Mr Trail Safety Speaks!

So, You Want To Pace...

2011-07-27T15:56:00.000-07:00

I'm going to aim for the knockout points right up front, and flat out tell you that the ideal pacer is above the average runner, and a tough, lean, canny guide and wily co-competitor for the above-average runner. The ideal pacer is an expert, the ghillie for the hunt here, and if you're gunning for a buckle, all the positive help you can get is for the better.

However, we all start at the beginning. If this is your first time pacing, think very carefully about the following:

Are you up for "running" [or not] above or below your comfort zone?
Do you have romantic notions about the task ahead of you? This encompasses both overt or cryptic attachments to your runner [provided you know them], and/or the business about being out all night and the brutal part of the day.
Have you run at night? More than once? On the course? In bad weather?
Do you have an urgent, time-sensitive appointment Saturday or Sunday? Too bad. You'll miss it, guaranteed.

Quiz Time, campers! Read on.

Your runner is dehydrating slowly. He/she grinds to a halt, is disoriented, perhaps delusional. Are you ready for it? Then what?
Are you ready to look at a urine stream in the middle of the night to check its color? What does it mean if its the color of ice-tea? What happens if they also have diarrhea at the same time?
Your flashlight goes dead. Got a spare bulb/battery?
Your runner's quads blow up. He/she bellows "My quads blew up! Got any ibuprofen/NSAIDs/Aspirin?" What is the best answer?
Your runner is insecure about where they are. Do you know the course? Have you run it before? Have you run it at night, after being up all day, perhaps crewing?
Do you have the ability to keep silent when needed? Your runner may need to get something off their chest, and it could be real deep. Don't act surprised if they don't like you personally right then. Hundreds take the paint down to bare metal, and the fun is long-gone by mile 70.
Does it piss you off to run behind somebody? What do you see?

CHEATSHEET ANSWERS

Electrolytes. Start pounding them until they stabilize. Delusional behavior will probably continue until they begin to rehydrate. It won't be pretty.
Big-ass trouble. Start pounding fluids, electrolytic, and keep checking the whiz stream until its clear. Brown urine and diarrhea mean that the fluids aren't being absorbed into the body, starving the kidneys, and the fluids are free-falling out the afterburner.
You'd better. And if your runner ditches you, tough shit.
"Keep running, there's nothing you can do about it!" Best piece of advice I ever heard, from Jim O'Brien, 1996 AC, on Echo Mtn. If we'd stopped and dicked around, I'd still be out there. I buckled.
Whatever you know is gonna have to do. Unless you know the course cold, "we're almost there" is the best way to get stabbed.
Maintain awareness. Some people like talking. Monitor. Mood swings are par for the course. Do not assume anything. Its not about you.
For instance, once, a long time ago, I was pacing a friend at WS, and it dawned on me that he was only swilling from the ice-water bottle. The electrolyte bottle was in his 1-bottle fanny-pack *and* he had a flashlight in the other hand. It became clear that he was dehydrating via reduced electrolytes.

I put a funnel in his face and Gator-bonged him. He buckled.

CONCLUSION

Pacing is about your runner.Don't expect them to be grateful. Try to learn from it all.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S ONE MORE THING!

Inches from a clean getaway, huh? For all you runners out there who *might* get the idea that the pacer is Your Personal Bitch for the duration—wrong.

Pacers, and crews especially, have given up their weekend. They could be getting drunk or laid, and not have to put up with any of this, and you especially. If you are romantically involved with your pacer, and they help you with your epic PR, whatever, you owe them. Big Time. You're bright, you'll figure it out. Or not.

2011 AC100: Heat, Dust And Dreamz

2011-07-25T13:13:00.000-07:00

Hanta ho, truthseekers!

From The Endurance Suburb Of The World®™, the 24th AC100!

All the putatively anointed pre-race favorites saw their races end prematurely. Jorge Pacheco and Keira Henniger were done by Chantry. I suspect Jorge's exit was accelerated by prancing around at Badwater 2 weeks earlier, when he should've been tapering. Don't know what happened to Keira, can't comment or speculate, which cripples another life on TV. Mine, not hers.

From the top of Baden-Powell, I had less than 20min to myself before Jorge Pacheco hove into view. More on that in a bit. I'd spent a restless night camped out at the base, complete with phantom memories of pre-race nerves. Quarter moon, stars, utterly delicious. It wasn't even my race, but 20 years of direct connection to the AC100 beast has left a deep imprint.

Jorge was first over the top around 0800. I had just settled in 15min prior, after a sleepless night down in the Vincent Gap lot, with eventual winner Dominic Grossman was 2nd over 30min later; feeling a bit wobbly after a projectile-vomit fest at Vincent. There were gaps in the parade, with the main pulse passing by 0900, finished by 1000. Maggie Beach was leading by seconds at that point, later passed by Keira, and the eventual winner Paulette Zillmer. No, I don't have her time and splits. You'll adjust.

Tom Neilsen was steady in 5th place, working his way up the ladder as the race wore on, finishing in the top 5 or so. Later he observed that he saw idiots racing up Baden-Powell "burning 30min of energy get a 6min advantage". They paid for it all later.

Dom G took it in 20:20, which is good given the conditions. Yes, he trained like a mo-fo, and no, somehow he didn't blow his taper at Hard Rock, pacing. I wouldn't recommend it, but what the hell.

The Elder Wheezers reading this will get a tear welling up from one eye remembering that July used to be a peak training month, getting your heat-mojo in order, so it would get tickled but not beaten in on Race Day. Oh, epic memories!

Nature Loves You Too

I'll start posting images later this week, all matters of forensic evidence.

Yours in the sanctity of holy ultrarunning, in the greatest ultras of them all®™, etc

Mr Trail Safety

Character-driven Ultra Content

2011-03-06T11:08:00.000-08:00

Meet Desdemona and Terrazzo. Thanks to the fun-loving folks at xtranormal.com, these upstanding generic cartoon characters will now explain Mysteries of Ultrarunning to you in ways you didn't imagine. Or tell you "So, You Want to Be A Lawyer".

Yawn. "Chariots of Fire" it ain't. Momma told you not to come anyway.

Here, have some salt.

100 Miles In 7 Minutes: The Angeles Crest 100

2011-03-06T11:05:00.000-08:00

Terrazzo and Desdemona relive the agony and ecstasy of running 100 miles at the Angeles Crest 100-Mile Endurance Race.

Western States 100 For Beginners

2011-03-06T11:03:00.000-08:00

Terrazzo and Desdemona take you through race day at the legendary Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run.

Looking For Kitty at the the Wasatch 100

2011-03-06T11:00:00.000-08:00

Desdemona and Terrazzo reminisce about the Wasatch Front 100-Mile.

Stairway To The Leadville 100

2011-03-06T10:55:00.000-08:00

Stairway To The Leadville 100

The famed Leadville Trail 100 Trail Race is lovingly described by your hosts Desdemona and Terrazzo.

A Poem For Spring

2010-12-21T22:30:00.000-08:00

Desdemona and Terrazzo are featured in a dramatic reading of "A Poem For Spring", wherein a dewy maiden proclaims her troth to the virile and enigmatic Forest Prince.

Is It Still The Same When I'm Not There?

2010-12-08T08:18:00.000-08:00

An office romance explores the differences between men's and women's notions of sexuality.

If Carhartt Made Wedding Dresses…

2010-09-17T13:53:00.000-07:00

"La Paloma de Alba"

This lovely two-piece bib overall mermaid gown has delicate, feminine details throughout. From the hand-beaded, antique-finish nickel hardware brooch detail on the sweetheart bodice, to the cascading rose at the hip, it is a gorgeous dress for the modern bride.

Field-Tested, multiple tool and utility pockets. Faux-braided ribbon closure at back; breakaway honeymoon closure on side. Made of 11.75-ounce, 100% denim cotton, with triple-stitched main seams, satin-polyester facings and taffeta trim material. Also available in Nomex®™.

Shown in Sandstone. Available in Moss, Dark Green and Enhanced Black.

Suck it Up, Cupcake

2010-08-02T16:10:00.000-07:00

Geoff Roes in the final 100 yards of his record-setting 15hr 07min Western States 100 win. Finish line at Western States 100, Auburn, CA. June 26 2010.

Today I'm going to slit the throat of some sacred cows. First out of the box was this on-line hilarity: "When your runs aren't fun anymore", which cited the following:

running not fun
tired legs
discomfort

Oh my. If I'd quit when "running wasn't fun" I'd never get past the 50-yard line. On a downhill course. Meet our constant companion, homeostasis.

Briefly, it means "The ability or tendency of an organism or cell to maintain internal equilibrium by adjusting its physiological processes." In plain language: never moving off your comfort zone. Common example: people hovering in a Costco parking lot trying to get the spot closest to the door. It usually involves a lot of ass-time. You're going to have to step out in order to move up.

This past weekend I was on a run 20% longer in time, and 100% greater in vertical gain, than I'd been on in months. Was I not having fun? yes. Did I have tired legs? Oh yes. Was I in discomfort? yes.

The main differences with all three was that I knew that these were not the end of the world. I was pounding down electrolytes [old-school Gatorade] and water. This forestalled dehydration, and then dementia. I kept moving [because then my legs wouldn't lock up]. I kept calories coming in, because brains require a steady nutrient drip to keep making good decisions.

When I got back to the car, I broke out a tall beaker, and helped my immediate recovery as follows:

12oz cranberry juice [reasonably organic, non HFCS-tainted]
12oz water
3 scoops soy protein powder

Whisk up, drink fast. I keep the juices etc diluted to 50%, as there's no need to bang yr insulin levels around.

I could feel the recovery start right there. Keep rehydrating afterwards with water as needed through to bedtime.

TIRED LEGS

Part of the conditioning process is going to involve muscle fatigue. You'll have to figure out if you're:

too much, too soon physical acceleration.
Overstressed and undertrained.
Over-raced and under-rested

Are you over-weight and previously sedentary?

If so, you have to s-l-o-w-l-y acclimate your body to the new loads you are placing on it. And that will involve discomfort.

Each sport and activity has its own specificity. You're gonna have to practice at it to get good. Some cross-training is good, but don't count on time away from the discipline to make you fabulous.

Last year I read an unintentially hilarious post about some Cross-Fitters who were talking big about how they were going to blow up a 100-mile race based on their Cross-Fit and 30mpw. They got to 75 miles and dropped, with blisters the size of dollar pancakes.

I don't dispute Cross-Fit's overall strength-building premise. But it was clear that somebody's running training was not equal to the task.

Respect the sport, and respect the distance. I've never cared much for shorter-distance races [ie 5 & 10ks]. It was too much suffering up-front in too little time. The shorter the race, the hotter it gets.

THE LONG RUN, GREAT WALL, AND THE BEASTS WITHOUT

Then, I was recently reading online about "how to break up your long runs". If I'd been driving I would've rubbernecked, and rear-ended the car in front of me. The article was aimed at half-marathon runners, and was fixated on how you couldn't or shouldn't run more than 3 hours. The specters of overuse injuries wafted over the proceedings.

I used to live in that state of fear. Let's take a look at these fears:

Long Runs

Yes, you can, and eventually will, run longer than three hours. And you won't die, provided you take care of yourself. Meaning: you are weather-appropriate, you are well-hydrated, you've conditioned yourself sensibly, and you aren't acting like a dick.

The long run was defined as 2-1/2 hours. You won't be pounding it out at a 90% race pace either.

Also mentioned or implied in the fear of long runs is the prevalence of injury among runners. Once again, refer to the previous list of three.

Injuries do not occur because a god, deity or cartoon-character is angry with you. Injuries are your body's way of telling you that you didn't do something very bright somewhere along the line, or a hidden stress point has been tapped. You then get to fix it, and learn from the experience.

I've known more people than I care to remember who ran while injured. They never let themselves heal properly. This type of behavior is typical of 'wounded persons/injured runners' who desperately need to get a life.

Nutrition

Run nutrition here is liquid-based, or liquid dominant. Back in the day I'd make a "Gator-plex" mutant hybrid of Gatorade and Carboplex. It kept enough calories and electrolytes in me to accomplish what I needed. Now its Gatorade and Clif-Bars, plus some date-expired GU I was comped.

The Great Wall
There is a lot of jabbering about "the Wall" eek-eek-eek!

The Dreaded Wall®™ is when the body runs out of glycogen and then starts hitting your fat reserves. Its not a fun transition, but usually memorable. Adequate nutrition takes care of this problem. Worst-case scenario: keep walking, and improvise.

Once on a training run, I hit so hard it was hilarious. I dragged myself to a hot-dog stand, filled a little paper cup several times with relish, ate that, then got a long drink of water. I stabilized, and continued. I wasn't very fast, but it was passable.

SMELL THE FEAR, Then Draw your own Conclusions

If I was training by the typical "received wisdom" none of what I've done would've happened. Forty years ago the conventional wisdom was that women couldn't run, and that their uteri would prolapse on them. Yes, they'll prolapse if they are in sloppy physical shape.

Don't limit yourself. Find a way to do it smart. And suck up the discomfort.

Smøüldering Midget X: Rise Of The Spin Cycle

2010-08-02T10:58:00.000-07:00

A real runner, not me, a long time ago.

Smøüldering Midget X commenced under a brightening gray-light with a breathtaking roster of talent. The event sponsors were pleased at the massive turnout which would maximize viral marketing efforts for D&L Holistic Industries' "Trail Porn Light", Offshore Vacuum Party Gmbh, Hannah Montana Man-Bras, and "Sturdy, the Feral Mule" Outdoor Leadership, LLC.

In the end, this event would yield a surprising new development to the traditional "Thing 1/Thing 2 Kontest fur World Domination®™". Since Ian Torrence was a no-show, I moved up a full 3 places. Full deets below the jump.

THE PERSONALITIES

MISS MIWOK
In a category all her own, she'd expressed pre-event speculation that as a rapidly-aging, over-the-hill mother of a young daughter, would be slow, etc. In a rare lucid moment, I didn't bet her on the outcome, and so did not forfeit the pink-slip to my car, house, speedboat and ATV. She also played her cards cannily by taking a right turn at the Notch, ostensibly to "save her legs" for some upcoming event, but in reality getting back for the Ratt/Dokken double-header down below the Polyester Curtain.

CASINO BINGO
Local boy who grew up on the mountain, back when his contemporaries were mulletting things over in their fragile, eggshell minds; keeps his visions to himself.

JAY-G
The only member of the famed "Icy Hot Stuntaz 02" Team to show this year, "Jay-G" modestly talked smack about his diminished abilities, yet ran away from his last remaining reminder of running mediocrity on the long approach to the Mt Baldy Summit.

LARRY "O-G" GRILL
Beneath his signature hat, all cunning and guile behind a genial smile and a killer downhill style. When he takes air, he shows the New Jack how its done, old-school.

MR TRAIL SAFETY
Hitching up his 54" waist/18" inseam shorts to his full 4'10 height, he began the run with a full-salvo from the Missing Man Formation of Barking Ducks. His scanty training combined with florid limitations proved fatally comedic for hapless Big-Horned Sheep on the mountain, of whom several expired from the sheer improbability of it all.

THIS IS THE END, THE ONLY END, MY FRIEND

Putting on my Big Boy Pants and toy sunglasses, I lurch from the Third-Person Improbable to the First Person Singular. Look out.

I got my head handed to me in a take-out box. Mt Baldy and 3Ts: 6,000' of climb over 20mi, is about 2x my previous efforts, and higher than I've been in several years. Everybody else ran off ahead of me, which is impressive as we were all going uphill. Even the Bighorns mocked me by blowing Lucky Strike smoke in my face, then mooning me. Bristlecone Pines shuffled off when they saw me coming, and the squirrels in the branches cracked their nuts.

Early on, Miss Miwok surged ahead, flinging altitude gain an uphill miles aside like generic kettle-balls. Casino Bingo and Larry "OG" Grill fought gamely to keep the lid on the Red-Headed One. Shooting off the top of Mt Baldy, ignoring the GPS Day Hikers, Hiking Betties, and confused hiking-stick wielders, they blasted down to the Notch.

Miss Miwok and Jay G ricocheted off the Notch, and took the fabled right turn down to Wanker Flats. Casino Bingo and OG elected to take up a hobby while waiting for the tardy Mr Trail Safety. In the fullness of time, I arrived, and convinced me that I didn't look that bad. Pulling myself up to my full 4'3" height, I concurred, without knowing why. Off to the Three T's!

Proceeding eastward on the Trail of Tearz®™, we begin the ascent to Mt Thunder. But before we can get too comfortable, we're on a character-debilitating downhill stretch to a seductive saddle, followed by a long climb up to Telegraph Peak. Bingo and OG surge ahead, and Mr Trail Safety is left with his two remaining brain cells, who aren't talking to each other. Life's good! At the top of Telegraph, I encounter two men who I realize are the grandsons of Bingo and OG. They look just like them, imagine!

[Insert more running poot here; meditative musings about calories, hydration, moral uplift, etc. Then the part about the lithe hottie in the bright magenta jog-bra.]

At Ice House Saddle, Enchanting Lytle Creek beckons, but such was not to be. We chose not to pass the duchy on the left hand side, and instead were sybaritic poodles and made the peloton to the right. This is where the Thing 1/Thing 2 Kontest was revealed.

By an arcane formula, the original Thing 1 was now a fraction of his former self, hereinafter referred to as "Thing 47/64ths". The New Thing One was none other than Larry "OG" Grill, representing' old-school, and shit. Setting a fierce downhill pace, Fractional Thing and Thing 2 could only marvel at his fury. Further demonstrating his Old-School Cred, he took epic air, fell, and left blood on the rocks, then got up, and kicked more ass to the finish. The Ice House Cyn Trail is all technical, with only the finest ball-bearings unevenly distributed for the enjoyment of the hiking public.

At this point, "Smøüldering Midget X" coverage cut away to a recap of Hollywood-rehab softball league coverage, so the finish results are ambiguous. Sponsors are enraged, and there are rumblings of legal action. There will be additional photographic evidence and a sealed indictment by later this week.

Springtime for Dipshits!

2010-07-21T10:08:00.000-07:00

Apple refutes persistent claims that the new iPhones only work for hot vegan betties who hold them level like bonsai trays and coo into them while driving Mini-Coopers.
3 hours ago
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Mel Gibson holds solitary prayer vigil as Polanski's lawyers lose 11th-hour Swiss asylum bid for Lindsay Lohan.
16 hours ago
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Lindsay Lohan goes to jail! Officials scramble on capping and top-kill strategies. Meanwhile, Larry King, Droning Predator, dreams of taking to the skies again.
Yesterday at 6:39am
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I offer my considerable expertise as a Certified Entropy Coach to help you miss your true potential, so you may squander your worth, and enter the next bardo completely at a loss. Pre-paid plans only, operators standing by.
July 17 at 1:08pm
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Anthem-Blue Cross reportedly studying current North Korean medical practices to enhance profit delivery.
July 16 at 10:59am
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Weekend Movie Preview: "Sorcerer's Apprentice" [Disney, 2010] Nic Cage fights a shadowy international conspiracy that tries to undo a bungling apprentice's efforts to keep Monica Bellucci's dress on. PG13, 2hrs.
July 15 at 7:54pm
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Bristol & Levi: The Dream Continues®™. Sarah keeps the brand fresh with the "Wedding Episode", where Mel "Rose Garden" Gibson reads from 1st Corinthians, then introduces himself to the bridesmaids.
July 15 at 9:05am
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NEWSMAKERZ!: Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston engaged, will remain abstinent for the next several news cycles; Dick Cheney gets a new pump and air-to-air refueling boom.
July 14 at 3:52pm
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As I rode my bike in LA traffic yesterday afternoon, cars used their horns to blow me air-kisses. I reciprocated by "cropdusting".
July 14 at 8:46am
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Your favorite Mel Gibson Quotes [non-movie only, please!] Discuss!
July 12 at 7:53pm
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Organic white corn chips are virtuous. Unsalted is rubbing it in.
July 12 at 8:50am
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Disney rolls out their new game show, "Who's F*cking Goofy?" First celebutard guests: Lindsay Lohan and LeBron James. Other letters of the alphabet will be represented soon.
July 10 at 12:30pm
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With LeBron James' departure to Miami, Zanesville's chances suddenly brightened.
July 9 at 9:03am
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SPY DRAMA UPDATE: Russia will exchange 11 physicists for Anna Chapman and the 5 NY suspects, including LeBron James. The Kremlin declined Lindsay Lohan. The swap will take place at Checkpoint Yakov Smirnoff in Branson, MO.
July 8 at 8:40am
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Anna Chapman typed her last message to her Muscovite spy handlers. Stifling a sob—she would never frolic in Monaco with Princes William and Harry. Jack Bauer gripped his joystick and stared hard at the intercept: FML/FTW/LOL.
July 7 at 8:39am
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The drizzle had stopped. Lindsay Lohan was due to make a court appearance. Jack Bauer gripped his joystick with fierce determination as the Predator drone took off. Would the vaunted BioMetric HottieTrak Imaging Software work as promised by the contractor? The clock was ticking...
July 6 at 7:18pm
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NEWS NOTES: Texas Ag Officials note upswing of vegan vampire teens leaving bite marks on squash and zucchinis; LA braces for 2nd hour of "Drizzle Watch 2010!" as thousands of luxury cars and SUVs are unable to leave their garages.
July 6 at 9:03am
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Brain-dead audiences agree that 1D plot-lines look better in 3D, especially with $40 popcorn glistening with toothsome culinary lubricant.
July 3 at 6:40am
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For July 4th fireworks, I'm staying home...in my neighborhood its Mexico v. Armenia for ordnance detonation.
July 2 at 5:51am
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Opening at the Hazmat Octoplex near you: "The Last Airbender" (2010). ••• Beans, Fried Eggs, Kim Chee, Chili. Flang (Boa Rinker) discovers he is the lone Avatar with the power to manipulate all four elements…
July 1 at 1:57pm
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In a world gone mad... the only thing that strikes fear into the "Twilight" franchise comes out of the past ..."Scent of a Woman"
July 1 at 11:26am
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The African Gray Parrot has a brain the size of a shelled walnut. Humans have brains the size of melons. The difference is that the African Gray's brain is fully utilized, and is a consciousness that has no need or use for polyester, nuclear weapons, off-shore drilling or multi-level marketing.
June 24 at 9:16am
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What was "It Pays To Increase Your Word Power" is now urbandictionary.com.

"I Am Joe's Brain" would implode.
June 23 at 1:41pm
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Right now, I'm channelling Mojo Nixon: "I'm only kidding/Can't you tell?/I love his sensitive music Idiot poetry, swell..."
June 23 at 8:58am
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This week on Animal Planet: "Judgmental Ben" disses other bears that wander into stupid human swimming pools, dumpster dive, eat chubby poodles, getting tranked in the process. Hosted by Paula Abdul.
June 22 at 9:17pm
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Tonight on Discovery: "Dental Ben". America's favorite flossing grizzly shares tips on how to Cub Scout fragments from behind molars.
June 21 at 3:45pm
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Health-Club 101: You can't outrun a fart on a treadmill.
June 21 at 1:39pm
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Hollywood is crippled by sequels...but somehow I don't think that "The Postman", "Ishtar" and "Schindler's List" are being versioned out.
June 20 at 7:36pm
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This Father's Day, my Billions of Unborn®™ tried to call me. My rotary phone was off the hook.
June 20 at 2:04pm
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The Painter of Light, "wet reckless and deuced", this time in Pantone 502...

This Week in Crazy: This Week in Crazy: Thomas Kinkade
www.salon.com
His pastel dream world has become a lurid place of failed sobriety tests, bankruptcy and Winnie the Pooh abuse. Articles about This Week in Crazy
June 19 at 11:18am
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Monday's Laker victory parade will reportedly feature The Massed Burning Shopping Kart Drill Teamz, bringing up the rear, yo.
June 19 at 7:12am
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Having just seen the trailer for SATC2, I find myself imagining "what would Miranda and Samantha do?" Nevermind Jacaranda and Anaconda.
June 18 at 8:54am
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Gunshots, M-80s, now car horns. Lakers musta won, and shit.
June 17 at 9:20pm
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Damn, if the Lakers lost tonight, a buncha dude in my office are gonna be real, real sad campers tomorrow. Like having to honor their $1 bets by writing "Lakers suck!" on them.
June 17 at 8:33pm
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I was watching my office today implode under the weight of Lakermania and World Cup. Delicious.
June 17 at 7:51pm
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BP tell the truth? Act honestly? HAH! The last time these bastards, along with the other Oil CEO asshats appeared before the Senate, they couldn't be bothered with swearing to tell the truth. And none of those spineless bought-n-paid-for poodles made them. Over $4.4B in profits for 2009 cuts a lotta ties.
June 16 at 9:23pm
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Pat Robertson mysteriously silent as to whether Satan made a pact with BP. All parties are not returning calls.
June 16 at 4:15pm
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‎"Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants 3.0". Hijinks and hilarity ensue when the pants are worn by the Olsen Twins, both at the same time!
June 16 at 11:20am
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Somewhere in Hollywood, a movie based on the comic-strip "Cathy" is waiting to be born in a suburban multiplex. This may yet save Jennifer Anniston's career.
June 14 at 7:27pm
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I'm not even half-done with Tony Hayward, BP's CEO. In addition to all cleanup costs and damages [and not fought in court ala Exxon, btw]; he needs to drink a glass of water, with a light crude sheen, every day, for the rest of his life.
June 14 at 12:44pm
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Today, Orly Taitz is trying to find her Kenyan flag.
June 14 at 7:07am
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Hipsters unsettled by arrival of a transit-mix oatmeal truck at street-fair. Only 10 cubic feet were sold that day.
June 13 at 3:14pm
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To all the knuckleheads who were screaming for smaller government are now pissed off that Obama isn't kicking BP's ass hard enough. Face up! The government you wanted is really corporate serfdom. Now whatcha gonna do about it?
June 10 at 9:01pm
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‎"I'm from BP, & I'm here to help!"
June 10 at 7:06am
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‎"Fat Boy Rebooted 2.0" Jonah Hill and Seth Rogin battle for total Vegas domination as they race cross-country on lawn tractors. Michael Cera and Jason Schwartzman costar, with some hawt chix. Directed by Judd Apatow.
June 8 at 7:50pm
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I guess the answer was "no..."

