got out there there were all these people in the hall with computers and cords running everywhere like some nasa control room and someone said "this one's awake" and some nice looking man came over to me and said some nice things of which i don't remember. and then he said we're sorry we had to do this. and i said so it wasn't just a coincidence about the car alarm. and he said no. and then he said we paid you well, we can't give you more than what your stuff was worth, but we paid you well. which doesn't make any sense because how can he pay me "well" if he can't give me any more than my stuff is worth. and i think it was because i was reading an article about the new imminent domain laws that passed in some states that says that the government can take your home if they plan to build on it - they can just decide what it's worth and give you a check and make you leave, which is total bullshit. so the guy gave me an envelope and said he was sorry again, and i said can i stay here though? cause i don't have any friends in memphis and i don't have anywhere to go. and he said maybe for a night or two but i have to leave. and i said ok. and then i said i had to go get breakfast. and so i started to leave and noticed that my building wasn't a building anymore but a mall. they were converting the whole thing to a mall, and like some guys apartment was already a bath and body works. and there were all sorts of other stores everywhere. so i stopped in a starbucks and got a coffee and opened my envelope in which was a check for $4600 and i thought, sweet, i've got $4600. then i thought, wait a minute, that's bullshit, cause my stuff - all of it - is worth way more than that - i've got hundreds of books and an electric piano and a computer and a stereo and all sorts of shit and i needed more money, plus i had to move into a new place and everything, and i had to do it soon cause i had to be at work at ten, so i got up to go look for a lawyer, but then i remembered that it was the government who did this so instead i went to find a bar.

memphis has turned my whole life into a kafka novel.

will i ever laugh again??

...about where i grew up.

i grew up in the rural rolling hills of eastern washington state, right along the idaho border.  it's really quite beautiful here, with the wheat fields rippling across the countryside like a bedsheet in the wind, and the sun shining, and the tall trees bowing and the sweet, sweet, sweet summer air blowing across your face.

and, like much of americana at this time of year, it is a community exuberant and joyful.

the fourth of july, you see, is like christmas for republicans.

i'm mixing metaphors there, but you get the idea.  i've come home to visit family for this short holiday week, you see, as this is my only down time this year.  i'm trying to make the most of it.

so, with potato salad marinating, flags waving, fireworks energetically popping and (thankfully) beer flowing, eastern washington is indeed a portrait of good ol' fashion' americana.

and that, my loyal blog readers, is apparently newly-foreign to me.

you see, at roughly seven a.m. (a time i affectionately refer to as "zero o'clock") i rode with my family out to what the locals call "the johnson parade".  this was the fortieth anniversary of the parade, and it is, indeed, a hit.  after snatching up our two coveted parking spots and setting up our lawn chairs on the prime real estate that is johnson main street, we headed off for the four-block walk down to breakfast. (the other end of town.  no.  i'm serious.)  having found the line far to long to allow us to be served prior to the start of the holiday parade (roughly two and a half hours away), we headed back to the car.

now, this is how i know i'm not really a local.  everyone here knows everyone else.  and there are a lot of people; certainly more than the little town of johnson sees on a day to day basis.  certainly more than they'll see till, well, till next year.  but everyone knows everyone. 

everyone, that is, except for me.

not that i'm all that worried.  and i certainly don't feel left out.  it just gives me a little time to observe.  and to people watch.

and this, my readers, is what i learned:

a) young children love candy, so much so that they'll violently fight for it.
b) children in the parade who are responsible for throwing candy to parade-goers must feel some sense of resentment, for it often appears as though they are trying to kill people with candy.
c) americana and patriotism are synomous in this part of the world, as are patriotism and the phrase "support the troops".
d) the one volkswagon "peace van" driver looked rather lonely and haggered.
e) most americans love predictability and resist change.
f) my grandfather has poor taste in sunglasses.
g) it must be an election year.
h) teenagers with nothing to do can always have fun with squirt guns and firehoses.
i) even though washington is a blue state, this part of washington is as red as china, although they wouldn't appreciate me saying it that way.
j) teenagers, around here, range from twelve to sixty-ish.
k) most local politicians don't realize that you can't buy votes with candy, nor that children don't vote.
l) americana is also, around these here parts, synonymous with "water fights".
m) the "good old party" may or may not be good, we know that much is questionable, but here they certainly are old.

.....

and apparently....

..... *smiles* .....

.....

n) if you can't get elected to the ninth congressional district the ol' fashion' way, you might as well try having your son pull you with the tractor while sitting confortably in a manure spreader, hosing your would-be constituents down with an insecticide sprayer full of water while thowing candy to children.

.....

sometimes i just love coming home.