Woman killed by lightning in mountaintop proposal | World news | guardian.co.uk
www.guardian.co.uk
A man's plan to propose to his girlfriend on a mountain in the US ended in tragedy when the pair were struck by lightning, it was reported today.
June 8 at 6:22pm
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Little Walter's "Hate To See You Go" is a menacing boxing workout; sharp combinations of drums, guitar, harmonica and haunted vocals at a relentless pace.
June 7 at 8:17pm
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"...honey, is it supposed to be this soft?" Whoops! That was "Animal House". Wonder if Mrs Rush 4.0 read and signed the pre-nup.••• h/t Angela O. for the matrimony alert!

Limbaugh to wed as Hollywood flirts with his life story - Yahoo! News
news.yahoo.com
Will the fourth time be the charm for Rush Limbaugh?
June 4 at 8:20pm
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Potential BP lobbyists resist idea of swimming 1/2 mile thru oil-slicked waters as employment pre-requisite; citing unsafe workplace environment and preferential hiring practices that favor mutant Norway rats.
June 3 at 8:10pm
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Oil-stained lobbyists and accompanying tar-balls wash up on Capitol Hill. They appear to be in good condition, and have quickly adapted to their new environment.
June 3 at 6:54am
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Since Juneteenth is around the corner, let's all stop and chew on this nugget.

Texas: Texas textbooks and the truth about the Confederacy
www.salon.com
Texas is right: We should teach kids about Jefferson Davis and the Confederacy. But let's tell the whole story
June 1 at 8:46pm
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BP spokesbots as yet unaware of the massive bullshit plume and sea-mount building under their very feet. CEO Tony Hayward is bummed, "wants his life back"; will get signed sympathy card from 50,000 dead turtles and dolphins.
June 1 at 6:54pm
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Here's the real news...the BP blowout will be a corporate win. They'll buy the Congress they want [thanks, SCOTUS!], hide profits, claim losses, whine like little bitches for tax-breaks, and Obama gets all the blame for failure.
May 29 at 5:46pm
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The Change Of Shapes To Come

2010-07-13T14:37:00.000-07:00

Nostalgia Ain't What It Used To Be

Getting back in shape hurts. I was haunted by what I knew what I used to do. I'm not trying to recover my youth—I needed to recover a new definition of fitness, and decided that I had to start pushing it again.

I lucked out. There's a gym in the office park I work in. I can ride my bike 10-1/2miles from home, into a shower. What a luxury! Looking around the gym, I noticed weight machines, and the hook: a free physical assessment.

The verdict confirmed the anecdotal: I'd put on 20lbs over my prime fighting weight, my arms were Gumbyesque, torso and core strength was kinda sad, and my Hannah Montana man-bra was getting snug.

What to do now, middle-aged man-child? I had the nice fitness pro cook up a program to build strength and fitness. She did, and two days later, I was shown the exercises. Soon my arms burned, my torso screamed, and I was pushing out sweat beads the size of buckshot. I hurt.

A Further Definition of a Boombastic Lifestyle...

Hurt is not to be conflated or confused with injury. Injuries are avoidable, not inevitable, and are contingent on habit, attitudes, nutrition, rest, recovery, or the lack of any of the above. Random events also figure. Shit happens, sooner or later.

So here's the good news: it's always hurt. Forever.

I'll elaborate. I hurt when I was training as a high-school 2-miler. After college, I hurt when I was learning how to Nordic downhill ski. Ditto rock-climbing and mountaineering. I hurt when I was approaching my first marathon. And I hurt like hell afterwards, because I hadn't trained well enough.

I hurt when I started body-boarding and discovered that my first marathon did not make me a very good swimmer. Time, tide, and outside set waves wait for nobody.

Hurting was a way of life when I went into the high country on multi-day outings. I wheezed over Black Rock Pass, overlooking the Triple Divide. But damn, those vistas were memorable.

I hurt all the time when I started doing ultras in 1989. I kept finding out that what I'd done earlier didn't cut it; like running along the Pacific Coast Hwy from Zuma to County Line did not qualify as altitude training.

I started running with bigger dogs. Those guys went out fast and hard. Eventually I found myself going up and over Red Rock, Post Peak Passes in the Yosemite backcountry. Busting my hurting ass, chasing after seasoned runners once the thunderstorms quit, and the flesh-eating mosquitoes that came out as darkness fell.

I'd already gotten into 100s by this time. My education was beginning. By the end of that run, I'd spent six years being coached by the best, and hurting most of the time.

Illness forced me out of ultras. Other disciplines arose, and I profited by being challenged every step of the way. I still ran, but then work and other stuff arose, and I stopped doing nearly everything except riding a bike. Things were not looking good.

Until now.

What Now, My Duckling?

The workouts are starting to bear fruit. Lifting and crunching, done right, without cultic distractions, are a beautiful thing. Its satisfying to feel upper-body strength used for actual living, like holding a camera steady for a long shot.

The six-pack is starting to emerge from a hot-water bottle. Its making my runs more interesting. And yes, I'm notching up the mileage there too.

Starting over again reminds me that I can learn something new. The esteemed Zen Roshi Casino Bingo observed that "your body is perfect, for what you are right this very instant." If you've been inert, there it is.

How hard is it to change? As long as you can breathe, you can begin to do something about whatever's on your mind. Or just tilt back the recliner and let it slide.

Your move.

Omani Mountain Barbecue

2009-12-06T13:05:00.000-08:00

Abdullah is opening the charcoal bag, while Mr Trail Safety watches, photo by Richard Gassan.

“I forgot the cooking pot”

We silently considered our situation. Camped out overlooking the epic Jebel Shams Gorge in the Omani Hajar al Ghalb, we were up a very long dirt road from the last village. We pondered the options. Pasta was out, now we were looking at a rapidly fermenting bread, dates, some hard cheese, and maybe some other goodies.

The loaf was sliced, I had some of the hard cheese, while Richard smeared honey on his slice. We’d make it. The wind was cool and steady, and deathly cold by Omani standards.

Looking around, there was a family camped several hundred yard away, a merry fire blazing in the draw. Behind us was a dome tent, and a RAV-4.

We began to hear male voices joking in Arabic. We both began to wonder if they were going to spend the night drinking and breaking shit, but it was too early to tell.

“May I ask you men a favor?”

We looked up to see one of our Omani neighbors.

“Would it be possible to heat up some water, as one of my friends is very cold?”

Richard and I laughed. We told him that we’d love to help, but we forgot the cooking pot, and only had an espresso pot to make coffee.

“I’m Abdullah, but you can call me Joe”

We replied that Abdullah was workable. Abdullah smiled, we chatted, and he invited us to join him for a fire. And so we did.

Abdullah, Younis, and Haddad come up from Muscat to camp out. They were going to build a fire to barbecue some chicken. Looking at the scenario, I suggested the best place might be a shallow rectangular trench in the rocks overlooking the edge of the gorge. They liked that idea.

Younis began to build a fire, but it was long on flung matches and petrol from a plastic bottle. Finally, debating cultural sensitivities, I suggested that perhaps I could help them. The Omanis looked at each other, Richard laughed, waved his hand and told them “don’t worry, he’s a complete fire-bug”. They said OK, and I went to work.

Within several minutes, the fire was going, but I still didn’t see where they were going to BBQ. Abdullah went to the car, came back with a woven plastic feedbag full of charcoal. Now we’re talking. I fed these into the fire, and a half-hour later were the beginnings of a charcoal bed.

All the while we were discussing the merits of Bluetooth, African women, Oman, Arab pop music, Baluchi cuisine, heat, and how cold they were going to be when bedtime rolled around.

Meanwhile Younis had produced a chicken, sectioned it, rolled it in a spice-blend, wrapped them in tinfoil and laid them on the coals. Just before the chicken was done, they wrapped some flatbread in foil, and they went on the coals.

“Here, join us…”

Delicious! The sky was lightly overcast with a full moon, and the deep crevasses of the Jebel Shams were implied behind us. The ruddy red coals were rejoined by the original aromatic log we’d pulled off it earlier. We were also joined by five or six shaggy Omani goats that appeared out of the darkness, wandering through the campsites, looking for anything edible.

Chicken bones went into the fire, and we all were lost in our respective thoughts. As we cleaned up, we invited the Omanis for morning coffee before they left. We all said good night, and made for our campsite.

The next morning dawned, with more goats, followed by raggedy children, and then an elderly woman selling trinkets. They moved on over the ridge, back towards their village several click away, down off the road, on a flat pan in the mountains.

The Omanis popped out of their tent, and we got a cheery “Good morning!” from Abdullah.

“Hey guys, don’t leave without having coffee!”

“We were cold…were you?”

“Not really, just comfortable” I’d been on an Ensolite pad and 3-season bag, sleeping more or less fully dressed and fuzzy hat. Richard had an air mattress, quilt.

The espresso roared into the pot. We poured shots into their plastic cups. We clicked cups, and drank up. Their eyes bugged a bit at the strength, I don’t think they drink it like that, but didn’t mind.

Eventually, we parted, and they waved a cheery goodbye as they headed down the mountain. We stayed for a while longer, taking pictures from various points on the edge of the gorge. Indian families came up from the Jebel Shams Rest House just over the ridge to look, take pictures, and enjoy themselves.

Driving slowly down the mountain road revealed amazing vistas in reverse; towering buttes, sawtoothed ridgelines, villages with soccer pitches surrounded by steep dropoffs, school-bus stops shaded by matted shelters, all defined by harsh clear light.

Boy Scouts Retroactively Issue New Merit Badge

2009-08-17T22:05:00.000-07:00

August 18, 2009.

The Boy Scouts Of America National Council voted this week to retroactively issue 50,000,000 Onanism Merit Badges to all surviving Boy Scouts who had been members from 1910 through 2008. The vote passed 69-12, as the council members squinted through thick glasses and raised hirsute hands.

Reaction at the announcement was swift. Social conservatives were enraged, with Bill O'Reilly and Sean Hannity decrying the move as "weakening the moral fabric", and "a stain on the nation's honor". Ann Coulter flippantly suggested that the Boy Scouts were "Taliban Butt-boys", while Sarah Palin suggested that the Boy Scouts had "given in to terrorists". Lou Dobbs intoned that his sources definitively pinpointed the origins to southern Mexico, in any era. Rush Limbaugh was conspicuously silent, having never been in the Boy Scouts.

Liberals took a different tack, suggesting in large part "get over it", according to Bill Maher. Rachel Maddow read the news and kept a straight face with difficulty, adding that poison ivy was a greater hazard to most scouts.

A delegation of mortally-offended Eagle Scouts marched on the National Council Headquarters to throw their Eagles, along with several Stars on the steps. The protest was somewhat leavened by prankish Tenderfoots and Second Class scouts who brought up the rear making arm-pit farts, generally treating the occasion as an excuse for practical jokes.

The badges are being mailed out this week, with a considerable assist from the Genealogical Services Bureau of the Church Of Latter Day Saints, who were able to locate many of the deceased scouts. LensCrafters and Rogaine helped the Boy Scouts with logistical support as primary corporate sponsors.

Team Land-O-Lard Sponsored Runner!

2009-07-26T09:35:00.000-07:00

I am now a sponsored runner for Team Land-O-Lard. I'll be making mall appearances here in Southern California, ready to ignore your questions and giving enigmatic training suggestions. Have your credit cards at the ready, or at least your PINs.

Mahalo for being you, have a nice day!

Trail Porn: The Secret Of My Success

2009-07-25T19:03:00.000-07:00

Trail Porn®™ Can Label. Courtesy of D&L Industries 1995

People have asked me "how did you train back in the day, and keep your strength up?" The secret ingredient: Trail Porn. And now, for the first time, the ingredients are visible for all.

Load Up Like A Peasant, Light Up Like A King™

TrailPorn®™ has been America's Number One Favorite free-range pre-race loading and unloading dietary supplement for as long as we've been making it. Now the same great taste and chewy mouth-feel is here in the new, modern TrailPorn Lite®™.

This nutritionious, savory, and versatile product is a virtual-reality accompaniment to every part of your culinary experience, from pickled cabbage to vanilla ice cream. Look for the single-serving tetra-packs!

Preparation: Serve either hot or cold, as a first course or canape supplement or appetizer. Stove top, micro-wave or tail-pipe friendly.Some settling may occur as this product was packed at full-volume
while you wait. Hey now!

Ingredients:

92% more Free-Range Heat
69% more Organic Dust
Stove-pipe Dreams (wet & dry),
12.45% more Cheese (head, anecdotal, soy, other)
channeled past-life letters to Penthouse FORUM
Nitro-Charged Funny-Car Testosterone
Cooper Canyon Methane byproducts
near-Genital Poison Oak clusters
Free-radicalized Estrogen essential sauces & vapors
Hydrogenated LPE (Limbaugh Paranoiac Extract 3%USP)
Rancid Nipple Lube
Fermented Mangoplex Extracts
topically-applied SPF-40 Weasel-Jizz
“alternative life-style” musings and speculations
Power Bars shaped into even funnier little animals
Vincent Gap Aid Station Glacier Ice
Cindy Crawford’s WonderBra (.0001%)
Dumpster Diving Road Kill
Baden-Powell Repeats (why are 20,000 Boy Scouts lost?)
Recovered-Memory TV-show Jingles 2
Organic Inert solids (2%),
Inorganic Inert gases (2%)
Other Gases (12%), a zesty blend of Earthy Spices, Natural flavors, Dyes, and Concepts
BHT & Glycol added to preserve flavor.

Hand-packed by svelte doe-eyed Indonesian virgin ecofemmes exclusively for D&L Holistic Humour Industries. No animals were coerced, harmed or fudge-packed except as necessary for profits.

Bon Apetit!

PS: The little men on the can? That's me and my home-boy Dave Turner.

"I feel so abused!" >> "... you'll adjust!??"

Rings Of Fire: Post WS100 Training Questions

2009-07-14T19:10:00.000-07:00

This post deals with training issues, gear issues, and comes from a guy who doesn't run that much anymore. So, now's a really good time to delete, because I'm going to ask some pointed questions about a lot of things.

There has been a lot of soul-searching and what-ifs, along with 'whistling past the graveyard' post-Western States 100 on the business of near-fatalities caused by dehydration, and spectacular blister pyrotechnics.

I did WS in 93, and spent a good 90min plus at Michigan Bluff. On the way up, I had a pounding in my kidneys, my ears were ringing, my quads had locked up, and people were passing me as fast as they could, completely ignoring my doubled-over ass. I was dehydrating, in deep shit. I got past it, but it added a good 3hrs to my race...

AND IT DIDN'T HAVE TO HAPPEN.

Why? Because that day I rolled out with a rehydration scenario I hadn't trained with. I didn't know it cold.

OVERTURE

I remember a Facebook post made, or at least answered to, when heat was discussed. Specifically, how it hadn't been hot, and was it going to be hot. Somebody else replied: "bring it on".

We all know what happened the last time that phrase was uttered. I read that and thought "Mr Murphy is going to rip you a new asshole, and not stop until he comes out your eyes."

I saw the results the finish line. Let's do some forensic probing here.

HEAT

Its a matter of honor for the canyons to be nice and hot on Race Day. They run south by southwest; perfect parabolic heating convection ovens. Always. Doesn't really matter what the high country is doing—besides, that's just foreplay for the Main Act.

Some of you may come from places where there was no heat that season. All the more reason to pay real close attention to the next part of the show.

HYDRATION

Here's a twofer: Are you getting enough electrolytes? Are you carrying a bladder pack?

I'm going to be heretical here. If you answered yes to both, you've just compounded your problems.

There is NO WAY that you can suck the amount of fluids you need thru a straw. Ever. Then you get to wrassle the thing off your back, fill it, be a freight-hauler to the next destination, have this thing trap heat, slowing down the cooling process, and you also have a Petri dish on your back.

I dare you to do a chug contest vs somebody with 28oz hand-bottles. Post the video to YouTube.

Back to electrolytes. If you ain't gittin' them, then your kidneys will shut down. If you aren't getting your nutrients in a liquid form, you are asking your body to do several things at once. Optimize your nutrients by pounding them down in liquid form. Optimize electrolytes so fluids do what they're supposed to—instead of sloshing in your gut, avoiding your kidneys, giving you brown whiz, and a probable trip to the CCU.

BLISTERS

Are the blisters expected? Like perhaps you aren't getting your money's worth?

People! Foot issues are critical, and should be settled and done with well before race day.

Sound harsh? I was at Kamp n0Rm back in '92 or so when I met an old-school, chill tough guy—no brag or bullshit, just calm authority. He told me that with proper training, blisters wouldn't happen. His comments informed my training for the rest of my short ultra career.

The whole shoe-foot-blister thing has been pervasive at WS for so long, and it's making me wonder what people are doing to train. All blisters mean to me is that they are not doing enough miles, in the right sox, right shoes, and that the training is not building toughness.

For the record, I trained in Thorlos. Yes, cotton poly. Come race day, it was a liberal, and I mean 'trowelled-on liberal', application of Cramer Skin Lube on the feet. Skin-Lube, for those who may not have used it, is Vaseline with a serious attitude. A very high melt-point. Pitch the sox after the race.

I had problems of my own, but guess what, none of the wake-boarding, geyser-esque monster blisters I've read about.

=========
GEAR
=========

Do you wear a hat? Not a visor, but a hat?

Yes, Hal Koerner doesn't wear a hat, he wears a visor.

So fucking what.

I love Hal, been following his career from behind my camera for the last five years.

But guess what, Average Ultra Runner—you don't have Hal's talent or kidneys. And 90% of you are out there long after he is. Some of you are into your second sunrise, and the attendant re-dehydration.

Classic example: WS '93. I pass Delmar Fralick who's having a very bad day at Dusty Corners. No Hat, but his Visor is snappy. Only problem—Delmar is in a chair, wet bandana on his head, trying to cool off.

I look at him and said "Damn, Delmar, you know it gets hot down here, why aren't you wearing a hat? "

He wanted to look like Twiet. Guess what? He didn't have Twiet's kidneys, metabolism, and a host of intangibles that made Twiet's accomplishments amazing.

SFX: CRICKETS AND TUMBLEWEEDS

A hat, or a cap at least, protects the 7% of your body mass that is in direct contact with Mr Sun. A hat, or cap with any kind of shade creates a dead-air space insulation between you and sunstroke. The base of the neck is where it needs protection. Once I figured that out, my life became a lot happier.

I mentioned the bladder-pack. You know, the heat sink on your back.

You are a racer now, not a freight-hauler. Every ounce carried turns into tons by the finish line. Bouncy-bouncy adds up to lost time and energy spent dragging this training device from point to point.

A fanny pack is arguably a faster bottle swap, you carry less dead weight, and it lets your back wick off heat and moisture.

Are you wearing synthetics? Are you wearing tight-fitting synthetics?

Again, heat transfer to you is more profound if the clothing is tighter, darker and skimpier. You are being pounded by heat, UV, IR and merciless light.

Look at traditional Berbers, who most closely approximate Europeans. They're covered up, insulated to a large degree from sun and heat. No, I don't count Eritreans, Somalis, Australian aboriginals in this mix. Their skin, hair, noses have all adapted to ferocious sun and heat.

My suggestion for WS runners, is that cotton is still your best bet. Oh yes, WF & LT100 runners: hypothermia, lightning storms, epic downpours, and other typical mountain weather make very good arguments for poly-pro. But here, in a desert-like heat, Cotton is very, very good. Wicks away heat, perspiration, and furthermore, loses the stink when you wash it.

PENALTIES AND RESPONSIBILITIES

When I co-RD'd Baldy Peaks 50k with Andy Roth, I got to explain to people why I was a dick on the subject of hydration. Rhabdo is a bitch. It will kill you. I've met several people who nearly died, but didn't.

THEY WERE LUCKY.

Do not presume the same for yourself. One of my very good friends, ex-100 training partner, Dave Turner is now an RN. He looks at dialysis patients on a daily basis. Dialysis is a harsh end to a carefree life, where suicide rates are generally higher than the general despairing populace.

If you fuck up, and you get yourself into rhabdo, and you are at a remote location, and perhaps is not caught in time, you might get to be a dialysis patient. Forever. Unless of course you die before being evacuated.

Post-Mortem

We live in markedly different times from when I entered the world of ultras as a dewy newbie twenty years ago. I came from the world of back-country travel, where 'self-insert' meant 'self-extract'. I learned the hard way what getting lost, and then un-lost really meant.

However, the society that currently produces runners is overwhelmingly urban, and suburban. Class and cultural notions of immediacy, consumption, accomplishment and involvement are stirred right into the mix. Unfortunately, a 100-mile race is not the time or place to hit RESET or UNDO. Its a done deal.

Nobody gets off on this one. Nature bats last, and will always get its due.

<>>

Listen up! This message is being sent by or on behalf of Mr Trail Safety. It is intended exclusively for the individual or entity to which it is addressed, excluding non-specific incarnations and bardo-state entities. It contains concepts that will challenge you. You may adjust. Insofar as as this communication may contain information that is proprietary, privileged or confidential or otherwise legally exempt from disclosure, it is certain to cause cerebral flatulence and conceptual infarctions among the simple-minded and comedy-challenged, perhaps even *You*.

If you are not the named addressee, you are not authorized to read, print, retain, copy or disseminate this message or any part of it; including channelling the forementioned fabulisms to spirit-bodies, Chinese-made Native American Dream-Catchers, Heritage Barbie Dolls or Dale Earnhardt Collector plates. But go ahead, live dangerously, drive left-of-center and give it your best shot.

If you have received this message in error, you deserve it--you'll have subsequent incarnations to work out the kinks. Or simply prostrate yourself in front of your Thos. Kinkade Heritage Reproduction while making a Burnt Offering.

Here, have some salt.

AC100 Training Stories, Pt I

2009-06-09T18:18:00.000-07:00

Jim O'Brien setting the course record in 1989. This iconic photo was taken by Stan Wagon, then editor of UltraRunning Magazine.

We once asked Jim O'Brien if he'd ever bonked on an Angeles Crest training run. He said "on every section".

GEAR FETISHES

The current gear-item to have right now is a bladder-pack. Originally designed by and for guys-n-gals who were running long distances in very hot places like Arizona, Utah and so on, where there was no water for big miles.

Look at what Jim is carrying. Nothing except for 2 small bottles. Doesn't that tell you something? He's a racer, not a freight-hauler.

[Just a thought for all the racers out there humping along in their multi-pounded vests with the petri-dish bladders...]

Training is one thing. Race day is another. People get used to carrying all that stuff. I remember Jimmy saying on each stage "carry only what you need". I know that on my first AC, my fannypack was 20lb of junk—and I wasn't carrying a Walkman!

Have a seat. I'm going to tell you a couple of stories about training on the AC100 course.

1991: One Day In the Endless Summer

I remember an especially stupid day when a marathon dick showed up at one of the official training runs. One bottle, no cap, no shirt. The day's run was Short Cut Saddle to Millard Campground. He wanted to know how come there weren't "aid stations like at Western?"; you know, chocolate-covered strawberries and all, like at the Memorial Day WS Camp. I told him that this was AC, and we did things differently——this is a DIY show. He wasn't too happy.

The descent into the West Fork was an east-west convection oven.

We got to Chantry, I refilled my bottles, and booked. Just below the Mt Wilson Toll Rd somebody says "...he's got no water".

Guess who? Yep. Everybody looks at me w/ my 4 bottles. I shared it out w/ him. It only got better. Now he's spooked. Its way hot, even in the shade.

The Upper Winter Creek Trail at that time peaked out on Manzanita Ridge. We are now in blazing, ion-pelting mid-afternoon sun. He's babbling about its 'only 9 miles to Millard'. I told him to shut the fuck up, to conserve water in the heat, and also to rein in his fear. The Toll Road contours down and west, picking up shade on the way down. Pretty soon we're down in Idle Hour. Fortunately there was water in Idle Hour Creek.

He said "its only* 5 miles to Millard now", like it was a sidewalk exercise.

"No, these are mountain miles..."

I gave him some dried apricots, put his ass in the creek to cool off, and told him to drink, and wait for the others. Then I took off.

Uncle Hal was sweep that day. This sad dick hung on to Hal's coat-tails. Later Hal told me he got to the truck and 'just laid there for at least an hour...' When Hal does that, you know its bad.

Yes, that was the summer of '91 just before my 1st AC. Another reason I credit my priors in backcountry travel and backpacking in the necessity of 'self-insert/self extract', aka Libertarianism That Matters.

1996: Make Your Plans and Pick Your Friends Carefully

My favorite bonk session was between Idle Hour and 3pts Labor Day Weekend '96.

Day 1: 40 miles
Wrightwood to Three Points. I'd made the mistake of believing Another Group Of Runners that they'd have water waiting. Only problem, I outran them. I was dry from Cloudburst to 3 pts. I got to the car, and drained a couple of jugs. Fell into my car, drove down to Chilao Campground, where I was camping out that weekend, same as the Other Group Of Runners .

Got cleaned up, made dinner, getting ready for Sunday. The Group Of Runners straggled in. Watched them eat chips and screw around, then eat in the dark. I was in bed and done. Several tried to get me to run from Chantry to Finish. Declined.

Day 2: 35 miles
Up at 0430. Gone by 0515 to 3pts. Ran to Chantry, met a friend as per pre-arrangement. Heard that somebody stood the Group Of Runners up, and they drove around trying to figure out what to do. My day—fulfilled. Their day—unbilled.

Day 3: 25 miles
Long story short: made my own plans as some guy's wife in the Group Of Runners decided she didn't want to give me a ride from Finish Line to Chantry like she agreed. Why? The queen bee of the Group Of Runners decided she wanted do an out-n-back from Chilao to the bottom of West Fork, and the rest of the group fell right in line.

I raced to a pay phone, and called my girlfriend, who gracefully agreed to meet me at the Finish Line at 05:45, to schlepp my ass to Chantry. She'd still make her 8AM tennis match. Save!

When I left Chantry I was dead meat. It had been a long weekend. By the top of Mt Wilson I started feeling better. I'd heard that Ben Hian, Tommy Nielsen and some others were somewhere behind me. I ran like hell. Saw them on Echo Mtn, took off. Never caught me. Figured it would never happen in a race, so why not?

That weekend I ran the entire course just the way I had it planned out. Best confidence builder ever. I buckled three weeks later in 23:50, paced by my coach, Jim O'Brien.

My Favorite Gun-Show Things

2009-06-03T14:34:00.000-07:00

Beef jerky and do-rags, and dorks all in camo,
Reloads, factory and off-caliber ammo,
AKs and Mausers all tied up with strings,
These are a few of my favorite things!

Marpat and feldgrau and ebay’d Nazi doodles,
T-shirts shriek slogans from famed right-wing poodles,
Conspiracy theories that fly on brown wings,
These are a few of my favorite things!

Hot babes in heels are not often seen here,
Mainly paunchy white guys who are mostly has-beens peer,
Musing sour reflections on a trigger spring,
These are a few of my favorite things!

When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad

Grab A Cadaver: 2009 Update

2009-05-15T08:21:00.000-07:00

Parts Is Parts!

Selling body parts is an evergreen scandal. There's always a need, and supplies are limited. More or less.

We here at Hellmouth Amalgamated PolySci always believe that recycling is good for everybody. So if you missed this original commentary from March 2004, you're in for a treat. Its still fresh and tasty.

Human behaviour has a long shelf-life. Dig in!

I am and remain,
yr Humboldt Obliviant Idiom Savant

Erasmus Binkster Rfp, SoQ, AMf
Chancellor Emeritii
Hellmouth Amalgamated PolySci
Hellmouth CA

Update: May 15 '09!

Businessman found guilty in UCLA's willed body-parts program scandal

Body broker Ernest V. Nelson, top, with defense attorney Sean McDonald, listens as he is convicted of selling cadaver parts for $1.5 million to private medical research companies.

The body broker collected $1.5 million by selling cadaver parts to private medical research companies. A juror also faults the university for 'allowing something like this.'

Read more on this at the InjuryBoard.com website, which makes the LA Times look like the Weekly Reader its become in recent years.

[h/t Mary C for forwarding the InjuryBoard.com link, and who knows one or two things about the dark side of human behavior]
==============

Mar 10, 2004
A satiric comment on the current body-part scandal at UCLA .

Grab A Cadaver
[with no apologies to the Steve Miller Band]

I heat up, I can't cool down
You got me chopping
'round and 'round
'round and 'round, and 'round it goes
At UCLA, with these donated bones

Every time I get the call,
I pack my bag, I'm roaming the halls
Bodies donated--to science and more,
There's green to be had--deep in the gore!

Grab a Cadaver
I wanna reach out and slab ya
Slab-a Grab a Cadaver
Grab a Cadaver

I drive on campus, a monkey paw
Sack of tools, a power saw
Dead people wait to feel my love
I get a grip with a rubber glove.

Grab a Cadaver
I wanna reach out and slab ya
Slab-a Grab a Cadaver
Grab a Cadaver

I start work, I make a mess
I hate working under duress
Muscle and tendon, gristle and bone
Get paid by the piece by working alone

There's magic and romance in those eyes
Each one of them goin--to different guys
What the hell! the heart is blue
Buy the whole set and the liver goes too!

Grab a Cadaver
I wanna reach out and slab ya
Slab-a Grab a Cadaver
Grab a Cadaver

I work a chop shop, call it by name
Makin' my rent by the midnight flame
Burnin flame, like my van's bald tires
I'll be through any minute, I'm old and I'm tired.

Choppin bodies, at UCLA
Partin out parts, that's how it goes
Choppin bodies, at UCLA
Partin out parts, that's how it goes
Choppin bodies, at UCLA
Partin out parts, that's how it goes

Kent State / Jackson State

2009-05-05T08:28:00.000-07:00

I was fourteen, living in Athens Ohio, home of Ohio University; when we got news of the shootings at Kent State.

The Kent State shootings convulsed the campus, leading to riots, the closing of the University, and then a 14-day occupation by the Ohio National Guard. The iconic Carl Fleischhauer photo shows a Guardsman standing guard on Court Street under the Varsity Theatre marquee, which was showing "Z" the night the riots erupted. A less interesting picture is here.

The leadup to the shootings had been preceded by monumental demonstrations against Nixon's Cambodia Invasion, which widened the war.

The events at Kent State were posted teletypes on the window of Koon's Records, a local record store owned by a guy who liked his news fresh, hence the teletype. As each update came in the mood got worse. The two-day teach-ins that had accompanied the invasion were overtaken by the news of the shootings.

That night the rioting started. Pitched battles between "heads", opportunists, "Greeks" and then the local police began in earnest. By the end of the night I'd witnessed people getting their heads knocked in, random looting, small-town police cars racing through the streets firing shotgunned tear-gas canisters as bricks rained down on them.

I got home at 1:30 in the morning, I ran in, breathlessly telling my dad that "the fucking pigs are tear-gassing everybody".

He'd been in the Varsity Theatre watching "Z". The lights came on halfway through the picture, when the theatre manager Mr. Powers walked out on stage. Mr. Powers announced that the rioting was starting to intensify, and that it would be a good idea to go home. The theatre was dark for the next three weeks.

My dad looked at me and started shouting: "You little shit! I've been calling the morgue, hospitals and jails to find out if they'd gotten any minors! Now shut the fuck up and go to bed! NOW!"

The Young Revolutionary, smacked down.

The next day, everything was closed. We drove out of town to Cincinnati, and watched convoys of National Guards rolling into Athens. The town was under curfew for 14 days afterwards. The NG bivouacked at the football stadium. Periodically a Huey gunship would circle over the town.

Athens was remote, and the story has been pretty well forgotten. Nobody got killed, and certainly no white people died.

With the shootings at Jackson State, it made sense that nobody particularly cared. After all, Mark Hampton of the Panthers had been shot dead in his bed the year before. The draft had been hoovering up poor blacks, whites, and other left-behinds of the Great Society. Future luminaries like John Ashcroft, Rush Limbaugh and Dick Cheney all took exceptional advantage of deferments at this time.

Col David Hackworth's book "About Face" described the invasion as strategically correct, but a colossal mistake, being at least five years too late. From the standpoint of a guerilla war, he is correct. He also understood clearly that by 1969, the notion of a "winnable" war was a grotesque lie and air-conditioned fantasy.

As a footnote: "Four Dead In Ohio" by CSNY was banned by the Ironton, Ohio City Council shortly after it began being played. I wonder if the ban still holds.

"Don't You Want Me, Baby?" Revisited

2009-04-23T15:48:00.000-07:00

a duet, as reinterpreted by a drunken, jobless fund manager…

You were working as a stripper in a Christian Bar
That much is true
I picked you out, I pumped you up, and turned you out
Spun you into someone new
Now five years later on you've got your bitchaz on your tweet
Success has been so easy for you
But don't forget its me who put you where you are now
And I can outsource you back down too

Don't, don't you want me?
You know I cant believe it when I hear that you wont see me
Don't, don't you want me?
You know I don't believe you when you say that I'm drunk and needy
Its much too late to find
You think you've changed your mind
You'd better change it back or we will both be sorry

Can't I beat you baby? don't you want me — oh
Don't you want my teabag baby? don't you want me —oh

and his soon-to-be ex-trophy wife…

I was working as a stripper in a Christian Bar
But so were you
But even then I'd be sitting on a better face
Either with or without you
The five years we have had have been such good times
I still owe you
But now I think its time I lived my life on my own
I guess its just time to say "fuck you!"

VeloMania: I Build A Front Bike Rack

2009-03-30T21:04:00.000-07:00

I wanted a front rack on my urban MTB, but did not have a lot of money to spend on either a really good or really bad rack. This is how I built it.

There are several DIY sites out there on how to build a bike rack.

Materials used:

[3] 36 x 1 x 1/8" aluminum bar stock

1 length of bar stock will be the horizontal box, overlapped and pop-riveted together.
1 length of bar stock will be both down-struts.
1 length of bar stock will be the deck w/ backstop.

[2] 1" hose clamps

[2] 3" double-stick foam tape, for each fork

Pop rivets or stove bolts, as necessary for assembly

I used a pop-rivet gun to secure the struts to the rack, and the deck to the assembled rack. You could easily use stove-bolts, I just had the pop-rivet gun handy.

GENERAL ASSEMBLY

This is all DIY improvised, based on available materials, and trying to get as much out it as possible. Your measurements will vary.

BOLT ASSEMBLY ON FORKS

Here is Mr Hose-Clamp/Strut Support. Take care when drilling the hole for the bolt--it has to clear the hex-slot head, not interfere with the wheels, and be accessible. Wrap the fork where you want the pipe clamp with the double-stick foam carpet tape.

Wrap forks and seat the clamps, with bolt facing outward, same angle as the axle. The closer you can get to this, the better. There is some play, but not much.

BENDING THE STOCK FOR THE MAIN DECK ASSEMBLY

Mark your center on the first 36" piece. Make all your bends from the center out! You will wrap the remainders to the back, where they will be pop riveted or bolted. Then drill the center hole through both thicknesses for the hex-head carriage bolt. This is a great way to hide your mistakes.

Bar shown bent and ready for drilling. I used a small wood-vise I picked up years ago at a swap meet. Score bar lightly with w/ a hacksaw at the desired bends.

Attach completed box assembly to bike frame, shown below:
This will give you a far more precise measurement for your struts. Once again, this was in the "improv" zone.

DOWN STRUTS AND ATTACHING TO THE FORKS

1 length of bar stock will be both down-struts. Measure, cut on angle, file the ends. This way one cut yields 2 correct angles. File edges w/ 14" mill file, round-overs so you don't shred yourself. Hand fit each strut. There will be slight variances.

Rule of thumb suggests that the strut at it narrowest can be 3x the width of the washer head for strength and stability. More is better, but I had to accomodate the hose-clamp bolt seats.

Below: Rack assembled, struts pop-riveted to deck assembly.

FINAL DECK AND BACKSTOP / SECURING AND DRILLING

1 length of bar stock will be the deck w/ backstop.
Piece has been bent in the other small vise I had. Small angle faces front, down on the main assembly.

Piece has been bent in the other small vise I had, in an angular "S"configuration.

Here the long and the traverse sections are c-clamped together for drilling. The un-punched pop-rivet is shown in the first hole, prior to being punched in with the pop-rivet gun.

Final finishing will be a scrap length flush to the top of he longer bend. Make sure to secure it to the front of the upright.

A C-clamp helps enormously. Vise grips would do nicely also.

Yes, this was all done in my kitchen. I miss my wood-shop.

The Question Posed

2009-03-21T11:50:00.001-07:00

"the road to Genovia leads through Gevalia".

I delayed putting in a fresh sheet in as I pondered this hard fact. My espresso got cold. The phone, an enigmatic onyx sphinx, remained silent.

“Zastava Smackdown”, p 241.
by Giovanni Nessuno
Rome, 1991

Hurricane Island: H37, Aug 1971

2009-03-18T21:53:00.000-07:00

I was admitted to Outward Bound as a probationary candidate. I was seriously underage. The normal minimum was 16-1/2, but my 16th birthday was 3 days before the end of the course. My dad was not enjoying watching me smoke lots of dope and becoming another white social parasite. I knew I needed it, and agreed. The weeks in New York before leaving for Maine were a swirl of overcast humidity and Lebanese Blonde.

The ferry left Rockland in the fog. I was standing on the deck in a pea coat, dress pants, and leather street shoes, slippery on the steel plate. Pulling into Hurricane, we were met with our first surprise of many surprises. The instructors counted us off into our respective watches, and told us to find our tents. For the duration of the course, you had a number. Mine was 13. This was a device to make sure everybody was accounted for at all times, especially if the boat capsized and so on.

PT in 45 minutes. Fetch!

Thus began 26 days of basic training. Every day was an uncomfortable discovery where embedded beliefs and personal mythologies collided with the requirements of teamwork and new skills. Outward Bound found your faults with unerring accuracy. Physically buff but socially abrasive? Socially coordinated but with the muscle index of a zucchini? Self-righteous? Apathetic? You got served. We all got served.

I was in Jones Watch, after John Paul Jones, commander of the "Ranger" during the American Revolution, and later a Russian Admiral against the Turks. We all thought it was pretty hilarious, "jones" also being synonymous with getting loaded.

Our watch had a strange brew. Merrill from Connecticut; I'd seen his picture on the front of one of the New York papers wrassling a cop during a violent anti-war demonstration. Only now his hair was very short. Jack, the incredibly abrasive and beastly-powerful longshoreman from Southie, in Boston. Cobe from Baltimore, a reserved black guy who'd never been on a body of water bigger than a park pond. "Beetle", a sweet guy, 6'8", 250lbs, and soft as the day is long. He never stopped trying. Randall, an epic stoner from Georgia, who mumbled a collection of LPs from track 1/Side A all the way to the end. Andy from DC, whose dad was something at the Smithsonian, and found out late in the day he was suddenly vegetarian after looking a furious rooster in the face. Then the guy whose name I've forgotten; a Portuguese kid from Connecticut, wiry, glasses, a scrapper. Michael, orginally from South Carolina, serving a sentence at Rikers after a car he owned illegally was parked in a Harlem fire-lane. Only problem there was a fire, and several people died. Eric from Falls Church, VA. For starters.

In the beginning, Jones Watch couldn't show up on time to save our lives. Our instructor Fred Beames got fed up with all of it. He ordered us to link up by our monkey-lines. We did everything connected except shit and shower. All went sort-of-well until the first lunch call. Hoots, cat-calls, insults and jeers rained down on our heads for being such complete losers.

It hurt, and it began to make a point. Jones Watch started to pull it together. To our amazement, other watches were not the golden children we thought they were. We saw as different leadership was rotated in, just like us, and the internal dynamics changed. Everybody got to make mistakes, and maybe learn from it. Some units started high and ended low. We were fortunate in that we ended in a better place than we started.

Outward Bound taught me that everybody has at least one necessary skill, somewhere, in an unlikely place. It also taught me that being a social parasite was not a sustainable life-option.

Outward Bound also connected me to my ancestors who'd gone to sea, and come back. It plugged me into what I now know as my core values, which are not defined by narrow sectarian, political, ideological categories. It also gave me a very short fuse for idiots and assholes, which can be problematic in a corporate environment.

One of our national mythologies touts rugged self-reliance. Some of that is true. But it is meaningless without disciplined, informed cooperation. Yes, Fred showed us how to sail, tack, and moor a pulling-boat single-handedly. But all of us went further when we got over ourselves and learned what it took to work together.

As a final postscript, I have a direct link to John Paul Jones. No, not by blood. My maternal grandfather Lawrence Harvey graduated from Annapolis in 1917. One of his classmates grew up in France, the son of a naval attaché in Paris. Jones' body was exhumed from the he former St. Louis Cemetery for Alien Protestants in 1906. It laid in state for a brief period before being transported back to Annapolis. The boy's father was present at the ceremonies.The boy, seeing that Jones was in relatively good condition, and nobody was watching, surreptitiously shook Jones' hand.

Fast forward to 1965, when my grandfather told me the story. With a twinkle in his eye, he said "Shake the hand that shook the hand, that shook the hand of John Paul Jones!"

And I did.

Jobs Still Elude Some Bush Ex-Officials: Text Analysis

2009-02-22T09:24:00.000-08:00

Original article appeared in the Feb 21, 2008 WSJ

Text Analysis by Erasmus Binkster Rfp, SoQ, AMf, and Bucky Kibble III, Esq

The jobless rate is hanging high -- for many of the roughly 3,000 political appointees who served President George W. Bush. Finding work has proved a far tougher task than those appointees expected.

No shit. You got appointed, and didn't have to apply online with Monster.com

"This is not a great time for anyone to be job hunting, including numerous former political appointees," said Carlos M. Gutierrez, Mr. Bush's commerce secretary. Previously chief executive of cereal maker Kellogg Co., he hopes to run a company again because "I have a lot of energy."

read: "home life sucks, my kids hate me, and my girlfriend wants money"

Only 25% to 30% of ex-Bush officials seeking full-time jobs have succeeded, estimated Eric Vautour, a Washington recruiter at Russell Reynolds Associates Inc. That "is much, much worse" than when Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton left the White House, he said. At least half those presidents' senior staffers landed employment within a month after the administration ended, Mr. Vautour recalled.

Q: Have you ever been convicted of a felony? If so, please state below:

A handful of Bush cabinet officers have accepted academic appointments. Former Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson joined Johns Hopkins University's Paul H. Nitze School of Advanced International Studies as a fellow. Condoleezza Rice, previously secretary of state, resumed her Stanford University roles as a political-science professor and senior fellow at its Hoover Institution think tank.

Given the GOP's deep love for higher education, I'm surprised that Liberty University and Patrick Henry College didn't step up to the plate. Would've made those grad-level symposiums mo' bettah.

J. Michael McConnell, the ex-director of national intelligence, also rejoined a prior employer. He resumed work this week as a senior vice president of Booz Allen Hamilton, the title he held when he left the management consultancy to become U.S. spy chief. Last week, Fidelity Investments named Anthony Ryan, a former acting Treasury undersecretary, to head its asset-management strategy.

Now that Fido's pie has shrunk to manageable proportions, he'll be at work by 10, done by 3.

Some high-level Bush appointees say they are in no rush to be re-employed. Michael Leavitt, previously secretary of Health and Human Services, said he will spend a few months trying to align his interests with opportunities. Meanwhile, the former Utah governor continued, "I'm writing some about the past [and] I'm giving speeches about the future."

Econ 101: A speech pay's 50gs a pop. You do the math, Nimrod.

Mr. Gutierrez is keeping equally busy during his job hunt. He said he recently signed up for a speakers' bureau and collects $25,000 to $50,000 per lecture about issues such as global business. Last week, United Technologies Corp. named him a director.

Mad money, mothafuckah!

Mr. Gutierrez would like to stay in Washington, which he acknowledges could impede his search for a corporate CEO role. "I don't want to go anywhere" because "public policy makes a difference," Mr. Gutierrez explained. He said he may ultimately consider businesses based elsewhere.

"public policy makes a difference" especially if it serves a select public, not the public stuck on a bus.

Senior Bush aides keen to work again "have to look broader than Washington," said Nels B. Olson, a recruiter for Korn/Ferry International. Mr. Vautour agrees. A number of former officials are now saying, " 'I'll look anywhere' " because they realize the Washington job market "is very tough," he said.

Oh yeah. Unemployed, 50+ white men. Feel the love, ass-hat.

Washington think tanks, charities and trade associations long provided fertile ground for ex-political appointees. But many lack interest in hiring high-profile Republicans when Democrats control the White House and Congress. Mr. Bush's low approval ratings at the end of his term don't help, said Leonard Pfeiffer IV, a Washington recruiter for nonprofits.

Especially when non-profits took it in the shorts these last 8 yrs.

Former Interior Secretary Dirk Kempthorne has told acquaintances he would like to run an industry trade group but hasn't landed a position. Mr. Kempthorne, a former Idaho mayor, governor and U.S. senator, said he is discussing employment "with two major and well-respected organizations."

Hmm. Oh yes, the Cyanide Leaching Trade Association and the Mountain States Clear-cut League.

--------------
Erasmus Binkster Rfp, SoQ, AMf, is Chancellor Emeritii of Hellmouth Amalgamated PolySci, Hellmouth CA

Mr Bucky Kibble III, Esq, is senior partner at Pogey Baitte & Marroone: Admiralty Law in Extremis, and Chief Counsel for the Christian Topless Bar Trade Association (CTBTA)

Further Inquiries Into The Matter Of The Great White Fur-Bearing Freshwater Shark

2009-02-18T22:20:00.001-08:00

(notes from the Estate of Dr Quadde, all rights reserved)

Further Inquiries Into The Matter Of The Great White Fur-Bearing Freshwater Shark
By Roccardo “Dick” Quadde, Rfp, SoQ, AmF.

The waiting stack of arcana was irresistible. I began reading at the beginning.

This Shark features prominently in the folklore of the indigenous Maeomo-Lipkat peoples: an enigmatic tribe who were regarded as peculiar by their Paiute and Shoshonean neighbors. Consequently little mixing occurred outside of trade. They were linguistic isolates, and spoke a language utterly unlike any other. They left little more than curious petroglyphs in isolated canyons.

The first verifiable sighting of the Great White Fur-Bearing Freshwater Shark by a European came on August 25, 1787. Antonio Fuego de Culo y Ruidoso was lost in the High Dorkoliths while looking for a mountain pass that was the most direct route between Mojave and Tulare. His royal charter required him to note

"all and divers Fishes, Fowles, Beastes, Birdes & such that would Please and Delighte the Heart and Praise To The Higher Glory Of God His Most Catholic Majesty Carlos III, King of Spain, Sardinia, The Indies, Viceroy of Mexico, Being Likewise Vicar Of Christ, Protector Of the Faith, etc".

Mindful of his charge, Fuego de Culo noted in his journal that:

"...our savage porters paused in their passage on the sandy shores of this uppermost lake in this damnable and remote landscape with shoutes of fear and huzzahs of consternation as they witnessed the surface of the waters break in a moste remarkable Manner. For as it was my Misfortune as a Loyal Servant of Jesus Christ to witness ; A Satanic Abomination to Appear before Mine Eyes What Appeared To Be A Grinning Ghastly Tiburon Barbudo seemingly Replete with Glossy Fur That covered the entire Fishe's Body from the Gilles to the Tail. The Monster was easily two Ells in Length, & of Substantial Girthe. One of Our Party, a certain Juan Camarone, began to laugh uncontrollably at the sight of this Monstrous Fishe. The Beaste did turn in the direction of the Offending Voice and Leapt Forthwith Into the Aire, and did snare the hapless Camarone betwixt it's razor-sharp jaws and released him from all Earthly Sin and Bondage. May his soul now Rest In Peace. We made camp by the lake and caught several dozen large trout, and praised God for His Bounty in This Devil-Ridden Landscape."

There are no further mention of anything like this in his journal.

The balance of the expedition was devoted to keeping the press-ganged porters in line and alive, their sullen demean just this side of mutiny. After several feats of spectacular corrective navigation, the gaunt and hollow-eyed party stumbled into the Tulare mission on September 16, 1787. Fray Geronimo Moiree and the other padres fed the starving party. They listened politely to what they later described as 'a degenerate fabulism'.

Fr Moiree was faced with a dilemma. After a closed-door consultation, Fuego de Culo was clapped in irons and sent to in the secure custody of four sizable lay brothers to the sinister Inspector General Elijio Marquezas in Monterey. The following letter describes the situation:

To: His Sublime Excellency Elijio Marquezas
Inspector General, Superintendency of the Territories
Bureau of Heresies
El Presidio de Monterrey
Alta California, ViceRoyalty of Mexico, New Spain

Your Excellency:

Greetings and Salutations!

I am Fray Geronimo Moireé, in the fiftieth year of fullness of life and service to my Master the Lord Jesus Christ; here at the Mission de los Tulares Mojados being in the Great Valle Central de Alta California, of the Vice-Royalty of Mexico. This sordid tale is being dictated to Brother Cedro, on the 20th of September 1781 Anno Domine.

On the seventeenth of this month, after the third bell of the afternoon, our humble mission was visited by a group of stumbling and starving wretches who only bore a slight resemblance to civilized Spanish gentlemen. The leader of this improbable band was one Antonio Fuego de Culo y Ruidoso. He claimed A Royal Charter from Our Most Excellent Sovereign Carlos III. So saying, and swaying somewhat, he produces from his tunic a tattered parchment. And there to my wondering and aged eyes were the official wax seals of the Viceroy Himself, acting as agent for Our Most Excellent Sovereign. And thus commenced a fabulism of the highest order.

He proceeded to relate that on the 15th of July of this year, he had set out from the hot and dusty collection of hovels that is known as Mojave, with the express intention of finding the most direct pass through the mountains to our fair valley. His party consisted of 45 Spaniards, 30 mules, and accompanied by 60 nearly savage porters, but whose souls are now safely commended to the care of our Lord Jesus Christ.

The initial progress was reasonably good, given that they were scaling increasingly higher mountains and encountering snows that were likewise deeper. The mules were weakening and failed to revive under the rain of blows and curses administered with utmost propriety by Fuego de Culo and his party. The snows were not melting as fast as had been expected, and this was causing some anxiety in the expedition. The expedition was also suffering from the unexpected departure from the savages, who lost no opportunity to slip away under cover of night and unhobble as many pack mules as they could.

Thus diminished, Senor Culo de Fuego compelled the 4 remaining bearers to portage the essential baggage which consisted of several Large and Fancy Brass Astrolabes, Fine Amsterdam Telescopes, a 12-Hour Sandglass and other scientific tools. They were not pleased, but were forbearing in the light of Sñr Culo de Fuego's Christian persuasions.

It was on August 15 that they made the sighting that is the point of this communication. For, as it so please Yr Excellency, this mountebank and rascal Fuego de Culo claimed that he saw at the uppermost lake in this wretched hostile Diabolic Mountainous Wilderness he did see with his own eyes Ghastly Apparition, una Tiburon Barbuda, a pale monster of a Fish resembling a Sharke. He went on to claim that the Horror of It was that it was entirely covered in Fur, from its gills to its tail.

Your Excellency, I was hard put to stand still when I heard this Heresy. As is known to all the finest members of the Academy of The Indies and The Americas, this is purely a folly and a jape to amuse his seedy and thievish compatriots as they despoil themselves in the company of others similar to them in wineshops and brothels!

So, after a consultative interval in prayer, whilst Sr de Fuego and his ilk were falling like locusts upon the corn, beans and barley placed before them, I came to a decision. I clapped the knave in irons, dismissed his retainers and I now send him in the care of 4 sturdy lay brothers for your detailed examination.

I am and remain, your most Humble and Obedient Servant, as Our Heavenly Sovereign Breathes His Wishes,

Fray Geronimo Moireé

Fray Geronimo Moireé was to be tried for Idolatry and Incompetence. Little else is yet known about Fuego de Culo's eventual fate and disposition.

Fur-Bearing Freshwater Sharks Rumored In Mtn Lakes

2009-02-18T12:16:00.000-08:00

(LA Times, July 22, 1990)

by ELWOOD MARKWAYS III
TIMES STAFF WRITER

COPROLYTE NATIONAL MONUMENT, near Hellmouth, CA:

The discovery of Giant Fur-Bearing Freshwater Sharks was announced today by State Fish & Game naturalists in conjunction with Dr Roccardo “Dick” Quadde, Prof. Emeritus of Hellmouth Amalgamated PolySci, Hellmouth California.

State Fish & Game naturalists did not confirm or deny informed questions as to the exact location of these enigmatic creatures.

Giant Fur-Bearing Fresh-water Sharks had been well documented on the Upper Agua Mojado further to the eastern edges of the Coprolyte National Monument, where the Agua Mojado drainage meets the confluence of the Chorizo Altiplano as it descends through the porous rugosities of the Stoeff-Topp strata.

Freshwater sharks (s. aquafrescum) had been rumored but not seen in at least a generation, and the fur-bearing sub genus (s. hirsuticum) had not been adequately documented. Prior specimens had been exceedingly rare due to rampant poaching and over-hunting in the last century. They previously had been listed as extinct due to overhunting for their prized pelt, which found its way into fashionable vests and winter-weight underwear in the last century.

Sources off the record have strongly suggested that the remote Big Quimfire Lake/Bigg-Ayre Falls area, formed by the confluence of the Chorizo Altiplano and the Agua Mojado drainage are the likely home of this endangered species.

Renewed interest in these evolutionary atavisms were sparked by sworn depositions from Officers Fred Hammer and Bruce Sheetrock of the State Highway Patrol. Officers Hammer and Sheetrock had been on the shores of Big Quimfire Lake at dusk one at the end of a hot summer day. They were startled to see the surface break as as trio of Fur-bearing Freshwater Sharks course gracefully through the air, whistling an eerie refrain through their characteristic overbite.

Although other sightings had been claimed, they were discounted by reliable sources as the likely by-product of “too much hot sun and warm beer” according to unidentified locals.

Dr Quadde headed up the team, which used their Sophisticated Image-Detection Equipment/Dual Oscillation GraDIent Effect (SIDE-DOGGIE) for comprehensive visual reconnaissance.

According to local sources who wished to remain anonymous, they did so only after the sharks had caused a considerable amount of panic and property damage prompted by a local fireworks display.

Dr Quadde referred to his extensive library and references, and then consulted with Dr Thaddeous Malpissant, of Big Midwestern University. Malpissant felt Quadde was on to a big lead, and lent his considerable prestige to the project. Dr Malpissant is regarded as the dean emeritus of Dorkolithic Research, and remains fully engaged in spite of his advanced age, estimated by some to be well over 95.

Dr Quadde is no stranger to controversy, having been extensively involved in last summer’s abortive Hellmouth PolySci-sponsored High Sierra Barking Spider Expedition. Six weeks of research seemingly vanished in a freak lightning storm. The academic outcome of the expedition was in doubt, but critical data was retrieved to form the basis of a comprehensive inquiry.

Alone With the Fur-Bearing Great Whites of Big Quimfire Lake

2009-02-18T12:09:00.000-08:00

(notes from the Estate of Dr Quadde, all rights reserved)

Alone With the Fur-Bearing Great Whites of Big Quimfire Lake
By Roccardo “Dick” Quadde, Rfp, SoQ, AmF.

Early in the summer of 1969 I was taking a summer sabbatical trip through the Rhümpe-Wrangeling foothills. The slopes were a verdant riot of majestic trees, which extended from their roots through their wooden trunks all the way to the tops. As we wound up the scenic George Murphy Highway, I was listening to the resonate static of the Hellmouth (Amalgamated) PolySci radio station KGFY. Between sibilant hisses of static one could enjoy the melodic strains of Thomas Schnabel’s Divertimento in D Minus For Brazilian Nose Flutes, opus 9 1/2, which I had seen performed live when I was an undergraduate back in my sunny tropical years at the H. Wallace Beddoes Institute.

Today however, I was on a different ichthyological errand. Reports had come filtering out of the chop-sleeved, snuff-dipping, chain-sawed uplands that had caused a major stir in the rarified academic circles I swam with during my stay at Hellmouth.

The cause for this excitement was the persistent sightings of the rumored and fabulous Giant Fur-Bearing Freshwater Shark. Normally we would have not paid the slightest attention but for the sworn depositions filed by local members of the State Highway Patrol. Officers Hammer and Sheetrock had been on the shores of Big Quimfire Lake at dusk one at the end of a hot summer day. The main tourist traffic had died down, with the majority of the 18-wheeled RVs safe in their snuggly campgrounds in Wildweasel, the last town on Highway 86 to the Coprolyte National Monument.

As the mountain light cast it's golden glow on the still shores of the lake, they were startled to see the surface break as as trio of the largest albino fur-bearing sharks they had ever seen course gracefully through the air, whistling an eerie refrain through their characteristic overbite.

The shock was total. Freshwater sharks (s. aquafrescum) had been rumored but not seen in at least a generation, and the fur-bearing sub genus (s. hirsuticum) had not been adequately documented. Prior specimens had been exceedingly rare due to rampant poaching and over-hunting in the last century when the High Dorkoliths were submitted to the ardent foreplay of the relentless steam-driven throbbing-pistoned Industrial Age.

Giant Fur-Bearing Freshwater Sharks had been well documented on the Upper Agua Mojado further to the eastern edges of the Coprolyte National Monument, where the Agua Mojado drainage meets the confluence of the Chorizo Altiplano as it descends through the porous rugosities of the Stoeff-Topp strata. Specifically they spawn and frolic in the perpetual roar of the still-remote and spectacular Bigg-Ayre Falls, the headwaters of the Upper Agua Mojado. I had been most fortunate to have witnessed this remarkable event, albeit through my glasses, darkly. The resulting images were sufficient to cause an uproar at Hellmouth College, as it was known in those days.

I promptly made copies of my report and photos, bound them into a kidskin folio and sent them post-haste to my mentor and savant in matters natural and otherwise, the renowned Dr Thaddeous Malpissant, care of his Well-Endowed Chair at Big Midwestern University far away in the East, well east of the Mississippi.

In the fullness of time an answer came back, which I interpreted as enthusiastic approval. Events were later to prove both of us correct, but far from even close to apprehending the awesome majesty of this remarkable aquatic giant.

Next: Adrift and Amazed: The Quadde Legacy

Spring Fever In the Dorkoliths

2009-02-18T11:15:00.000-08:00

(one of an occasional series from the archives of the "Journal for Crypto-Ethnology" Spring 1991)

by Dr. Roccardo F. "Dick" Quadde; RfP, SoQ, AmF.

The long winter passed uneventfully, a slowly leaking bladder full of inert gas. I was occupied greatly by the continuing investigations into the previous summer’s disastrous expeditions to the lofty and distant Dorkolithic spires. But as the days lengthened and the snows began to retreat from the the alpinid meadows, I became anxious and eager seek a remarkable vanished remnant of Hellmouth’s glory-hole days during the fabled Kaopectatum Boom.

The object of this quest was to locate the remains of a startling aeronautical prototype that had literally gone in a blaze of glory from the small mining hamlet of Hellmouth back in the summer of 1909.

Wherefore the shift from coprolytica to aeronautica?

One typically blustery and cold November afternoon I had been doing research in the Archival Manuscript Section of the Hellmouth Tweed-Hanna Industrial Library. While sifting through the stacks, I serendipitously encountered a copy of “Aero-Electrical Gazette and Proceedings” which featured the singular accomplishments of Alonzo Goezinteit.

Mr Goezinteit was a local mechanical engineer of great erudition and academic repute, with esoteric backgrounds in the topical and applied sciences. His past and then-current accomplishments were enumerated in 9 point type on crumbling yellow paper, cheek to jowl with lurid and graphic advertisements for multi-colored driller's mud and ladies' finer intimate apparel.

The author was breathless in his description of a fabulous flying machine that had literally blasted off from the Chorizo Altiplano, and vanished from mortal view in the plain sight of several thousand gaping spectators. Search parties were sent out (after a keg was broached, as it was a hot day), but literally nothing was found of this remarkable machine.

I became more curious about this puzzle. I felt that this was a mystery that had remained hidden from public view too long. As long as there was life inside this garish multi-colored polyester sweater vest, I was determined to bring it the light of day. I soldiered on.

The facts surrounding this remarkable machine are shrouded in the gauzy mists of rapidly receding time and memory, which having passed out of the realm of the living was now relinquished to rapidly advancing depredations of saturnine Time. Captive on crumbling paper and fading ink, a mute testimony to the glories of a bygone age. Such was a similar fate of one Sesostris Doro Wat, the almost-forgotten Nilotic culinary architect of the fabled XII Dynasty; saved for academic posterity in a critically acclaimed monograph authored for the edification of all that followed (Sesostris Doro Wat: Nubian Mystery in the XII Dynasty/Quadde 1961).

I digress.

Young Goezinteit had arrived in Hellmouth late one sweltering August afternoon in 1885, on the Hellmouth, Coprolyte & Rio Mojado Narrow Gauge. This ash-blown, cinder-blasted, soot-specked, bi-weekly mixed freight and passenger run was affectionately known as "Old Thunder- Butt" to all within earshot of its piercing and keening whistle call along its sinuous and winding track, stretching a full 69 miles from roundhouse to roundhouse.

Fresh from his recent graduation at the Bismark Hydrographic Research Institute & Normal Teacher's College of North Dakota, Goezinteit promptly found work as a steamfitter's apprentice. The local machine shops at the outlying kaopectatum diggings always had need of skilled men. His first jobs were learning the trades and keeping the pit-engines in good repair. This eventually palled for the young Alonzo, though he steadfastly continued waiting for the next available opportunity. This active intellect was not stifled in the dense hanging heat that characterized sleepy Hellmouth in the summer doldrums, and carried on a regular correspondence with various technical and popular libraries in New York, San Francisco and St. Louis; thus staying current with the latest breaking scientific developments. His business acumen also found an outlet in loaning for a modest fee certain illustrated fictional works that were extremely popular with the rough and tumble miners, who sweated their solitary shafts bereft of gentler company, excepting the precious moments they saved up for on their Saturday nights in town.

Away from his work-place Alonzo took a room at the Caucasian Gentlemen's Riding Academy & Social Club. He found the accommodations clean and precise as befitted his training as a precision-minded man of the bright new Electrical Age then dawning. Their attention to scientific principles of Modern Hygiene were noted in that vast dusty territory where the dust-devil took his share on a regular basis. Although the lodgings were excellent in their category, Alonzo knew that he needed a small isolated property he could work on ideas that came to him during the day and kept him awake at night.

Fortune smiled one day in March 1897 when he got wind of a foreclosure out at Carpaccio Creek, a short five-mile buggy-ride from Hellmouth proper. He went out to look at the property, and saw that it was good. Making haste back into town he closed the deal at 2:59, and laid plans to begin building a house and the nucleus of his laboratory.

In the mean time, the mechanical world was changing very rapidly. He was now known as Dr. A. Goezinteit, in deference to his increased status and new authority as the supervising mechanical engineer on the newly formed Boehner Potash & Alkali Consolidated Mine Works. This merger had taken over four smaller, money-losing open-pit operations in the scrubby Rhümpe-Wrangling foothills.

The new owner of this small mining cluster was the protean Waldo G Boehner, who had arrived in the kaopectatum diggings in 1882 as a strapping young man from Plummer's Divide, Ohio. Trying his hand at open-pit mining, he realized soon that all he would see would be the backside of the man in front of him, covered in the alkali dust, riven with sweat, and with little to show for his years in the sun. He pondered his options, and pooled his small grubstake with several other disgruntled miners. They began to frequent the assayer's office to keep an ear to the ground regarding likely claims that may come loose from their unwitting owners, so to speak. In this manner he heard about the promising "Little Mary Five-Fingers" claim that had been used as collateral in an all-night poker game. The hand had not gone as planned for the unfortunate miner, and things were looking bleak. Boehner and his "denim-monde" consortium interceded on the hapless gambler's behalf. The debt was paid, and the grateful debtor departed quietly on the next day's freight. The Boehner syndicate was now in business.

Boehner had a bonanza on his hands, and knew that only with the best in modern technology was he going to see the maximum profit from this venture. Proceeding accordingly, he summarily locked out the previous share-holders, posted a picket-line of unsmiling armed guards with Maxim-guns on tripods; hired 2000 Chinese miners as a temporarily expedient stop-gap while he was putting together the necessary financing for a truly revolutionary leap in open-pit mining technology. He was well aware of Goezinteit's technical skill and ambition, his dedication to his craft and sure touch with the massive wrenches when he showed the lead crews the proper techniques.

Boehner asked Goezinteit to meet him at the famous bar in the old Steatopygian Empress Hotel. His offer was short and blunt. One of the old-timers later recalled in a creaky retirement home outside of Visalia that "...In return for complete supervision and procurement, he would work his butt off and get paid lots of money..."

It was well known that Goezinteit was generally abstemious, but on this occasion bent the rules and partook a nip of the branch-water, followed by an inundation of the locally bottled AlkaliFizz. He quit his previous post the next day. His first tasks was to upgrade the hopelessly inefficient home-made donkey engines and head frames of the previous miners.

Over the following months that followed, Goezinteit began to amass the largest collection of steam-powered excavators, pit locomotives, stamp mills, headframes and generally reciprocating turbinalia yet seen in those parts. He had been waiting to use the new technology that he had read about in the current engineering journals, and this provided the opportunity.

The original syndicate that acquired The Little Mary Five-Fingers claim had, by judicious use of telegraphic legerdemain, followed the stock-exchange prices in San Francisco and New York, and with some coin changing hands were able to "prime the pump" on the Paris Bourse.

With a few well-placed words they were able to stabilize in an upward manner the historically inconsistent prices on the world kaopectatum market. Not for nothing had Boehner learned the hard lessons from the collapse of the Chilean Guano Boom in 1868.

This was to prove the big strike that Boehner and his confederates had prayed for all their working lives. The Little Mary Five-Fingers claim was dead-centered on the richest reef outcropping of Kaopectatum that the world had yet seen. The veins went deep into the Rhümpe-Wrangling foothills, and it its prime between 1897 and 1917 produced over 20,000,000 tons of refined premium-grade kaopectatum. It employed over 10,000 men and kept the machine shops humming around the clock. It was well known but little mentioned that at least 2,000 women were likewise kept busy as the shifts changed at the pits. New power-plants were built, and continually rebuilt to feed the expanding electrical appetites of this vast enterprise.

Far from the silk top-hats and cool marbled halls of the major financial districts of the East it was a different world altogether. Hellmouth was a small patchwork tent village of 150 in 1882, and grew to a large and raucous, if perennially dusty metropolis of 50,000 in its prime. It was situated at the confluence of the Rio Mojado and Stinkwater Creek on the Hardepanne Plateau of the Hellmouth Valley. This had been the site of the first Great Kaopectatum Bonanza of 1871.

The initial strike was in an alluvial fan in the surrounding foothills by the Hessian immigrants Joachim Rhumpe and Fritz Wrangling. They had arrived on the same burro in the fall of 1870, and set up their "cousin-jack" dug-out into the side of a hill, following local mining tradition. For several months they prospected, taking samples, until they set to serious digging. One day in March, they realized they had struck the telltale pink mother-lode, and promptly bagged as much as their grizzled burro Pedro could carry.

The story has a somewhat tragic ending as they didn't live to see the fortune that their discovery would bring. As soon as they had taken it to the assayer's office for the weighing, testing and pay-out, they were on their way to Missy Loblolly's Chili Emporium & Recumbent Social Club, snugly astride their faithful grizzled burro, Pedro. Passing down Main Street, they encountered a mule-train laden with fireworks and inflatable rubber novelty items making its way slowly from the other direction. One of the mules took a hostile dislike to their burro, and in seconds a major brawl ensued. The resulting jostling and friction in the melee caused the inflatables to chafe vigorously which ignited the fireworks. In the following explosion, the two miners and a number of the mules joined their celestial maker in a brilliant send-off worth of a deceased Pharaoh or Oriental Potentate. When the smoke cleared, the town went about its business in a manner suitable to any other boom town. They promptly named the previously-anonymous foothills after the departed miners, and appropriated the claims. A perfunctory effort was made to locate relatives, but was abandoned after the traditional brief mourning period. Life resumed its normal cadences quickly in a virile town like Hellmouth.

At its zenith it boasted, like so many other late nineteenth century boomtowns, a fistful of banks, a plethora of saloons, the requisite number of bawdy houses, and the Obligatto Opera House.

The Hellmouth Obligatto Opera House was in itself was an architectural landmark and marvel, designed by the now-forgotten genius Nestor Ersatzi. It was sheathed inside and out by the most artfully worked Java Rubber panelling, which portrayed various classical motifs in bas-relief. The House hosted the finest performers and artists of the era. The splendor encountered by the eye was a prelude to the delights which graced its stage. One such memorable performance in 1902 was by the famed Russian diva Ethyl Murmanskaya; who brought the capacity audience to its feet with a dramatic bel-canto rendition of Ludovico Spaetzl's "Cantata Akronesque". She returned for seventeen curtain-calls, and was nearly a victim of her audience’s fervor as they flung the brilliantly dappled Hellmouth Cactus-flower as a floral tribute.

But for all of the finery, gee-gaws, and wha-dee-doo-dah laboriously brought in over the mountain passes by train from San Francisco, it did little to change the fact that Hellmouth was seen by nearly all of its transient inhabitants as a place to make a quick strike and then get out.

Alonzo did not share that short view. He came to admire, and then to deeply love the stark and imposing lithic skylines that crisply defined the mountain ranges of the imposing Dorkoliths. He had become aware of the shy and reclusive remaining Maemo-Lipkat tribes through a series of unusual monographs.

The most remarkable of the essential monographs by Harry "Hairy" Singh Ramadamanadanapanly's freestanding epic masterpiece "Fifteen Years in Coprolytica: Selected Edited Journals in The Dorkoliths, Schlongbergen & Alte Puttanescas, 1890-1905". At the time, it was still an undeservedly obscure work bearing the imprint of a private academic publishing house in Benares. This was the first pillar to the gateway leading to the Dorkoliths. The second was Malpissant, Wanger & Blindsider's seminal dissertation; Expedition Among The Dorkoliths; which did not find its way into general circulation in an anthologized form until late 1913. Due to vagaries of popular taste it was literally bound in with a suspect and sensational baedaker of horizontal recreational meccas frequented mainly by miners and later by tourist groups from the Eastern Seaboard on the Hellmouth high plateau.

I drift somewhat, but the imperative to lay out all the details in Mr Goezinteit's remarkable endeavors must precede any desire for mere sensation. And the youth of today wonder why their attention span is never more than seven minutes.

The mind reels. In my case, slowly.

The studious Alonzo would prop one of these remarkable tomes on a table, and read the dense and wiggling script while he took his lunch in the sweltering mine-office out at the pits. His attention seldom wavered, as he was avidly diving into the cold briny depths of the scholarly pickle barrel. His mind continued to ponder the eloquent and near-Sufic descriptions of the geology and ethnology of this wild mountainous land while simultaneously working out the minutae of keeping an expanding enterprise well provisioned and stocked.

In this manner, in the deep well of learning, he came to read and learn about the enigmatic Maemo-Lipkat peoples that were the aboriginal inhabitants of the Dorkoliths. The were such a reclusive and self-sufficient people that even the ancient Paiute and Mono peoples had little to say when their oral histories were examined by later generations of ethnologists. It became clear that their language was not even closely related to the surrounding lingual groups, although this was not extraordinary by any standard. They evidently had arrived into the high Dorkolithic plateau well ahead of their neighbors. They hunted small animals, planted small crops where conditions permitted, and traded for small things they would not normally have. In this manner shells from the coast and obsidian from the interior found new owners far from their origins.

Several key peculiarities distinguished the Maemo- Lipkats from their neighbors. They simply had no resemblance, visually, linguistically, or ethnically to their native Californian neighbors. Their enigmatic and terse mythologies posited their origins as a celestial, with references to a sudden fiery arrival from the sky in a far-off time. Researchers from Eastern universities found it difficult to remain somber when confronted with these fanciful tales, but kept poker faces and detailed notes nonetheless. Careers were to be made, and each hoped that they would be the sole inheritor of a surviving tribesman from an earlier Arcadian age; when the implacable iron horse did not spew sparks while shrieking its clangorous clarion call of “Progress!” in the deep echoing canyons of the Dorkolithic hinterland.

Another ethnographic enigma was their religious pre-occupation with calcified remains of certain giant lizards and the fossilized by-products that occurred in abundance in the high valleys. Finally, their close and near-cultic observation of the rare, euphonious, highly aromatic and reclusive High Sierra Barking Spider, as they came to be known in my time. The original Maemo-Lipkatic gloss for this unique creature has been lost to contemporary science, but will surface shortly, no doubt.

The gentle reader and auditor of this screed will no doubt wonder; how do the paths of an ambitious mining magnate, a talented and hard-working engineer, a vanished group of mysterious aborigines, a scarcely-noticed aeronautical wonder that passed from the human firmament in a shattering blast on a bright summer day, and an obscure alpinid arachnid sub-genus intersect? Why had such a mystery laid inert and dream-like for so long?

The same thoughts occurred to me as I began to untangle this tale. Piece by piece I began to realize the majestic plan as it unfolded in this unusual drama. Let us go back now to Dr Goezinteit as he sat at his sweltering foreman's shack out at the vast open pit that made Waldo G Boehner the wealthiest and most feared mining baron in the Far West.

Goezinteit's mind had been pondering several key passages of the Malpissant/Wanger & Blindsider tome. There were enigmatic references to the flammability and combustibility of certain chemically inverted forms of the kaopectatum that occurred in certain conditions. It suggested certain properties that were not completely evident to the casual prospector.

The commonly refined version of kaopectatum was completely inert. Its mineral passivity was well documented in contemporary scientific literature, and was the butt of crude student japes. Modern chemical science had only just synthetically duplicated similar refractory mineral compounds later used in gelatinous dessert confections made popular in mass-circulation magazines after the Great War. The Maemo-Lipkats had evidently made careful note of these properties for their rituals, as the MW&B volume made mention in Latin footnotes to

"...observances involving men in ritual settings, generally involving crudely fermented beverages, making ritualized savage obeisances in the presence of spouting blue flames..."

though not citing specific proximities, relationships, and so forth. These attributes had been noted in modern texts, but had been relegated to meager footnotes and wished away by editors of prestigious anthropological journals far from the blazing sun and still canyons of the Dorkolithic Badlands. Such was the stuff that Alonzo was reading.

By this time the mere mining and finishing of kaopectatum had become a fully integrated vertically integrated monopolistic conglomerate. The previously freewheeling Hobbesian free-market antics of the early years were gone forever. In the place of burly Pinkertons, there well-placed contacts in the state capital and under the national rotunda made sure that things ran without undue interference from nascently troublesome unions, or bespectacled reformist do-gooders.

The product was mined with Boehner labor, shipped on Boehner rolling stock, processed at vast, smoky Boehner refineries, packaged at Boehner factories in boxes with labels litho'd on Boehner presses, and finally sent to markets the globe over in Boehner vessels. The company ensign was a familiar sight in ports as disparate as Anchorage, Bangslap Prang, Zanzibar and Zamboanga on the fabled Mindinao coast.

The business of running a large mining operation from a mechanical standpoint had become routine, and tasks that had been consuming in the beginning were by now rendered in the administrative shorthand necessary for proper maintenance. Wise investments in the Boehner portfolio, along with three successive eight-for-one stock splits had assured him of a generous income for years. He was then able to devote large portions of his time to keeping abreast with accelerating developments in aeronautics and rocketry. The revenues coming into the Boehner coffers were sufficient to keep Waldo B in tall clover, and his long-time mechanical genius associate Goezinteit intellectually diverted. Boehner knew of Alonzo's plans and tacitly subsidized them, knowing full well in his wisdom that it was better to pay now to keep than pay dearly later. He had acquired his hideaway estate, and had constructed a small and comfortable house, with a well-equipped laboratory behind the house about 500 yards away behind an earthen berm that shielded the lab from stray sparks and curiosity seekers. He had begun building a trusted team of engineers that were to synthesize Ancient Wisdoms and Modern Sciences, who started work at dawn and finished well after dark.

In order to bring this vast project to fruition, Goezinteit had begun to hire promising young engineers as they came off the academic assembly lines from prominent universities. He kept an eye out for eclectic and electrically minded young men and women, for he was a firm believer in the random distribution of intelligence regardless of gender. From his boyhood experiences he knew that trouser legs required solid filling in order to stand tall.

While he studied he began planning his most audacious mechanical achievement, the Fully Aerial Reciprocating-Turbine-powered Aeronautical Leviathan. His rough notes envisioned a mighty 24-wheeled, 200 ton cast-iron and steel leviathan powered by a mighty compressive furnace, burning the secret kaopectatum inverted-fuel concentrate. Goezinteit had been quietly combing the archives in search of the key that would launch his incredible machine into the azure skies, aloft in a brilliant blast of light and roar of thunderous smoke that would start rock-slides far above the tree-line.

Teams of men, steam-shovels and feeder-tracks were laid to begin shaping a large ramp that extended fifteen miles up a mountain slope. The work commenced on Monday morning, March 3, 1906. They began from the plateau floor, and proceeded to blast and cut in a westerly direction up the face of Psuedo-Sudanese Pied-Monte (Hall). The exact angle of the slope had been determined to be precisely 12 degrees for the first mile, then dropped into an increasingly steeper decline for the next 13 7/8 miles, where it literally troughed out before assuming a steep upward climb in the last 1/8 mile.

When the ramp was well underway, rail-laying crews would follow up the mountain laying cogged track, which would serve as the ever-lengthening supply line to the alpine launch site, followed by the actual launching track.

The cogged track was narrow gauge, similar to the famed Monte Markham military funicular railway near Dum Aloo in the Punjabi Saag Panir Hill-country. The launching track was specially designed in the Moe-Faux (Extra Wide) Gauge, a full 8' wide. The sleepers were specially cast using the innovative PsychoCeramic/Vitreous technology from a mix of Kaopectatum slag and brewery waste, which by means of a secret proprietary formula produced an inexpensive, porous and fireproof beam capable of withstanding the intense heat and weight that it would have to bear to send the mighty Aeronautical Leviathan on its maiden voyage.

The same technology was responsible for the production of the colorful heat-deflecting tiles on the planned craft. Surviving illuminations show conclusively that these innovative patterns were later appropriated entirely without attribution by various Mid-western plumbing consortiums and home-builders during the “Mission” craze.

While the ceramacists were wrestling with these pyro-aesthetic decisions, the broad shoulders and girded loins of the forge labored to cast, mill, and machine the many thousands of precision parts that would constitute the finished machine. New ground was continually broken in the prototypical wind-tunnel as scale models were tested for their aerodynamic qualities, a term that was scarcely known in those days but intuitively arrived at by hard effort.

The culmination of this plan was to have this massive beast winched slowly up the grade to the distant summit. All fuel and necessary fluids would be stockpiled at the top, arriving in relays. Tons of rock were to be blasted out of the "petra firma", using a house-blend of recently improved nitroglycerine enhanced with synthetic derivatives of the highly unstable vegetable-based Fabarasol-Garbanzolene igneous compounds. The captains of the blasting teams were grateful to the improved substance, as many of their number had acquired rueful nicknames like "Flash" and "Stubby ", and found that their recreational opportunities with the ladies were substantially diminished by previous methods.

The enterprise took shape and substance as velocity gathered and became manifest. And it was hungry. The provisioning was initially handled by the La Rue Sisters, who have become legendary in their own rites and through their descendants here in the Hellmouth Altiplano.

Originally the LaRues had been known only as the Fabulous LaRues, and had won the hearts and golden pokes of miners throughout the Hellmouth Altiplano mainly by their charming talents involving the livelier demi-sartorial and performing arts. Contemporary articles in yellowing newspapers noted approvingly that saloons and large tents were filled to capacity with a devoted male following who "heard them dance and watched them sing" in their trademark act involving a wheezy portable organ and a patient grizzled burro named Pedro.

They were astute enough to realize that the vaudeville audience was fickle, and after so many renditions of favorite classics the world was going to change soon. So they sold the organ to the founding members of the Chapel of the Quivering Orchid, and used the money to buy a used wood-stove and a large tent, under which they all lived. Pedro began his career as a hired beast, carrying large loads over steep trails while the LaRues stayed home and began building a business cooking food that was fit to eat, a rarity in any age.

When they began to provision the vast project underway, they anticipated baking at least 10,000 rolls daily to go with the 5,000 gallons of the favored Hi-Impact Java favored by the crews as they toiled up the mountain slopes laying track for the eventual launch. This was a supplement to the 10,000 eggs, 750 lbs of refried beans, 200 quarts of hot sauce, 50 sides of bacon and several wagons of butter required to round out the plates of the burly diners. They quickly hired on125 additional Mexican women to keep the tortillas coming, who took time out from their chores in keeping the giant stew vats from boiling over.

Before the conclusion of this remarkable enterprise, the twining of fate that brought Alonzo together with the lovely and smouldering LaRue sisters was to have an epic effect on the future destiny of the Hellmouth Valley.

What Would You Tell A Bank CEO?

2009-02-09T16:09:00.000-08:00

MoveOn asked the question "What Would You Tell A Bank CEO?"

Seems some CEO's might be asked some hard questions in committee in DC this week. They might cry a bit, and hope they can make it home without losing their pants. Or their place in line in Jackson Hole.

Don't know what you would do, but this is what I said:

Hey Bank President:

1/ Do you spend 50% of your take-home on rent?

2/ Are your incomes flat—for the last 15 years?

3/ Are you unable to take time off for healthcare because that would cut into your hourly pay?

4/ Have you missed a credit card payment and been told by the bank that your APR is now 25%?

No. Didn't think so.

I spit in your face. If I saw you walking by the side of the highway pushing a shopping cart, looking for cans and bottles, I'd be tempted to hit you. Just to watch you fly.

24.99 Facts About Me

2009-01-27T16:13:00.000-08:00

1. The money I didn't make in my earlier years was inversely proportional to the cool things I was doing

2. I shoot film in mid-century semi-vintage cameras. By the time I die I'll be shooting with an 8x10 view camera using very slow film.

3. I'm really glad I quit smoking. Everything. In 1981.

4. I've been riding bikes since I was 7 yrs old. The thrill never fades.

5. Garlic and cayenne are Nature's way of saying you're special

6. I hate looking for work

7. I don't believe in God, or any of the prophets. My religious notions reside between Haitian Voudou and Tibetan Buddhism

8. I have better friends now than I ever did before.

9. Other people do marriage way better than me.

10. I've got at least 5 good photo books in me. Getting them out is going to be the fun part.

11. Tango gave me a new viewpoint.

12. I need to travel more.

13. Espresso

14. 86% of the drivers in Los Angeles should be on bicycles—everyone would benefit.

15. My math grades in elementary school were "D-minus above grade level". That's a magnet school for you.

16. Red wine and single malt, but never together

17. Everyone in favor of the War in Iraq: it's your turn. Not so fun now, is it?

18. The statute of limitations on comedy never expires, and hunting season on highway signs never closes. "Caddyshack". Funny, huh?

19. Arabic, Indian, Persian music: good. Chinese music sets my teeth on edge

20. Bond movies are my kind of musical: fast cars, physical mayhem, guns-n-fireworks, and a couple of hotties before the final curtain— with a butt-floss plot to tie it all together.

21. My "Guy To-Do List": learn to stunt drive, shoot a .50 cal machine gun, operate a backhoe, sail a catamaran. I've already learned how to bake a cake, and gone to dance classes.

22. I like going to a neighborhood joint and having a good meal with my girlfriend who's the bomb. Glad I took the upgrade to girlfriend

23. Dinah Washington could teach plenty to today's vocalistas.

24. Get a photo exhibition at a hot gallery

24.99. Keeping my New Year's Resolution not to have sex with super- models.

O44

2009-01-20T17:57:00.000-08:00

I just pulled out of the CNN Inaugural vortex. Everything today has found me happier, more emotionally touched, proud, welling up, excited and moved in ways I never imagined for an inaugural. The events were bigger than the supporting players, voluntary or mandatory.

Rick Warren's touted presence and invocation bleated away in the thin winter air, while Dr Lowry's came, sat, and made themselves at home. W looked shrivelled and puny, which he already was, but was now without the props to sustain him. Obama stood tall, and spoke as an adult to a nation that had been spoonfed drivel and jabber these last eight years. And who can deny the delicious symbolism of Dick Cheney in a wheelchair; a final symbol of the cripple he's been, and inflicted on the nation.

Obama's inaugural speech was clean, tight, and gas-free. Thank Gawd—'bout time too. A nice backhand rebuke to the pasty-faced torture mendicants sitting in the departing seats was all good. The GOP leadership sat stonefaced, looking out at the hundreds of thousands of people who busted ass and wanted to be there, to see their dreams realized, and to bury these obstructionist, mealy-mouthed thieves who'd stood in their way.

The arrangement of "Air/Simple Things" was immaculately executed by Itzhak Perlman, Yo Yo Ma, Gabriela Montero and Anthony McGill. It was an astonishing revelation that everything that John Williams isn't a hairy bloated thing. Of course Steven Speilberg was nowhere in the picture, which helps enormously. Aretha: missing the high notes but flat out gorgeous. Fortunately Bono wasn't there either. The poem wasnt bad, overcoming an early reading-circle start.

I'm a sucker for well-executed choreography. I was entranced by the The Old Guard Fife and Drum Corps' minuet clip step, and if memory serves, they played "The World Turned Upside Down", which is what was played at the surrender ceremony at Battle Of Yorktown in 1781 when the British decided to quit the War. I queried Richard about this, but he didn't know. Word to RIchard, your PhD shoulda he'p'd me out on that. You was robbed. Ignoring my angst, the unit segued into "Yankee Doodle".

The Presidential party decamped for the White House. Seeing Obama in the Beast was a bit disheartening, but I took considerable pleasure in the energy of the crowds—exuberant, excited, engaged, ecstatic. The cars idled, then began the slow crawl.

Then, holy shit! Obama gets out, Michelle, Joe and Jill Biden jump out, and they practically bound up Pennsylvania Ave! The crowds began to panic in ecstasy! Yes, it referenced Jimmy Carter, but the energy was completely different, Michelle regal and radiant, Barack, having the best day ever, smiling and present. Joe was exuberant, and Jill flat-out hot in those spectacular boots and near-mini.

What a contrast to the sclerotic previous inaugural, which was Soviet in its regimentation, choreography, with spectators who passively waited the official word to cheer in the ticketed bleachers. Camera shots from that day show a line of bleachers going down Pennsylvania Ave, duly filled, and lifeless. George and Dick weren't taking any chances that anybody with a pulse would show up.

The rest of the parade was an American mix of high-school bands, military, with some important exceptions. I believe it was the Crow Indian delegation who led early, to remind people that the First Nations are that, they were here first. And the black beat came through in its most dynamic form in Urban 15, which was as close to a Carnival Samba Batucada outside of Mardi Gras; followed by a band from Kentucky, led by a Corvette and a musical offering of overwhelming white blandess. There was also a hilarious Doo-Dah Parade entrant in the "Lawn Rangers", a synchronized lawn-mower drill team.

Tomorrow will come soon enough with all of its burdens. Today was simply brilliant.

Zastava Smackdown

2009-01-02T09:04:00.000-08:00

I was recently asked to source a quote. The screenplay mentioned is probably this representative of the post-Tito Serbian Modernist genre, and modestly, I quote:

I quote:

His face was side-lit from the blazing sun off the street. We were sitting inside, deep under the portico. Even the flies were somnolent in the afternoon heat. The barman indolently cleared a forgotten beer-glass from the counter, while idly watching the sun-beaten English girls across the square.

“So I’m turning 29. This Sunday. Oh well.”

He looked up over his glasses. The blend of irony and deadpan fatalism hung in the air like blue Gauloise fog.

-- “Zastava Smackdown” by Giovanni Nessuno, p 183. Rome, 1991.

So, Everybody is a Ultrarunning Outdoor Xmas Xpert

2008-12-23T19:33:00.000-08:00

Actually, this is the gift you've been waiting to give that special someone. The Gift of Mr Trail Safety Bullshit.

Think about it. What do you give that Special Somebody Who's Got Everything? Where do you go when you have Perplexing Questions?

That's right. Mr TSBS is specially formulated so you can enjoy it as a hit-n-quit snack, or full-blown Roman Banquet.

Here, have some wafers, Mr Creosote:

==================
DUBIOUS ADVICE

12 Advice Nuggets for Newbies & Others

Recently there have been a spate of anguished "drops" from the UltraList regarding content, tone, and suitability of the message, if not the messenger. Inasmuch as the majority of these messages appear to be from relative newcomers to the sport, or the List, some clarifications are necessary.

==================
MOUNTAIN BIKERS ARE PUSSIES

Last summer I'd staggered to the top of Mt Wilson from Sierra Madre. I wasn't having an especially good day, but the water fountain was reason enough to continue. When I got there, there was a doe-eyed, hairless punk with half-unzipped leathers slumped on the retaining wall. "Ride to live, live to ride" was tattooed across his chest in big letters. There were at least six bikes dumped in a cluster around him.

==================
ANNOTATED NEWS ARTICLES

Hollywood Knightz On Mt Baldy
I love it when Hollywood assholes get lost in the mountains. It's right in line with "I HEART the planet" bumperstickers you see on their SUVs. Note: I also love seeing GOP lobbyists and Christian Taliban getting popped on morals and corruption charges too. There is no free lunch here.

==================
ANCIENT HISTORY

Divine Madness, Love Lost and Other Passions
This Women's Sport and Fitness article on Divine Madness and a reporter's infatuation has really gotten a head of steam up. I read it with considerable interest, and located the following pressure points:

a] a sense of longing and lack of fulfillment on the part of the reporter
b] observations of a group dynamic that are manipulative
c] the curiosity of the reporter about how to do better
d] some editorial tweaking to pump up the text for the non-ultra readership [which is infinity minus 8,000, give or take].

==================
FAMOUS HUNDREDS YOU MIGHT HAVE HEARD ABOUT SOMEWHERE

Western States 100

A Beginner's Guide To Western States

Yes, it's that time of year again, when Young Ultrarunners Everywhere Like You®™ turn their fond attentions and deficit-disorders to Western States 100. You've been to Kamp n0Rm, you've sat thru the Blister Show, and been anointed in Knowledge. But to help you along in your Epic VisionKwest®™, I have compiled some of the Ancient Secrets that will help You and You Alone. These are cryptic and hermeutic. As Don Juan Castaneda once said, "This will put the plomo in your Lapiz"

and so nobody feels left out:

Leadville Trail 100

Stairway To Leadville
Originally posted in 1999. The schlong remains the same, for those about to depart etc etc ...

Stairway To Leadville

There's a Kansas femme who's been sold,
that all that buckles are gold
And she's buying a stairway to Leadville
When she gets there she knows,
if the entries are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for

This Is The Race [homage to Jim Morrison]
(With referential apologies to James Douglas Morrison, Francis Ford Coppola, and Don Knotts)

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

Angeles Crest 100

Black, fade in.
Night, in Wrightwood.

A young man is in a cheap motel. It is a motel favored by thrifty serial killers on a budget. The higher-priced motel favored by thrifty serial killers on a budget was booked. Solid. Even with the broken glass on the linoleum, somewhere. The cable there was better (but it cost $7.99 more), and you could get the Satanism Channel with the "I Love Lucifer" Marathon Weekend Special ($6.66). This motel had weary wooden floors, 33-1/3 watt lights, a sagging bed with the Great Rift Valley down the middle. Many romances had died in that divide. He could feel every one of them.

Our young man is getting ready. Ready for The Big Race. His attention is fixed on a goal far away. About 100.559596975 miles, but who's counting now, huh?...Familiar music is in background, becoming distinct. The words have changed. Do not pretend you don't remember. We come into the song somewhere in the middle, we don't have all night...but he will. We've all been there...

finally:

Wasatch Front 100

Wasatch 98: Nostalgia, or Brain Death???
For all of you lucky guys and gals doing Wasatch this weekend. This is when it was easier. Sort of. Or maybe brain-death masquerading as nostalgia, which ain't what it used to be.

Looking For Kitty: Free-Range Organic Wasatch Bandwidth

We were all Looking For Kitty. This Kitty, and we the fortunate few. Over the course of time, space and electrolytic conversion; private ambitions were molded like sticky Powerbars into public objects. Sometimes art is not pretty.

==================
HOT TRAIL BETTIES

Wherein I Save Four Trail Betties From Unspeakable Peril, Pt I
I had only pondered the verticality of the Bulldog Road for a mere 19 minutes when I was stopped by an earnest young man heading down the mountain. His first query was in a dialect and demotic strange to me, but familiar. Upon a second request his plaint was made known to me, and was as follows:

"Where is Corral Canyon?"

Oh my young woodchuck, it is the better part of a league in the exact opposite direction you are heading.

Wasn't that nice?

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

Merry Charisma/Feliz Ramadan/Happy Kwaanza and all the rest. Stay tuned for my New Year's Resolutions.

Rebuilding the Republican Party: A Modest Proposal

2008-11-11T15:53:00.001-08:00

Since I believe strongly in faith-based solutions, I wrote the GOP with my ideas for their Reconstruction. So to speak.

They should resurrect Francisco Franco and Alfredo Stroessner. This would give anxious, fearful white voters not one, but two authoritarian figures they could venerate. And fear, if need be. As long as we're at it, lets gin up the Drum Circle to bring back Augusto Pinochet and Dr Salazar as well.

O! MFG!

2008-11-06T12:41:00.000-08:00

Image: Artist as yet unknown. Scan of original 11x17" graphic, swiped from a telephone pole in the Glassell Park/Eagle Rock area, Los Angeles, CA.

Nov 4, '08

Yes, it happened.

I didn't expect Johnny Mac to concede as early as he did. We'd just finished dinner and were about to head out when Karen said "lets check, I don't want to hear this in a cab".

So we did, and saw the live video stream. This is all too perfect! I never expected to see this in my lifetime—esp after the last 8 yrs of hardboiled willful ignorance, thievery, criminality and pasty-faced incompetence.

Obama's speech was simply perfect. All the right points, and didn't waste people's time saying it.

Oh, the work that lies ahead.

In the meantime, I'm savoring the joy of seeing the hosers and posers of the Johnny Mac Road show [Sarah the Impaler, Joe the Plumber, Willie the Pimp, and all the Angry White Faces] choke on a fucking chicken bone.

Game over, bitches!

Ask No Questions, Tell No Lies

2008-11-03T14:12:00.000-08:00

...back in 1980, I was subscribed to the National Review by my elderly grandmother. So I used to come home after working nights, crack open a Heineken, roll a joint, and read it.

Surreal.

One day an NR survey arrived in the mail. Actually, two. The killer question the GOP had that year was
"Who would be the best candidate to defeat Jimmy Carter?"

I took a long hit on the joint, and wrote in my answers.

Jane Fonda, and Alfredo Stroessner.

I'm sure somebody was amused.

Sarah Palin

2008-09-06T03:20:00.000-07:00

The sudden rise of Sarah Palin prompted me to think about Andrei Codresceu's "Blood Countess". Imagine what might happen if Johnny Mac dies on the campaign trail. Do you think Palin is going to let Cindy and Karl stop her?

I don't think so.

The tiger is well and truly out of the cage now. My money is that once she gets her sea-legs, she'll chew her way through these flabby white men like a chainsaw.

More disturbing about Palin is her glittering capacity for cruelty. I have no beef on hunters who eat what they kill, but shooting wolves out of a helicopter is cold-blooded serial murder. If she's so much the shit, and the Freepers are jacking off in a frenzy over her, how come she doesn't run on foot and give chase with a spear?

Furthermore, if she's all about less government, what's with the Books She Didn't Like as mayor of Wasilla?

The first thing these self-styled Big Faith/Small Government types like to do is get inside your head and tell you what you can't do, because your freedom pisses them off. And your inability and unwillingness to conform to their narrow, nasty views terrifies them.

No disrespects of course. Just askin'.

Condi Sends A Message

2008-08-19T19:07:00.001-07:00

Fashion Do's And Don'ts

I hope you saw the original story on the Huffington Post, where Condi was nominally cheering the Georgians from the safety of a TV studio after their disastrous surprise attack on South Ossetia. Of course, she went dressed as a Russian sailor, continuing the Administration's fatal addiction to costume pageantry. I guess her Star Wars Dominatrix outfit was at the cleaners.

Read the original here:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/08/17/us-allies-contemplating-a_n_119441.html

I found Putin here:
http://blog.kievukraine.info/uploaded_images/3027-799072.jpg

Gettin' The Velo-Love Treatment

2008-07-17T12:45:00.000-07:00

I was riding home from work yesterday afternoon. The bike: my neo-vintage '87 Schwinn Technium with the Scott bars, and rear rack. You may have forgotten it.

Old Town, Pasadena. Just past the techno-dorks waiting outside the Apple Store for their 3G, and well beyond the IndyMac meltdown debacle.

Its 90 degrees; mild, given the time of year. Me, waiting for the light to change, daydreaming.

A young woman is crossing in the crosswalk. She's easily 5'10", with the approximate confirmation of a corsetted water-balloon. Wearing flip-flops or sandals, and sucking down the remains of a coffee-whipee milkshake. The wind turns and I catch a whiff of her apple-candy perfume—like she'd been run through the Bratz Sheep-Dip Trough.

This fearsome valkyrie is not alone. As she passes me, she turns to her friend, then looks at me and says

"Your bike. Sucks. Balls"

Damn! She is in love.

I turn to her, and say "See ya next time, honey!" and ride off into the heat.

John McCain: Natural Born Citizen

2008-07-14T12:49:00.001-07:00

John McCain's birth status has been questioned as legal. Turns out he was born in the Canal Zone, eight months before an obscure statute which clarified matters somewhat.

Blah-fucking-blah. The wise electors of this country don't give a shit. But, playing along here... if it turns out that he is ineligible to run, his candidacy is in trouble. There will be Darkness in St Paul.

The campaign will pow-wow, while other GOP contenders howl for their chance at glory. All is Uncertain until The Ultimate Solution presents itself.

Nominate Cindy.

In a stroke, the campaign now has a candidate who is telegenic, coherent, and just plain H-O-T. Furthermore, she has a massive private fortune, and can tell the FERC to shove it. The only downside is that John will have a massive coronary.

Next stop, Arlington!

Carno And Vego: Brothers As Polar Opposites

2008-07-08T10:53:00.000-07:00

Ever wondered what happened to Goofus and Gallant?

Goofus and Gallant didn't die. They became Carno and Vego, undergoing the transubstantiation of the flesh, and reincarnated into a new form for this new troubled century we live in.

Study the chart. You've probably partied with one of them.

Citizen Tool: How I Dodged Jury Duty

2008-06-29T19:47:00.000-07:00

I was summoned for jury duty this past May. I showed up. And here's what transpired:

--------------
Greetings, citizen!

You'll be amused! amused! that my troll shirt, a pair of wrinkled trou, some beat-up shoes and 3.5 days of whiskers got me off jury duty.

As we marched in, we were studied by both attorney teams. There was an abundance of sleek prosperity, poolside tans, expense account lunches. The shoes alone equalled many months rent where I live.

The case: a 6 week donnybrook involving Mr & Mrs Mexican Plaintiff suing Toyota and the guy driving their FourRunner on New Year's Eve 2004, after it got hit by a Chevy Lumina. You know, the rolling beer-can.

I pleaded Extreme Financial Hardship, [along with 7/8 of the jury panel]. We were recessed. Outside, I was talking to the guy sitting next to me. He'd plead the same. Only he was wearing D&G glasses, had designer jeans, shiny shoes and an oyster chunkette watch. I walked, he didn't.

BTW: the costume suggestion was my girlfriend's brilliance. Once again, proof positive that she's way smarter than me. And having a career in theatre doesn't hurt, either.

Peace Out For All My Euro-Homiez,
eL-dawG, M*F*W*I*C
---------------------------------------------------
"You've got to live it... or live with it"
---------------------------------------------------

Eco-Betties, Cycling…And You

2008-06-16T11:06:00.000-07:00

Years of cycling in this strange city and I’ve seen all kinds of weird shit. One of my faves was a chubby Latina backing her Scion mini-brick out of her driveway. She was on her cell, and balancing a plate of tamales with her right hand.

Or the eco-betty driving her Prius, and giving me the stink-eye because I just happened to get in her way as she was coming down an offramp.

Another moron decided he just had to yell at me. I caught him at the light, leaned into the car, and blew my whistle. Loud.

“Man, you scared me!” His eardrums had ruptured, blood was seeping out.

His girlfriend had a resigned look on her face. Yeah, you scared me too. Go fuck yourself.

Do I hate motorists? Of course I do. All of you dicks are not paying attention, ever. Your inattention is now my problem. Shouldn’t be, but is. So it’s generic.

Last Saturday I was at the Silver Lake Farmer’s Market. It’s a sweet little deal. I’d ridden over to do my weekly greens run. Between the annoying guitarist and the flower vendor there were two young enviro activists; guy and girl.

It was my lucky day. The enviro-girl smiled and waved at me. She was a fresh young beauty—cocoa-brown tan, bright blue eyes, blazing white teeth. Did I want to sign a petition, and so on? Help fund an enviromental group, all about wind, solar, the works.

Gee, I’d love to, but $20 a month right now is a bite.

I told her I was on board for all of it—down to the part about riding a bike to work and all. She got excited when I mentioned that; telling me that at Berkeley where she goes to school, everybody bikes.

Ah yes, college. It’s easier then. Just wait until you live here. And since LA is the Bullshit Capital of the Known Universe, people aren’t going to be riding bikes. Especially white people. Ask a Mexican. Not unless its on a weekend, at the beach, with sanctioned recreation-wear.

Image-leaders like movie stars don’t ride bikes on a daily basis. If they did, they’d be chased by paparazzi-thugs on motorcycles. Ed Begley Jr’s movies don’t make any money, so who gives a shit about him?

I’m one of the sixth-tenths of one percent that rides a bike to work here in Los Angeles. These days it’s a 21 mile round trip. It’s also very easy being virtuous when the car is in the shop, laid up with a bum transmission.

So. I asked her what her degree was she going after at Berkeley. She smiled and said “Rhetoric”.

Rhetoric. No shit. I didn’t realize Berkeley had a 13th Century Studies Program. From the loins of what high-caste family had this Eco-Betty sprung? I’ve been working on keeping the rubber side down for so long, I’d forgotten about people like her.

Which reminded me tha my astrolabe has been idle at home for the last several months. I smiled at this young beauty.

“Good luck, and enjoy your summer down here”.

Which was not entirely rhetorical.

The Further Adventures of Dakota Kubota, Teen Lawn Tractor

2008-05-01T09:51:00.001-07:00

Hi fans and haters out there!
Dakota here!

First, I want to apologize to any of my fans who were shocked that I appeared at NASCAR wearing that Farmer John t-shirt. I know I said something about being a vegetarian, I dunno… sometimes all a girl wants is a Dodger Dog, the kind that Plump When They Swell.

You're being a hater.

But I AM SO *EMBARASSED*, mmm-kay? I don't know what Dad was thinking. It's a mullet thing. Jurassic Love.

Second, my Passage to Indio has taken a detour. I was going to look for Sam Sarah. I heard he, like, booked, and shit. Currently, I'm hiding in the fountain at the Americana on Brand here in Glendale. That's in Cali.

Now I'm smoking my American Spirits, drinking organic half-n-half, and waiting for the Naturepedic Yoga Centre to open so I can realign my chi. Or chai. What-fucking-ev-er!

BRB!!!! CU L8TR!!!

Exposition of Chickenshit Logic

2008-03-20T09:27:00.000-07:00

Rush hour distraction, Phoenix AZ, Oct 2005. For some reason it made me think a bit about the country we live in now.

Maybe you've seen these numbers, either still or in motion:

World War I
Woodrow Wilson, DEMOCRAT
U.S. deaths-115,000

World War II
Franklin Roosevelt, DEMOCRAT
U.S. deaths-400,000.

Korean War
Harry Truman, DEMOCRAT
U.S. deaths-36,000

Vietnam War
John Kennedy, DEMOCRAT
U.S. deaths-58,000.

The War in Iraq George Bush,
REPUBLICAN
U.S. deaths-4,000.

This recently surfaced in response to a Joe Conason column in the New York Observer. Of course I answered it. And in honor of the 15 people who'll read this in the next few weeks, here it is, in an expanded exposition.

I love it when crap like this bobs up! Lets review the facts, as it is still a "reality-based" world. Let's take down two of these howling wing-nut talking points for starters...

World War I: US entry speeded by German torpedos at US shipping, culminating in the sinking of the Lusitania. I guess that wouldn't bother Mr Odom any.

World War II: Pearl Harbor? And on Dec 10 Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy declared war on us as well. Oh, I'm sorry!

Korean War: Truman may have committed us, but John Foster Dulles and the cave-man wing of the GOP were jacking off furiously at the idea of nuclear war with the Soviets. Furthermore, all this bellicosity was shown to be the hollow crapfest it always was when the Hungarians revolted against their Soviet overlords. And no, it didn't because of gun control. It was because of jets, tanks and Mongolians.

Back to Korea: Truman's greatest sin for these clowns was sacking MacArthur, who had been gamed thoroughly by the North Koreans at Inchon. Of course MacArthur thought crossing the Yalu was a splendid idea, which brought the Chinese into the war. And that is where it all truly went to hell.

Vietnam: In 1954 Eisenhower took over the financing and arming of the South Vietnamese from the French after Dien Bien Phu. For the French-haters out there, it is useful to remember that the French lost over 50,000 men in Indo-China between 1945 and 1954. Never mind the Vietnamese, who were mainly trying to get their country back. By French law, draftees could not serve in Indo China. It was left to the professional soldiers and the French Foreign Legion [a manpower funnel that had every fugitive from across Europe of whom no questions were asked] along with the colonial conscripts.

We'll fast-forward past the blunders of JFK and LBJ, who deserve no mercy, to the august Richard Nixon. Any opportunity to end the war was ignored or blundered, which continued the hang-over until April 1975, under the Ford Administration.

Jimmy Carter seems to have gotten off lightly in the preceding analysis, which surprises me. I expected some Ludendorffian "stabbed-in-the-back" rhetoric there.

Now we have the unspoken interlude of Reagan I & II.

Reagan's most poisonous gifts to the American legacy was that an empire could fight on the cheap. He got away with it, and I suppose that's why the GOP likes to name everything that isn't nailed down after him. After 280+ Marines died in Beirut [cf Marcinko, 1991] he pulled out [or is that 'cut and run'?]. Got me!

Bush I. Let's see—Desert Storm, coalition, planning, teamwork, and a clear exit strategy. All things his prodigal son doesn't have and never had.

Clinton I & II. The body count is down on Bubba, I suppose convulsing a government over a knobber is the way to go on that.

Bush I & II. Distinguished by a claque that got everything wrong every time, but managed to make sure its paychecks kept coming. Despite every conceivable looting and degradation of the civic infrastructure.

Let's recap what we knew then, and know now:

1] No WMD
2] No Nukes
3] No connection of Iraq to Al-Qaeda

and this is the kicker:

4] Iraq didn't invade us, sink our ships, nothing. Remember, Saddam was our bitch from the beginning. Rummy shook that bastard's hand twice in public, while we were giving him whatever he wanted after he invaded Iran in 1980. You forgot? The Iranians didn't, and haven't. That war has been justifiably called The First World War of the Third World.

However:

5] Now the entire Arab world has reason to hate us, forever. Every swinging dick with a beef will rush to sign up with any other dick who calls themselves Al Qaeda. As opposed to "Anwar's House of Terror". Plus the Iranians.

Lets also remember that before the invasion, Iraq provided 15% of our oil, at $33 a barrel. Gas used to be $1.46 a gallon, remember?

CONCLUSION:

Those responsible for these horrors and chaos are to a man [and woman] Chicken-Hawks. They dodged going to 'Nam, citing "other priorities". Most have never heard a shot fired in anger, let alone put on boxing gloves to find out what its like to have somebody trying to hit you.

Numbers alone do not tell the story. Think about that next time you gas up.

Why Downhill Mountain Bikers Are Pussies

2008-03-11T12:51:00.000-07:00

A Touching Forward

Last summer I'd staggered to the top of Mt Wilson from Sierra Madre. I wasn't having an especially good day, but the water fountain was reason enough to continue. When I got there, there was a doe-eyed, hairless punk with half-unzipped leathers slumped on the retaining wall. "Ride to live, live to ride" was tattooed across his chest in big letters. There were at least six bikes dumped in a cluster around him.

I was curious. "Where's the rest of your crew?" My curiosity was about to be rewarded.

The boy looked up and said morosely "…uh, [Bobby] was trying to get some air, but he landed badly. We had to call a paramedic. We were going to ride down to Chantry, but now we're waiting for a ride.…"

Dead silence. The flies were unconcerned. Outwardly, I was solemn.

Inwardly, I was flippin! Stoogin' going whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop!, while spinning on my shoulder on the parking lot asphalt! It doesn't get any better than this!

Serves you fucking right, dipshit. You and your dickhead posse shooting down the Upper Winter Creek Trail knocking elderly Asian dayhikers like bowling pins. Or how 'bout the young family with their four-year old who just missed getting dinged by a Bozo Pelloton?

The Big Show

Yes, its all about you—the weekend MTB'er driving up to the top of Mt Wilson. You are a pussy. And if you're wearing body armor, you're a double pussy. Fuck you and the helmet you're wearing.

No, this isn't about you if you're riding with your kids on the bike path down at Santa Monica. You aren't pretending to be all heroic and extreme. Chances are greater that you'll actually be paying attention. By how much is anyone's guess.

And no, this isn't about you, the Realized MTB'er, the one or two of you I've seen, who ride uphill. One gent I saw, back in 2000, was riding up out of Chilao Flats up to Bandido. He saw us, and gandy-jumped up over the 8" railroad ties, while waiting for us to pass. You sir, were the Shit.

The rest of you flabby weenies, get all up in my shit—not that I care, but check this out. It obviously takes nothing to fly down a mountain trail. Because if you were riding uphill, like a real man (because most women are smarter than you anyway…and they're not giving you a taste of their honey, never) you'd burn up inside your plastic armor. Have a PowerBar, you look hungry.

Another sad fact is that you are outrunning your reflexes. Most of you couldn't stop on a dime if Scarlett Johannsen herself spotted you the change.

To add real insult to injury, if you had real balls, you'd be out testing your game in city traffic. That's right, home-slice. Doing the Steel and Rubber Slalom with 10,000 new dickheads on a daily basis. Monday thru Friday, twice daily. Let's see you come around a corner and bullshit your way thru an MTA bus or dirt-hauler. Advantage: other guy.

One more thing: Mahal'o for being you—have a nice day!

The "Whole Foods Casino Initiative": This I Believe

2008-02-05T12:25:00.000-08:00

Millions of Californians went to the Super Tuesday Primary polls. You just fell asleep reading that. Too bad. You would've been wide awake voting for the I-96 "Whole Foods Casino Initiative". I-96 completely redefines gaming here in California.

Ratifies amendment to existing gaming compact between state and Free Range Wholistic Bands of the Wasichu Nation(s); amendment would permit tribe to operate 3,000 additional slot machines in each central location of Santa Monica, Brentwood, Montecito, Hillsborough and Marin—with other locations to be determined.
Omits certain projects from scope of California Environmental Quality Act, except the part about second-hand bong smoke; amendment provides for Tribal Environmental Impact Report and intergovernmental procedure to address environmental impact. BYO yoga mat.
Specifies where revenue paid by tribe pursuant to amendment deposited; amendment requires tribe to make $20,000,000 annual payment and pay percentage of revenue generated from the additional slot machines to the state. No estimated cost of carpal-tunnel syndrome or "Square Ass Symptom".

I voted for it. Damn straight! I saw those zeroes and said "If I can get in front of that with a funnel, I'm set!"

Critics lambasted I-96 as the "Trail Of Tears" Initiative. Spokes-whiner Rob Reiner vociferously attacked it, claiming that thousands of upper-income financial minorities like lobbyists, lawyers, fund-managers, starlets, and yoga instructors would be targeted by exploitative profiled-advertising.

Supporters countered that I-96 would establish organic, fair-trade, and vegan casinos in typically under-served demographics. At stormy meetings across California, PowerPoint presentations made damning comparisons between the surfeit of Starbucks, and the stark lack of organic gaming in these isolated communities.

Savvy entepreneurs realized that all the hot Whole Foods Checkout Betties and Hunky Bobs could manifest their Prosperity Consciousness in an Empowered Manner; while bringing you artisan vodka gimlets, family-farmed organic snacks, and lots of Windham Hill playing in the background.

Each casino is to built according to deep principles of Harmonious Temple-Dog Feng Shui. No more going to casinos built on brownfield SuperFund sites! No more greasy, sizzling snacks from crispy BBQ Downer Cows!

Go ahead… bet the house in a Carbon Neutral environment. And should you lose, there will be hemp-clad Grief Therapists who will assist you in the Five Manifold Ways of Coming To Terms. There is no other comparable feeling than stepping through the Portals of Samsara to The Bardo of Nothingness.

Once you go 26 Black, you never go back.

Snowshoes To A New Lowe

2008-01-27T20:20:00.000-08:00

I remembered I had an ice axe and hammer. They were at home. I also had crampons. They were in the car. It would've been nice to have them. I was front-pointing a 30' section on a 45-degree slope of hard-crusted, packed snow. In snowshoes.

Welcome to my world, late Saturday afternoon, on the chilled north-east face of Mt Lowe.

A Priori: The Back Story

All this was far in the future when Big Snow finally arrived in the San Gabriels this week. I pulled my straight-outta-1978 Fischer metal-edged cross country skis from their dreamless sleep. What the hell—I pulled the '89 Black Diamond Espressos too. I had hopes on getting them cleaned and waxed, but that was a long shot. And the snowshoes came out too. I wanted to have a full choice for winter fun.

CalTrans saw fit to close the Angeles Crest Highway right above the blanco-y-blanco village of La Piñata. Snow? Landslide? Accident? I wasn't about to wait for a re-opening, so I busted a U and drove east on the 210 to Pasadena, exiting and turning north on Lake Ave. Roscoe's Chicken And Waffles was gearing up up for another banner blue-flame day.

After repacking my kit, with snowshoes strapped to the pack, I began to puff and wheeze like momma's chubby poodle up the Echo Mt Trail. There is a guaranteed 3 miles of vertical fun. I had fun setting new records in the Four-Mile Hour.

Another mile later I got over myself and was on the Mt. Lowe Road: the Upward Highway To Hell, Good fortune put me squarely in the logical sights of "MC Stump-D", whom I hadn't seen in several months. He was finishing up a run, but cheerfully said WTF and we strolled up the Road and chewed the proverbial fat for a half mile. Just below the snow also ran into "Uncle" Hal Winton and Nancy Tinker, who had already been to the now-avalanched and blocked Markham Tunnel. Their cheeriness was casting dark shadows on my late-starting sloth.

Snow, Thence Mt. Lowe

Snow began with inch-deep fingerlings that soon became three, then six-inch cover. For those reading this in New England, laugh at will. Remember that all this is approximately five air-miles miles north of Pasadena, where you see the Rose Parade on TV. And agave spikes out of the snow completes the picture.

Soon enough it was time for the snowshoes. These were the New Jack duraluminum tubing and teeth under the toe and and heel—not the vintage "Kill The Wabbitt" flatfooters of yore.

I was tired of slipping in and out of everyone's foot-holes. The junction of the Mt Lowe Road and the foundations of the vanished Alpine Tavern offered the first opportunity to go into the deep. And I was on top.

Oh joy! Now the West Trail up Mt Lowe—not signed, but indicated by snow-covered cribbing up a creek drainage. The snow was 2' deep. On the west face it was sunny, hot, and the trees were shedding their considerable snow-burden in a continuous rain-fall. I was soaked, which would be much fun later.

Meantime I was getting The Message on snowshoes. I was getting spanked. The trade-off for not post-holing is picking up at least a pound of wet snow every step and carrying it with you. Until the next one. Your stance is a ruggedly wide one—your feet are now at least 12" across the beam. No runway walk for you in these.

Pausing in my labors yielded killer views of deep canyons loaded with snow, Mt Baldy far to the east completely covered, the Los Padres to the northwest also white; and knowing that every scorching summer day you've ever spent on Mt Lowe has been completely redefined.

You've Got To Live It, Or Live With It

The West Trail up Mt Lowe was discernible as a dipped line and a contour. No problem. And the west-facing slopes are forgiving. Things took a different turn on the chilled north-east face, where snow had been blown by surprise! a west wind.

The trail was completely filled in. The snow face was a nice hard crust. There were no bushes to hang on to. I was back to Rock-Climbing 101: Lessons In Friction. Looking down showed indifferent bushes that would probably delay my fall somewhat. This is where I began to front-point. It's a long way to the bottom, when you want to rock'n'roll.

Scratch-scratch-scratch. I was on my tippy-toes, finger-tips on the snow-face for balance while feets was doin' they stuff.

Scratch-scratch-scratch. Edge to the next stance, and s-l-o-w-l-y reach for the snow-melt jughandle around a rock outcrop. It holds.

Scratch-scratch-scratch. On to the next stance.

I suppose I could've turned around, but at 3pm, with 2/3 of the circuit done, I would've been looking at a post-dark finish. Some of the previous transitions had been somewhat sketchy. Onward.

I made the last move, and was now standing on stable snow. And I was freezing my ass off. I put on everything I carried, and looked forward to running, like a godzilla, whumping and thumping down the mountain.

This Is Where The Story Ends

The snow petered out to an Amherst winter sidewalk on the Upper Sam Merrill Trail, just before it turns hard to the west-facing slope. After that it was mud. And so was I. I could barely lift my legs.

The last 4 miles were varying degrees of technical, but I was in downhill slow-mode. I eventually got to the bottom at the Cobb Estate just before 5pm and darkness. After cleaning up I recongealed in my car, and began to think about driving home after a jumpstart at Starbucks, the Green & White Satan.

I'd hit the Lotto. I'd gotten to snowshoe untracked trails, and not driven 5 hours and been stuck in heinous traffic to do it. It was classic old-school SoCal.

Niko and Carla

2008-01-19T17:14:00.000-08:00

French President Nicholas Sarkozy has a hot girlfriend, Carla Bruni. Rumours are swirling that he's gonna marry her. Swirling!

I'd say "Yo, Niko! Chill! Test drive on a road-trip before signing the lease, dig?

OK, whatever. It's been 60 days. Here are my questions:

Is France a community-property state? We do know that under the Napoleonic Code, you are guilty until proved innocent.
If they get married, and then divorce, does she get half of France?
Which half?

"In A Metal Mood": A Perverse Masterpiece

2008-01-14T10:52:00.000-08:00

"In A Metal Mood" is one of the most hilarious practical jokes in the History of Röck. Boone managed to startle and outrage two highly conservative constituencies: Evangelicals and Heavy Metal. I doubt that Pat had that in mind at the outset.

Consider the readings of "Crazy Train", "Panama" and "You've Got Another Thing Coming". By the technical virtuosity of the participants, and the smoothie-stylings of Mr Pat, the irreducible cheeziness of the originals are revealed. Some of the other tracks like "Stairway to Heaven" sink into primordial ooze and can be deleted from any playlist.

Overall, an Essential Perverse Masterpiece.

Rudy, O My Rudy…

2008-01-09T11:42:00.000-08:00

After McCain's New Hampshire blowout, I had to ask myself about Rudy [cue music, flattering light]…

How many times does 404 go into 911?

Secret Transmutation of Elements

2007-11-27T09:50:00.001-08:00

How many times have you wondered how things change from one state to the other? And how many of those times were you a kind and wondered where all that yummy Spam came from?

This is the answer you 've been looking for.
I recently rediscovered this obscure revision of the Periodic Table.

Pork: elemental sign: PO. Atomic number: 50/50,
Relative Atomic Mass: 120.69
Spam: elemental sign: Sp. Atomic number: u81-2,
Relative Atomic Mass: 206.666 (note Satanic fractional number)
Lead: elemental sign: Pb. Atomic number: 82,
Relative Atomic Mass: 207.21

For years it had been conjectured that Spam® was in fact the missing-link isotope of pork. Scientists at D&L Industries Research Lab carefully monitored the projected use-path trajectory, considered its original source, and then followed it to its ultimate atomic conclusion—where it literally turned to Lead.

It becomes even more relevant in This Here Holiday Season®™. Especially after the recent LA Times article describing the relationship between wily, feral pigs and their puzzled, outwitted, high-caliber hunters.

The Last Surviving Pep Boy

2007-11-26T15:17:00.000-08:00

Consider the likelihood of the following narrative: A disturbed brother, one of three, who had built a thriving business in the 1920s. The weather business cycles, and become well-to-do. In later years their franchise is set upon by sharp-toothed rivals. They begin to weary of the struggle. But they cannot agree on a direction.

There is a dinner at the local IHORG (International House of Rubber Gaskets) to iron things out. However, two of the brothers have made an alliance against the third. They've always been suspicious of his center part. Besides, he's busy doing the other brother's neglected wives.

Moe gets the bad news as the house specialty, Gaskets Alfredo, is served. The brothers tell Moe that his future is really with the Hupmobile Auto-Victrola Gramaphone business. His help will not be required in the primary auto business. Really.

At a pre-arranged signal from Manny; hairy-armed, burly, no-necked attendants burst into the dining room with nets and lightning speed. Moe flings steak-knives, crockery and tomato aspic at his erstwhile assailants, and speedily flees the restaurant. He overpowers the waiting ambulance driver, and disappears forever.

Safe at his bungalow hideaway in the industrial section of Anytown USA, he fabricates his own Ghost Dance shirt. Meanwhile both Manny and Jack disappear under mysterious circumstances. Manny's autogiro explodes shortly after take-off outside of Flexhose, WI. Jack's chartered tarpon boat is mistakenly torpedoed by an Indonesian submarine during a naval exercise off the Gulf of Mexico. The Texas Air Force responded with only half of what it was capable of.

It has been twenty years since this shirt was last seen. Can this be…The End Of Dayz?

When Beautiful Women Make Bad Choices

2007-10-16T21:14:00.000-07:00

Sunset Junction Street Fair, a Gathering of the Hipsters. A full on heat-fest and scrum within a 10' tall chain-link fence and wildly overpriced water and food for the newly-hungry once the sun went down.

There were an astonishing number of really cute/hot women and yes, my little woodchucks, MILFs galore. In the midst of the swarm were also girls who looked like they stepped straight outta 1979. The hair, the curves, the clothes, the look in the eye, and none of them were older than 23. There's a cosmic mystery to ponder.

Now we are waiting for Morris Day and the Time. Me and 10,000 of my new best friends. Directly in front of us is a swan-necked, alabaster brunette beauty. She has a completely non-generic profile, ringlets, a sensuous mouth. My brain is squirming like the proverbial toad. And she is with a troll who knows that He Is Going To Get Very Lucky, Soon.

I begin to notice that her skin is disfigured with utterly generic tattoos. A skull and crossbones. "California Cool" piece of art that looked like it was swiped from a 1981 O-P knockoff. She turns to face the troll. Her gorgeous hair is up over the nape of her neck.

I spot the Dog Turd Tattoo. I point it out to Karen. I ask her what it looks like. She thinks it looks like a dog turd.

I hoist the camera, set to f2.8, 1/60th sec, with a flash. I fire it. And there it is.

The Apotheosis of Che

2007-10-08T17:24:00.000-07:00

Today is the 40th anniversary of the death of Che Guevara.

Fidel Castro has always preferred dead heroes to living rivals, and Che was no exception. To frame it in American terms, imagine the following:

• Bill Clinton and Al Gore are comrades in arms, or W and Dick Cheney. You decide. In any event...
• Bill and Al have a colossal falling out over the direction of world revolution.
• Al leaves the country with other members of his staff and cabinet. He goes to a desperately poor English-speaking country to foment revolution as an outsider—against ALL the rules that had defined a guerilla struggle. Let's say that country is Belize.
• the local inhabitants view the Army as a menace, and the presence of the outsider to be an additional threat. When the Army comes and asks "where are the foreigners?" and the villagers point. Now two threats are removed.
• Al is at the end of his rope after 11 months, and has lost 100lbs. He can barely stand for his captors, and within 12 hours he's shot through the head.

You get the drift. Now Che is dead. Fidel can orate for hours on this, and another hero is added to the pantheon. Thirty years later Che is a profitable franchise. For somebody. You can bet if it had been Mickey Mouse, the licensing rights would have been sewed up tight.

Ford Exploder vs Fire Hydrant

2007-09-21T09:29:00.000-07:00

While at work in Hollywood on Tuesday afternoon, a Ford Exploder hit a fire hydrant on Highland Ave, and gave the entire neighborhood a free diversion. Incidentally, neither Christ nor the Virgin Mary were spotted in the water column.

Classicella- Barbarella at 40+

2007-06-28T14:46:00.000-07:00

Barbarella is simultaneously a quaint artifact and and the edgy progenitor of the modern graphic novel. The iconography successfully incorporates elements of Jules Verne and the Nouvelle Vague in a retro science-fiction dreamscape.

Many of the elements in the novel have been worked over ad infinitum—the leggy heroine who is a determined hedonista; but other classic ingredients of French erotic fiction are well used—court intrigue, betrayal, awkward situations, and the boundless capacity of humans to plunge blindly in pursuit of pleasure.

I hadn't read "Barbarella" in over 35 years. It was interesting to see what I'd remembered, and find out what I didn't see back in my weedy youth.

Good times all around!

WS100 XXXIIIII

2007-06-26T15:20:00.000-07:00

"Your friends are definitely better than mine"

This was the Voice Of Reason from Earl "The Rocket" Jones, as he admired my 24k bling'ed PIMP goblet.

We were at the 3rd Outer Circle of the Western States 100 Finish Line, Sunday Morning Coming Down.

The Firste Circle is the Ring Of White Chairs Inside The Barriers.

The Seconde is The Laire of the White Nurse [being all double-bubbled and shit].

And the Thirde is round the outside, round the outside.

Let's see. The main topic of conversation for all the WS Entrants was not about Hal or Nikki, it was whether Paris Hilton would be able to walk unassisted from jail after being on a reduced sperm-n-demerol regimen. Also, whether the Magenta Star Child would be able to commune with the Trail Faeries and git enuff water. But all this wilted from the mighty hear of the Krucible of the Kanyons.

To everyone's Great Surprise, it was hot. Perhaps not hot enough to fry eggs on your visor, but close. There were a fair number of people who got into knock-down fights with the trail. Advantage: trail.

I was staggered by the number of uniformed WS Personnel and barriers everywhere. Every time I turned around there was somebody. The Safety Patrol had morphed from its original 1995 Slip-n-Slide incarnation to numerous strike teams of Tres Caballeros who joined the various conga lines to be ready to assist. Services offered included in-motion acupuncture, leaching, cupping, moxibustion, Rolfing, past-Life marathon regression, and select exorcisms. I wondered if they were also responsible for in-line dust-settling sprinkling on the trail. Hm.

All this remained unknown to me at the finish. Finishers were treated to a very bad 'short schoolbus' bar band that thrashed thru a selections of oldies. I woulda preferred a 'skort schoolbus' band along the lines of the Go-go's [perhaps with a leavening of talent], but that's what an LA be-otch like me would say. The band started loud and ended on a muted note.

From there on in it was the announcer's ipod that picked up the slack. And fortunately, it was largely listenable, and not drawn from the Masterworks Korral of Led Zucchini, Journey, Rush, and Molly Hatchet. I'm sure that someone out there wanted Air Supply as well.

At 1100 hrs the course was closed. Of course there was a solitary duck making her desperate way to Portals Of Glory 100 yards out. Time waits for no man, nor woman on the Last Fateful Lap. In her moment of crushing disappointment, she could take solace in knowing that Everyone Is A Winner, and if not, its all Pacer Error.

I scrupulously avoided the Awards Show. I wasn't getting anything, which was OK, as the Karma Squirrel was packed to the titz with all my gear n shit. They had the Awards in the Big Tent, rather than the saunafied Placer HS Gym as in Years Gone By.

The next day I drove back to the Great Satan via I-5. Mistake. 99 is far more interesting—better food and cheaper gas.

Chompin' Chia

2007-06-22T15:41:00.000-07:00

Guaranteed to ruin your weekend.

What started it all:

-----Original Message-----
From: [redacted ]
To: yetanother time suck_List
Sent: Wed, 20 Jun 2007 8:22 am
Subject: Chia seeds

I recently read in a race report that some runners where trying chia seeds
during their runs (yes, the "chia pet" seeds). They appearantly have
incredible water absorbtion qualities and when eaten are supposed to buffer
glycogen and electrolytes - and that supposedly helps keep you better
hydrated and prevents energy dips and spikes.

So - I decided to order some to check it out, and am curious if anyone on
the list has tried it before. Have any tips? recipes? how do you actually
use it during a run, do you eat the seeds raw or turn it into a gel?

leading to:
Begin forwarded message:

From: mrtrailsafety
Date: June 20, 2007 12:45:39 PM PDT
To: Karl
Cc: Subject: Fwd: Chia seeds

Hi Bad Karl:

I think you need to answer this lost soul:

In honor of your Great Wisdom, I wanted to leech your brain, uh, axe you a Q, bro.

I'm writing you on the UltraList, because its like farting in the dark. Nobody sees you, nobody hears you, but you get to share all the same.

Uhm...I want to grow a chia pet out my butt. But you say that Oatmeal is better. Like, WTF, dewd! Chia is green, Oatmeal is beige. No way I want a Beige Monster growing out my butt, dig?

Also: why are RedVines sold in the weatherstripping dept of Home Depot? And why can I buy spackle in the dairy section? And I just read that Kool Whip and condom Lube share 95% of the same proprietary DNA! Talk about smoove mouf-feel! Damn! Dunno 'bout you, home-slice, but I won't be bangin' any chimps anytime soon.

OK. I got my ultra-freek on. Peace out.

Barney Q Fudgepakker
"26.2 LOL 2 U"

spawning this:

Ode To Chia

First brought to my attention by Mary C***, and thusly brought forward by the tender mercies of Suzanne W***. Karl K*** is the nominal beneficiary of this nonsense.

1] Leftoverture

When overcome by logorrhea,
I need to vent [oh my-oh mia]
That running jolts, you’d have to see, ya,
I read about, The Mighty Chia.

Unsettled I am, alimentaria,
And tempting fate, colonic loteria,
By craving green, I had to see, ya,
I give you now, “Chompin’ Chia”

2] The Main Evente: Chompin' Chia
[with completely insincere apologies to ABBA]

I’ve been obsessed by Chia since I don’t know when
So I made up my mind, overruling the other end
Look at me now, will I ever learn?
I start to run, but I suddenly lose control
Mr Turtlehead shouts, “Fire In The Hole!
Just one toot, and the barking duck sings
One more blast and I forget everything, o-o-o-oh

Chompin’ Chia, here I go again
My my, how can I resist you?
logorrhea, does it show again?
My my, just how much I’ve blown through!
Yes, I’ve been popcorn-farted
Blue flames the day I started
Why, why did I ever let it go?
Magic Chia, now I really know,
My my, I could never let it go.

I’ve been angry and sad about the things that you do
I start to run, then my thoughts revert to Poo,
And when it goes, its out the back door
I think it know that I won’t be away too long
You know that I’m not that strong.
Just one look and I can feel the barking duck
One more blast and I know I’m fucked, o-o-o-oh

Chompin’ Chia, here I go again
My my, how can I resist you?
No tengo allegria, does it go again?
Ay! Ay!, just how much I’ve missed you
Yes, I’ve been popcorn-farted
Blue flames the day I started
Why, why do my guts behave so?
Chompin’ chia, even if I say
Bye bye, leave me now or never
Chompin’ chia, its a game we play
Bye bye doesn’t mean forever

Chompin’ Chia, here I go again
My my, how can I resist you?
logorrhea, does it show again?
My my, just how much I’ve blown through!
Yes, I’ve been popcorn-farted
Blue flames the day I started
Why, why did I ever let it go?
Magic Chia, now I really know,
My my, I could never let you go.

Straight Outta 1965

2007-06-19T08:37:00.000-07:00

Straight outta 1965. And hunting season never closes on signs either.

Kurt Waldheim's Last Unfulfilled Wish

2007-06-14T21:33:00.000-07:00

Kurt Waldheim died this week at the ripe old age of 88. Just before he died
he told his gathered family at the bedside that he regretted not being
invited to the White House, where he could give Dick Cheney Hermann Goering's
Reich Marshal's uniform.

My Front-Range Lobotomy

2007-05-26T12:39:00.000-07:00

This morning (being Saturday, May 26, '07) I awoke to a large spatula, gently peeling me up from my bed, and turning me over. I was pounded flatter than hammered dog shit. I didn’t feel this way yesterday before I started my planned overnight fast-packing/camping trip.

The original goal was go into the Middle Range of the San Gabriels, spend the night at West Fork, and then come back over via the Rattlesnake Trail back into Chantry Flats.

The insertion went well. Sweating like a pig, no biggie, normal. Up and over Newcomb’s Pass, east to Newcomb’s Saddle, and then down the Rincon-Red Box Road to where the road crossed the West Fork of the San Gabriel River. I had the whole place all to myself.

At the road/stream crossing, I turned south up the streambed and began to follow it up to the DeVore Campground. Rockhopping up the stream-bed was very straightforward, as the water levels have dropped precipitously in the last two months—almost a foot if not more, leaving fresh boggy mud-beds that any biting fly would be happy to call home. A steady breeze continued the illusion of comfort.

After several bends in the riverbed, I came around the last gap that revealed DeVore. Completely empty, save for a cheap tent that somebody abandoned. I kept moving through the advancing poison oak and bottom foliage to the West Fork CG. Here the streambed was even more exposed. This was not looking too good.

I dropped pack, started a fire, began to boil up water to make dinner, or, as it turned out, a very late lunch. Miso soup, palaak paneer boil-in-bag, and garlic mashed potatoes. The breeze was steady again, which gave me hope for the night. It was 4:30pm.

I ate dinner in robotic silence. Being thrashed doesn’t lend itself to auto-loquacity. In spite of my stupor, I was still keeping an eye on the breeze. It was beginning to drop. When it dropped below a critical point, I had many new biting friends.

Gambling that the bugs wouldn’t come alive this late in the season is one thing. Not carrying a bug-proof tent is invitation to endless mortification of the flesh. I began to repack with increasing haste. A pair of backpackers showed just as I was finishing up. From the looks of it, they had tents. At least I hope they did. Their short-term relationship would be shaped by that element. Smiling and wishing them well, I took my collection of bites at a stiff trot out and up the Rincon/Red Box Rd, looking for the Shangri-La of the Breezy Spot. It was now 6pm.

West Fork is a delightful place from November through April. For humans. From May through September it is a sex-farm and bacchanalia for mosquitoes and biting flies. There are probably some world-class chubby lizards in these parts too. It was not the place for me.

Looking for the Fabled Breezy Spot was fruitless. I went to 4 places along the R-RB Rd looking, but not finding.

About a mile from the top, I heard a crash from the slope below me. And there, for the first time in the San Gabriels, I saw a large California Brown Bear. Bull or sow, no matter. It was a sizeable beast, and appeared to be about 7’ from nose to tail, at about 100yds. It looked at me for a long while. I was cross-winds to it, which was reassuring, given that I had a defrosting chicken thigh in my pack. I suppose that is better than a pork-chop tied to my hat. But not much.

I made Newcomb’s Pass at 7pm. Filling my hand-held bottle, topping off with Gatorade, I decided to bust-ass down the mountain at all due speed. It was clear that I had until 10:00pm before the Chantry Flats gates were locked at the bottom.

With full pack at the end of the day, I was hitting an unexpected power-curve. Who’d a thunk? I was feeling better than I did at 3pm, which highlights the importance of motivation and attitude.

Daylight was completely gone by 8:30pm. There was residual light, but at this point I was completely in the night-vision mode. An early moonrise cast a weak light on the trail, which was highly welcome. Under the tree-cover it became as black as the inside of my head.

I hit the final blacktop at 8:40. Stumping upwards, I made the parking lot just before 9pm. Not bothering to shower or change, I climbed in the car, and smelled like ass all the way home.

This morning I awoke to a large spatula, gently peeling me up from my bed, and turning me over. I was powerless to resist.

Oh yes, the numbers: it worked out to be a 23 mile outing, in about 10-1/2 hours. Love those long, Mediterranean lunches.

The Three-Leaf Follies of '07

2007-04-10T10:58:00.000-07:00

Late Saturday night I knew. I’d caught a whiff of my special self. I had scored big on the "Smells Like Ass" Sweepstakes. All I had to do was get back to the trailhead and claim my prize.

I'd taken a three-day fastpacking trip into the West Fork of the San Gabriels. The itinerary was to camp out for 2 nights in the Middle Range, all before the bugs woke up and hopefully before the Forest burned down in this epic dry year.

GOOD FRIDAY

I left Chantry Flats Friday mid-morning under a blue-white overcast marine layer. I was above the overcast in less than 4 miles, but it’s persistence into the early afternoon was noteworthy.

After a desultory check-in with Chris at Camp Sturtevant, I’d exhausted my supply of lies and falsehoods. I then made for Newcomb’s Pass and Saddle, into the crystal bright. From there, it was a hard left turn down into the West Fork Campground, which was completely empty.

Rinse off, build a fire, eat dinner, watch Caveman TV, fall asleep. Life is good.

SUPER SATURDAY

After a 2-mile wrong-way start, I ascended Short Cut Canyon on the Silver Moccasin Trail. I’d actually never been on this trail in all the years of banging through the mountains. The streambed was bone dry for the first half mile, then becoming a series of stagnant pools. Two miles in and the Spanish Broom gave way to happy new growth of poison oak.

Poison oak is the Irreducible Calculator in the San Gabriel Mountains. Whither it lies, I goest not. I travel through it with the greatest reluctance. I will skirt it, ease around it, rock-hop and look for gaps through it. I will not touch firewood lying in it, I will not shortcut through it, and I make note if I touched it in anyway. Did I untie my shoes? and so on. And if I did, I'll wash with Fels-Naptha bar soap, or barring that, old wood ash, or even use pulverized dirt. I hate it. But I’ve made my accommodation with it. And it doesn’t give a shit about me.

Seriously though. The local Indians wove baskets from it, they lived in the middle of it, their children played in it, and their dogs for certain ran through it. Forever. And those secrets are lost to my Anglo eye.

Two miles up Short Cut Canyon, the trail left the drainage and began contouring up to the Shortcut Trail Head on Highway 2. It was sunny and toasty. This stretch would be very warm and bright come summer. I met up with a CORBA trail work crew who were busy brushing back. I thought about the poison oak patch that needed their tough-love.

The Silver Moccasin Trail meets the utility road below the Highway 2 trail-head. I turned right and headed down into the West Fork of the San Gabriel River. The marine layer was building to the east, hinting at a massive counter-clockwise wheeling. Within 3 miles it became a lot cooler an overcast, with a steady breeze.

At this point I encountered the OHV enthusiasts, who fortunately were jonesing on getting somewhere fast. Three motorcyclists heading east, one 4W heading west. Their trajectory would be Short Cut down, then up to the Rincon-Red Box Road west to the E Fork of the San Gabriels, Camp Williams and all that.

The bottom of the W Fork is approximately 5-1/2 miles down from Highway 2. I was simultaneously hot and chilled. I also took advantage of the water to forestall a potential outbreak of Ring of Fire. Having a clean ass makes me a happy man.

Now is the long 4-mile slog to the top of Newcomb’s Saddle. I keep forgetting how stark and beautiful it is here, despite the best efforts of modern industrial intervention to uglify it with galvanized cribbing, powerlines, and all the rest. There is more shade cover than I remember from summer death-march training runs.

Nearing the top the marine layer is boiling over the Saddle at a brisk 25mph. Now I’m getting chilled, and frankly, I’m spanked. Its been a long 15 miles, and given my current conditioning, I’m whupped.

At the juncture of the trail going S into Big Santa Anita Cyn and the Rincon-RedBox Road I have to make a decision. The siren call of Spruce Grove is tempting. I debate whether or not to make an improv camp in the blowing mist. It doesn’t look good.

Taking a leaf from the British Army Playbook—I brew up a billy of tea, eat, and think things over.

If I go south, down to Spruce Grove, it will be soggy and dark. I won’t be able to build a fire I can look at, only a fire in a metal stove box. Not good.

If I suck it up and head west, down to Devore, I’ll probably get a campsite in a remote campground. Inshallah, a camp fire as well.

Saddling up, I head down and west on the R-R. Within a half mile, I’m below the overcast into bright and dry! Damn.

Now I make the turnoff to Devore. The trail drops steeply in the 1.2 miles down to the 5-site camp. A quick peek shows it to be empty. I pick the sunniest spot, and begin to forage for wood. This is also a campsite for the continent, as there is no privy. This means you and your little shovel are going to probably make friends with Mr Oak at some point in the future. Unless you dig a hole in the firepit. But I get ahead of myself.

Fighting a dehydration head-ache, I go thru the motions of making dinner and all. I can barely keep my eyes open, but its better than yesterday. Without distractions, I look at the land in front of me. My eyes are readjusting to looking at things more than 3’ in front of me.

Spent an intervalled night sleeping. Get bitten by a woodtick. Now there are nightmare Lyme Disease scenarios. Fall asleep. Yes, Virginia, I smell like Ass.

EASTER SUNDAY: I AM THE RESURRECTION

Up and gone within an hour. On the trail, chowed up and ready to kick ass. At the ridgeline the marine layer is thick and wet. The canyon is completely obscured, and frankly, is wonderful given the drought that is starting to build.

Five miles in, and swing by Sturtevant Camp to see what Chris and Joan are up to. Their dog Natalie is thrilled I Smell Like Ass. All she wants is me to be dead so she can take me out in the yard and play with me.

Up and over Mt Zion, since it looks to be the quietest route in. Not a soul until a mile out of Chantry Flats. Given the persistent drizzle, the parking lot is mostly empty. My Sun Shower is cold, but with a dry change of clothes in the car, I no longer smell. And the prize committee left just before I got there. Bastards.

THOSE BORING NUMBERS
Friday: 11 miles
Saturday: 17 miles
Sunday: 12 miles

Yep, pretty slim. In the words of the immortal Ice-T from “New Jack Hustler”…never mind. And he says it better than I do anyway.

THE WHITE BOY GEAR LIST

BASICS

Ultimate Direction Voyager Fast Pack, 1998 model yearW/ 2 48oz bottles. I left the suck-tube at home, capped them with the conventional UD bottle tops. Yes, at 1700 cu in, it was just big enough to hold what I needed, and still be somewhat mobile. Otherwise I would’ve just gone car camping. At a casino.
Ridge Rest ground pad
4x6 reflective ground tarp
North Face 3-season bag
Tom Harrison's Map—Angeles Crest: Front Range
Silva compass
Hand-held 20oz UD water bottle w/ Gatorade solution

CLOTHING

1 pr Running shorts
1 pr cotton-poly sox
1 s/s lightweight synthetic t-shirt
1 l/s lightweight poly shirt
1 polypro pullover
1 fuzzy polypro knit cap
1 Propper boonie hat [days]
1 pr Patagonia Baggie poly trou

FIRE AND SUCH

Optimus 8R steel clamshell stove, with pressure pump, Straight outta 1968, and nearly indestructible.
MSR cookpot kit w/ pot-gripper
1 pint of stove fuel [excessive in retrospect, but, what the hell]
BIC lighter
Undersize wimpy spoon. Next time it’ll be a heftier tablespoon. Or a round-billed shovel.

WHATCHA GOT TO EAT?
The opportunistic outfitter can and will provision out of a 7-11 if necessary.

Trader Joe’s cheesy garlic mash potatoes
Freeze-dried beef. This would've been better with tomato paste.
Hard Sausage
Xtra Sharp cheddar cheese
1/2 loaf spelt bread
date expired Taster’s Choice ®™ Instant coffee. Not noticeably worse than fresh, only now its vintage.
A fistful of teabags
McCann’s Irish Oatmeal, 3x per breakfast
dehydrated eggs, probably date-expired, to mix into the oatmeal
Old-school Gatorade
A couple of ClifBars

TECHNO-GOODIES

The canonical Swiss Army Knife
Magnesium bar w/striker edge
Sweetwater water filter
A wee bug-eyed LED headlamp.

WHAT I WISHED I’D HAD

Machete
Ibuprofin
Miso soup

WHAT I HAD, AND DAMNED GLAD I DID

Fels-Naptha bar soap
Trader Joe's Natural Deodorant

WHAT I WANTED, AND THEN WENT CRAZY AND GOT:

The Black Diamond Megamid. After Saturday afternoon, it all made sense.

Preview Of the Iraq Nightmare

2007-04-05T13:46:00.000-07:00

I took this photo at the 2002 Doo-Dah Parade in Pasadena, CA. The more I've looked at it the more it reveals. The rollerskating amputee, the seemingly complacent "US Marshal", Vampira in her teddy, and the ever-present media. The underlying ironies and drama of the ensemble have only grown in retrospect.

It Ain't Necessarily So…

2007-04-01T20:00:00.000-07:00

Fox Broadcasting announced today that they were going to restage "Porgy and Bess". Porgy will be played by Bill O'Reilly, Ann Coulter would be Bess, and Sportin' Life would be played by Rush Limbaugh. Fox spokesman said that this was part of continuing network efforts to make "black culture safe for white people."

It Payz 2 Increase Ur Wrd Powah! / the compleat transcript

2007-03-15T09:44:00.000-07:00

Overheard on the MTA Blue Line yesterday: "bash poon" or words to that effect.

A brief field report, by Bungles, the valet

Northbound, from the 105. Two lo-rent playas, a ghetto "Jay and Silent Bob" if you will. Both were in their early 20's at best.

"Jay" was dressed in a flat-billed black & white MLB baseball cap, white oversized t-shirt, black pants of the de rigeur urban baggy. "Silent Bob" was likewise in black baggy trousers, but sporting a multi-colored hoody in a rich, variegated pattern of fiscal abundance—stylistically modifed icons of US currency in the $100 mode, casino chips and so on.

The object of "Jay's" fascination was his new iPod Nano. So many thumpin' grooves, such a tiny little beatch.

The loquacious "Jay", was describing to his reticent associate "Silent Bob" in detail an intimate encounter; by which a young adolescent girl was lured by true pretenses to his domicile [crib] wherein she performed copious oral sex ["brought that bitches mouf down on it and I busted a nut. She was served!"].

This was evidently satisfactory to "Silent Bob", who by his assented silence, enabled the Narrative Impulse to continue. Thereupon "Jay" proceeded to regale "Silent Bob" with the further details of a full-penetration sexual encounter, consummated on an improvised bed of 2 rows of 3 chairs facing each other, covered by a sheet. There was a mention of a television in the "crib", a garage in fact, next to a church of an unspecified denomination.

Observations had been surreptitiously made, and the conversants were sharing a fortified alcoholic beverage, disguised as an innocuous lemonade. "Silent Bob" became aware of The Observer's shirt, a vigourously patterned short-sleeve shirt with distinct Euro-centric 'jungle themes' rendered in a vulgate comic-book style.

It must be noted that this shirt is neo-vintage, 100% polyester, and is of Bengali manufacture. When this shirt was new, it had the suppleness and drape of 3/4" plywood.

"Silent Bob" turned to "Jay", and then turned back to The Observer, and declaimed "dang, bro, you one of us!", completed with an abbreviated dap.

I turned back to my demotic Anabasis, and thought of England.

"Bungles, the valet"

Polyester Sharia In The Making

2007-03-01T12:57:00.000-08:00

Do you enjoy trainwrecks like this as much as I do? Read on.

===========================
MY FAITH IN GAWD IS RENEWED BY NEWS LIKE THIS.
from the LA Times.

God's word, plus static, on Calvary Satellite Network

Amid accusations over sex, money and control, Pastor Chuck Smith is about to surrender much of the evangelical radio empire to a man he calls morally unfit for ministry

=============================
THE SET-UP

WHEN Chuck Smith, founder of the worldwide Calvary Chapel movement, decided to invest big in radio, the Orange County evangelist joined forces with a pastor he trusted.

Mike Kestler was one of his proteges, a folksy preacher with a ponytail who had ridden the Calvary phenomenon to a pulpit in Twin Falls, Idaho.

Smith had presided at Kestler's wedding. He'd helped Kestler keep his job after a churchgoer complained that Kestler had begged her to run away with him.

Now, the pastors would be business partners. Kestler knew how to run a radio station. Smith had money and a famous name. They shared a vision of FM radio as a megaphone for God's word.

Bolstered by $13 million from Smith's Costa Mesa church, Calvary Satellite Network grew into a spectacular recruiting tool for the evangelical movement. In listening areas across the nation, Calvary Chapels proliferated.

But relations between the two pastors deteriorated. In 2003, Smith cut off funding for the radio network, precipitating a crisis that continues to roil Calvary's leadership. It sparked a war for control of the network on terrain Smith had preached against for years: the earthly courts.

The two sides have hurled accusations of lust and greed, betrayal and embezzlement. As part of the battle, Smith funded a lawsuit against Kestler by a former Dallas Cowboys cheerleader who said he had fired her from her radio job for rebuffing his sexual advances

=============================
THE ARTICLE IS A TREAT, SO I'LL PULL THESE NUGGETS OUT....

Word reached the Smiths that another woman was complaining about Kestler. Sarah Meyer, an Idaho parishioner, said he had offered her a radio job, only to try "using Jesus to seduce me."

WORKS EVERY TIME! ONLY THE SMART GIRLS FALL FOR THE 'WORSHIPPING BAAL' LINE

"He'd prayed, and felt God was saying I was the one he was supposed to be with," Meyer, now 28, said in an interview. She said she turned down his advances and the job. Now, when she hears Kestler's voice on the car radio, "it makes my flesh crawl," she said.

NOT THE ORIGINAL INTENT. SEE ANTONIN SCALIA FOR DETAILS

In late 2005 and early 2006 came the volley of lawsuits. Chuck Smith filed suit against Kestler in state court in Twin Falls for $1.3 million, demanding repayment of a loan to build Kestler's church.

RENDER UNTO CHUCK THAT WHICH IS CHUCK'S

Smith had long been troubled that he defended Kestler in 1994 against accusations from a female churchgoer, only to see other women voice similar complaints. Now, he bankrolled a federal lawsuit by Pollitt, 46, the former Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.

TOUCHDOWNS FOR JESUS

Pollitt said Kestler lured her from Dallas to Twin Falls with the promise of a job at Calvary Satellite Network, only to fire her after she rejected his come-ons. In court papers, Kestler has denied retaliating against Pollitt and has said she made sexual overtures to him.

JEZEBEL RISING!

Returning the Smiths' fire, Kestler filed suit in Orange County Superior Court, seeking control of Calvary Satellite Network and accusing the younger Smith of seizing donations intended for the network.

MANY SHEKELS TO CROSS, AS JIMMY CLIFF ONCE....OH, NEVER MIND

In a countersuit, the younger Smith charged Kestler with misappropriating millions of dollars in listener contributions. The suit also accused Kestler of "sinful sexual and flirtatious misconduct with numerous women over the years"

ASKING THEM IF THEY WANTED TO SEE "THE LITTLE JESUS' MIRACULOUS RESURRECTION"

and of spending network funds on vacations

BIBLE-LAND COMES TO MIND, AND MAYBE THAT CREATIONIST THEME-PARK

and purchases at Victoria's Secret.

PRAISE GAWD!

To fundamentalist Christians, taking a quarrel to the secular courts is considered a drastic option. Believers point to 1 Corinthians, Chapter 6: "If any of you have a dispute with another Christian, how dare you go before heathen judges instead of letting God's people settle the matter?"

POLYESTER SHARIA COURTS

Jeff Smith's lawyer, Janet Carter, a born-again Christian, said the rule doesn't apply when dealing with people such as Kestler. "You don't get to be protected by 1st Corinthians 6 if you're acting like a heathen," she said.

I GUESS VICTORIA'S SECRET IS CONSIDERED 'SACRED RAINMENT'

In vain, Chuck Smith has asked Kestler to stop using the Calvary name. It still adorns his Twin Falls church. "They're free to use the secular courts to try to stop him," said Lloyd Walker, Kestler's attorney and brother-in-law. "Until then, we're not going to.

WE'RE GOIN' BACK TO CALI, CALI....

With Marginal Respects to Your Sensibilities,
Bucky Kibble III, Esq

Pogey Baitte & Marroone: Admiralty Law in Extremis
Race Director: Hellmouth 100
Counsel for the Christian Topless Bar Trade Association (CTBTA)

Jesus' Original Lunchbox

2007-02-27T10:37:00.000-08:00

Since We're All Supposed to Give Up Something for Lent®™, let's start with Critical Thinking.

Gawd revealed it to me: Jesus' Original Lunchbox. Read the full details here.
No Word as to whether the Thermos contents were still hot after all these years.

An Immovable Feast, My Friends

2007-02-20T20:04:00.000-08:00

Far-flung Suburbs Want Good Life Too

AVEC LES COMMENTS D'IL SAVANT LE BUCKY KIBBLE

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-upscale20feb20,1,6820367.story?coll=la-headlines-california

Most weeknights after 5 p.m., a line of patrons snakes around the Olive Garden restaurant in Palmdale, where hungry diners face an hourlong wait. The story is the same at the El Torito next door and the Red Lobster up the street, where the wait on Friday and Saturday can last two hours.

PRE-LOAD WITH A JUMBO BURRITO, BYO MATCHES

Just about every sit-down eatery in the west Antelope Valley has a line at the dinner hour because there are not enough sit-down restaurants to meet demand in the fast-growing region.

WIDENING COMES TO MIND TOO.

"I don't even consider it anymore," said a frustrated Barbara Lods, 43, a marketing representative from Lancaster.

In the newly minted subdivisions and gated communities on the fringes of Southern California, residents express concern about traffic, schools and crime.

I'VE GOT MINE

But what really gets them going is the lack of sit-down dining and upscale shopping.

DEBT STACKING ON A GRANDER SCALE

Cities and towns in the Antelope Valley and Inland Empire have long been among the fastest-growing in the nation. Once written off by retailers as lower-middle-class "starter" communities, these areas are rapidly going upscale.

WHAT! NO MORE CREMORA???

Now, former metro Los Angeles and Orange County residents weaned on gourmet grocers and glittering fashion emporiums want their California Pizza Kitchens. And their Nordstroms. And their Banana Republics.

HOW 'BOUT A MEL GIBSON MAYAN SACRIFICE HUT

The clamor has spurred local leaders into action as they try to convince skeptical high-end retailers that a formerly blue-collar town such as, say, Palmdale can support such enterprises.

AMMO SPILL, AISLE 4

"Perception is reality," said Mark McGaughey, a vice president with commercial real estate firm CB Richard Ellis in North Hollywood. "In their minds, the Antelope Valley is still a remote blue-collar, high-crime, backwoods kind of area."

A PLACE WHERE A GUY AND HIS GUNS CAN COOK OFF A BATCH OF METH THE OLD FASHIONED WAY!

McGaughey was hired by the city of Palmdale to try to lure retailers — and acknowledges it has been an uphill battle. "Some of these restaurants, tenants and service providers, they want their brand associated with Santa Monica and Brea and Brentwood," he said.

I SEE THEY LEFT OUT CANOGA PARK. FUCKERS.

Of course, inland cities are nowhere close to Brentwood and Santa Monica when it comes to property values or income levels. Still, the inland areas have seen major increases in spending power.

BIGGER TIRES, BIGGER TRUCKS

In 1990, the median annual income of households in both Riverside and San Bernardino counties was roughly $33,000, but by 2005 those figures had climbed to $52,000 and $49,000, respectively.

That's still below the statewide average of $54,000 — but the jump is being fueled in large part by a boom in $800,000 to $1-million homes in such places as Corona, Rancho Cucamonga, Chino Hills, Riverside and Palmdale. And those residents want the retail to follow.

NO COMMENT

"It becomes a statement of who you are, that you've arrived," said Riverside Mayor Ronald O. Loveridge. "It helps define and give cachet to a city."

SPEAKS FOR ITSELF

For residents looking for fulfillment in their search for high-end retailers, the holy grail these days can be found on Interstate 10 in Rancho Cucamonga, 50 miles east of L.A.

THE VAST SARGASSO SEA OF RED TAIL LIGHTS, CLOCKWISE OR NOT, HOLDING THEIR SPOT FOR THE MONDAY COMMUTE

Once a punch line for comedian Jack Benny, Rancho Cucamonga now bills itself as the "Inland Empire's premier city," in part because of its success wooing high-end retailers.

ONTARIO MILLZ

Rancho Cucamonga officials tirelessly sold the city at trade shows and in industry publications. Its standing among the nation's fastest-growing cities helped appeal to chains, such as Banana Republic and California Pizza Kitchen.

WOULDNT WANT TO BE DARINGLY INDIVIDUAL NOW WOULD WE?

Officials attended trade shows, such as the International Council of Shopping Centers, to romance retailers and developers. In advertisements and at booths, the city repeated its claim that the Inland Empire was no longer just cow pastures and dairy farms.

NOW YOU CAN GET SHRINK-WRAPPED COWPIES NEXT TO THE CREMORA HUT AT THE O-MILLS

It was at one show a few years ago that the city made its pitch to mega-developer Forest City Enterprises Inc. of Cleveland, which two years ago opened the 1.3-million-square-foot Victoria Gardens "lifestyle center."

FOR A MINUTE I WAS HOPEFUL—THE VICTORIA'S SECRET GARDENS LIFESTYLE CENTER.

It was considered a retailing watershed for the Inland Empire. Victoria Gardens boasted the region's first Pottery Barn and Williams-Sonoma, and the apparel and home decor retailer Anthropologie opened in 2005.
In another coup for Rancho Cucamonga, the tony W hotel chain announced last month it would build a hotel there.

GET YOUR MISTRESS SOME BUTT-FLOSS AND MARTINI GLASSES, THEN BANG A GONG AT W

Jim Ellis, a USC marketing professor, said the success of Victoria Gardens signals hope for other far-flung Southern California suburbs because it shows how business locations are selected: Once one retailer of a certain caliber flourishes, others flock to the area.

BUT WAIT

That's what happened in Riverside.

CAUSING A BORDER CLOSING WITH NEIGHBORING UPLAND, AND BUILDING A FENCE ADJOINING FONTANA

Loveridge said an official from an upscale grocer that Riverside wanted once told him the chain "wanted to locate somewhere where people read labels."

COULDN'T MAKE THAT UP

But the success of Victoria Gardens, plus Riverside's aggressive efforts to lure upscale retail, is beginning to pay off with the recent arrivals of chains such as Cheesecake Factory and P.F. Chang's. The city keeps a top-25 list of retailers it still pines for, including Whole Foods, home store Z Gallerie and apparel chain White House/Black Market.

NO MENTION OF CLUB 215 OR SPEARMINT RHINO

Although not as far along as Riverside and Rancho Cucamonga, the Antelope Valley is getting there.

FRANCHISING OPPS ABOUND. ESPECIALAMENTE EN ESPANOL

Palmdale Mayor Jim Ledford said the city's annual surveys repeatedly indicate that residents want more upscale shopping and dining.

ALL THAT METH COIN IS BURNING A HOLE IN THEIR POCKETZ

"Things like Elephant Bar, Claim Jumpers — that level," Ledford said. "We think we have everything it takes to get them to come to our community. But there's still this stigma that we're so far removed from the L.A. Basin, in a remote location, and we don't have the income or the education or the desire to spend."

TAKE A SKINHEAD BOWLING

In an effort to attract bigger names, Palmdale officials recently hired a national site selection firm, Buxton Co., to help hone the city's sales pitch to national brands.

WE READ LABELS ON PICKUP TRUCKS

The firm produced detailed "psychographics," looking at the spending power of the city's residents and estimating how much a particular store might earn in a particular market.

FMJ OR DUM-DUM?

"The most critical piece is for cities to differentiate themselves from everyone else by communicating in dollars and cents what their customer base is, or the business will say, 'You don't have a customer base to support my store.' " said Amy Wetzel, vice president of Buxton's western region.

OH ALRIGHT, CHRISTIAN METH LABS

Until the last few years, shopping and dining in Palmdale and Lancaster were dismal, local leaders said, consisting mostly of discount stores and a few mid-range restaurants in a sea of fast-food eateries.

AND DIALYSIS CLINICS

But recently, an upscale retail boom has taken root in the Antelope Valley's most affluent area, western Palmdale.

THEY RECENTLY GOT A BUSHWOOD COUNTRY CLUB

The area, with some $800,000-plus homes, now also has some businesses that residents had been asking for, including Bed, Bath & Beyond, Trader Joe's

HOT BETTIES IN THE FREEZER DEPT....

and Barnes & Noble.

BOOKS WITH SMALL PRINT

Can a Nordstrom be far behind? Even some Antelope Valley residents questions how upscale their area can become.

MAYBE A 'GOTH WORLD'

Beth Wolford, 44, of Quartz Hill, says that despite the new luxury housing developments, most newcomers to the high desert are middle-class two-income families who are putting all their resources into their homes and do not have the extra money to spend at high-priced stores and restaurants.

AKA "SITCOMS"...SINGLE INCOME, TWO CHILDREN, ONEROUS MORTGAGE

"I think they're being a little hopeful," Wolford said of city officials. "I don't think there's enough people who have the cash to spend that kind of money. They can't afford to live in L.A., so they move to the valley. They're already stretched financially buying bigger homes here."

SISTER-WIVES ARE EXPENSIVE

With Marginal Respects to Your Sensibilities,
Bucky Kibble III, Esq

Pogey Baitte & Marroone: Admiralty Law in Extremis
Race Director: Hellmouth 100
Counsel for the Christian Topless Bar Trade Association (CTBTA)

10100 Potash Blvd, suite 6900
Hellmouth CA

Squirrelled Away

2007-02-10T10:52:00.000-08:00

TORN FROM TODAY'S HEADLINES

http://www.latimes.com/news/printedition/asection/la-na-briefs10.1feb10,1,6310080.story

NATION IN BRIEF / HAWAII
Squirrel on a plane diverts flight
From Times Wire Reports
February 10, 2007

American Airlines diverted a Tokyo-to-Dallas flight, landing the airplane in Honolulu because the pilots found a squirrel in the cockpit.

"HEH-HEH-HEH! GIVE ME THE JOYSTICK, YOU FUCKERS!"

Flight 176, a Boeing Co. 777 with 202 passengers aboard, arrived in Honolulu at 5:27 a.m. local time after the flight crew heard a noise in an overhead bin,

LOUD MUSIC, OE40's ROLLING AROUND, AND POWERBARS IN THE SHAPE OF FUNNY LITTLE ANIMALS

found the squirrel

WHO TOLD THE CREW:
"I GOT MINE, NOW FUCK OFF!... AND GET YOUR OWN! -HEH-HEH-HEH!"

and decided to land at the nearest airport, a spokesman

"CARL"

for American said. It was standard procedure, he said,

WHILE KNEADING A BLOCK OF SEMTEX INTO A RODENTESQUE SCULPTURE

and based on concern that a squirrel could create a safety issue aboard the plane if it chewed through wires.

OR SWAPPING OUT IN-FLIGHT MOVIES FOR "SOMETHING MORE INTERESTING"

Passengers were sent to their destinations on other flights.

THE SQUIRREL WAS TAKEN TO THE ROYAL HAWAIIAN AND MET BY HIS POSSE OF STARLETS

The Three Laws Of Cinematic Science Fiction

2007-01-16T12:06:00.000-08:00

After many years of sitting in movie theatres watching various Hollywood leavings, I've formulated The Three Laws Of Cinematic Science Fiction:

1] Primary action takes place primarily at night. Science fiction in raw daylight is a washed-out proposition.

2] The story line is usually dependent on heavy First-World technology. Too bad it looks completely dated 10 minutes after theatrical release.

3] Protagonists and problem solving methodologies are mostly white, who have great teeth and shiny hair. People of any color besides white, and who live outside the 310 area code are vastly under-represented in the sci-fi canon. By contrast, Marin County is mysteriously over-represented. Oh hell! Its more fun to shoot in Marin than Indio, or SW Nebraska.

Appropriated Kültür On De March

2007-01-04T11:56:00.000-08:00

Behold the Majestick Synergies
and Synchronicities of Gawd's Holiday Majestie®™!

For all of you soldiers in the War On Xmas, this is for you.

I was given these gifts by 2 different people, separated by Time and Space, opposite sides of the country...the whole shootin' match. Note the fine detailing on each piece; the subtle lettering on the left [given by Annie G, from NH], and the graceful thumb-stops on the right [received as a White Elephant Gift at my work party in LA].

This image is your next office screensaver.

Thanksgiving Overnite to West Fork

2006-11-24T14:48:00.000-08:00

Seeing as I desperately needed it, and knowing this for several months prior, I took a fast-pack overnite camping trip out of Chantry to West Fork CG. The route is Chantry--->Mt Wilson-->Kenyon Devore Trail to West Fork.

Started late around 11am. Made top of Mt W in leisurely time by 130-2pm. Saw a few day hikers primarily on the south-faces. Once over the top of the Mt Wilson parking lot, nada. Dropped down K-D Trail [empty] for 3 mi. Right turn to West Fork CG, made it sometime just before 4pm. Nobody was there.

Saw that fires were OK there, and got to thinking. Gathered wood, got out my magnesium fire-starting bar that I've carried for years and decided to use it. Shaved some off the bar w/ my knife onto tinder. Not quite. Reshaved several grams into a cupped leaf, added teeny micro twigs. Struck as spark from the spark bar on the other side--whoosh! fire!! Did the log-cabin layup with incrementally larger kindling, happy-happy fire.

Made dinner in the gathering night. Watched caveman TV [the fire] for several hours. Was asleep by 730. Woke up a couple of times in the nite by nite critters, the last time at 0345. Went back to sleep until 0620.

After a brewup and hot oatmeal breakfast, was gone by 0745. Now it was up the dirt road to Newcomb's Saddle, down Santa Anita Cyn thru Sturtevant, then out to Chantry.

All said and done, 20mi r/t. It was good to get out. The joke is that you will only carry slightly more for 2-4 days as you would for 1 nite, so next time I'll go longer. Now is the perfect time to get out into the local mts, as everyone is elsewhere indoors--either carbo-loading or debt stacking.

And it all looked really good when I found myself back in town on Friday afternoon to a host of annoyances that wouldn't resolve until 10 days later. But the seed was planted.

I Too Have Touched The Screen

2006-11-07T14:53:00.000-08:00

As Americans went to the polls today, they decided any number of important issues.

Here in Los Angeles, known affectionately as the Great Satan, and a known writer's retreat for visiting ecclesiastic dignitaries, I too voted.

I voted for:

THE SUPERMODEL HABITAT RESTORATION ACT OF 2006-
This would restore thousands of square somethings so that supermodels could visit day-spas and low-fizz water bars untrammelled by reality. Funding to come from retail sales of OxyContin and free-range sulfur.

I voted against:

THE RUSH LIMBAUGH ENCINO VENENOSA EXPERIMENTAL FOREST PRESERVE-
Which would have set aside at least 50,000 acres of pristine near-vertical wild-lands to nurture the most pervasive Southern California flora, but somehow tragically misunderstood. Estimated costs: $50b. Would exceed previously earmarked funds from sales of OxyContin and Viagra, along with off-shore Dominican Republic Hedge and shrub funds.

Paris Hilton as Street Furniture

2006-09-06T17:37:00.000-07:00

September 2006, Myra Ave north of Santa Monica Blvd, here in Silver Lake.

Tainted [Oak] Trail Love

2006-06-21T15:31:00.000-07:00

Father’s Day dawned with not a clue of what was to transpire. The Original Plan was to drive up into the mountains, and extract a meaningful run from the trails. And thus I would honor the Billions of Unborn that had sprung from my loins into the aether.

However, Fate intervened. CalTrans had closed Highway 2 just above the sleeping and complacent exurb of La Pinata. A blinking sign notified the hordes of suicidal rice-rocketeers that there was a brush fire in progress, so kindly go elsewhere. But as not to discriminate, this aviso was extended to the general public as well.

I put the Squirrel into a 180-drift, and lost only one of the 40” spinnies I’d put on last week, and continued down to the Windsor/Arroyo parking lot. I wedged in amongst all the agitated Velo-Bobs, and began my Final Preparations.

And so were they, anticipating a crankin’ drive up to Mt Wilson-Phillips, and then to hurl themselves off the top from Red Box, and like be ragin’and shit down through Switzer’s Camp, and then down the Arroyo. I was not one to shatter their young eggshell minds on dawn’s highway with any bad news.

Proceeding up the Arroyo was a bucolic ramble up the well-worn trail. My shoes had not gotten wet more than four times. Just before Oakwilde the trail was a complete washout, and I freestyled up the streambed until the trail came back into view.

At Oakwilde there are two choices—continue up to Switzer’s Camp, or take the shortened uphill Ken Burton Trail to the Brown Mountain Road.

The taste of adventure and enchanting madness calls. Cross the stream, and marvel at the cool gray rocks and stream, as yet untainted by fat Velo-Bobs hurtling down the trail from Red Box on their one-way sprint to Altadena.

The first clue that this outing was going to be different was that 50 vertical feet of trail were washed out. So far, so good. The bugs were happy to see me, and tried to tell me what delights awaited.

The first Poison Oak Tunnel was a fun transit of about 10'. On my hands and knees, scooting through an emerald green canopy, I saw the world from a feral pig’s point of view. Reaching a clearing and standing up, I was congratulating myself for getting through without getting swiped.

Almost. I realized my fannypack and waist bottles had gotten the Green Touch. Shit! Rolling the dice here, I grubbed up a handful of trail dirt, rubbed into the nipples, then squirted water to rinse. Hopefully, goodbye poison oak. I began my wait.

Climbing up the Ken Burton, I was blessed with a view of the Angeles Crest that was completely devoid of the hornet-whine of motorcyclists. And also the wail of ambulances, and whumpa-whumpa of medevac choppers hauling the living remains down to Huntington General in the San Gabriel Valley. Tucked into the browning hillsides was the ash-grey wedge remains of a brush fire, looking for all the world like a carbonized pubic thatch.

I thrashed through overgrown weeds and shrubbery, feeling smug that Mr Poison Oak was a receding memory. Not so fast, Little Squirrel! Here, not even a short quarter mile from the junction of the Brown Mt Road, was a veritable grove of the Oak! Shiny, green, and waving sinuously in the breeze. I paused, and pondered my next move.

Facing the inevitable, I plowed forward--no escape. The Oak swished my narrow ass from all sides—from ankles to elbows.

Grim-faced and on the clock, I made the trail junction. Every move now has to be calculated on the basis that the Oak Is Everywhere. You want to take a leak? Touching it with what? Think about it.

Then I remembered a solution. I saw drifts of pulverized dirt in the ruts from run-off. Scooping up double handfuls, I poured it on my shorts and legs, as much as I could cover. I’d read that this would draw off the oils. Now was the time to find out.

Now I'm running down the road, getting lots of strange looks and periodic comments from uphill Sunday cyclists. I was the original Mud Man. Fine. I wasn’t going to have The Oak camp out on my Dick.

The further I got down towards the trailhead, the larger and tidier the hiking groups. I’m sure many decided after seeing my dirtballed self, replete in mud-colored socks, where the elastic had finally collapsed entirely, that the whole REI Outdoors Experience was a scam. But hey! You’re the ones with the lizard-stabbin’ Leki poles, not me.

The Squirrel was waiting for me. Planning my moves to minimize Oak Transmission, I unlock, extract the shower, and start to peel out of tainted skankwear. The scrubdown commences, going over the whole mess twice. And then, changing into fresh duds, with all nastiness quarantined in grocery bags, I go off to the Green & White Satan in La Piñata to read the NY Times in translation.

That was 3 days ago. I only have 2 small dots of the Oak. None on pie-hole or Love-Gun. I’m eternally grateful to the local Grizzly Adams who gifted anyone who bothered to read the article with info on dealing with the Oak.

Dinner Is Served

2006-05-22T07:05:00.000-07:00

Last week I decided I'd heard enough from the Rat RaceTrack above my head. Too much frolicking and fun at the expense of a night's sleep. It was unlikely that in the New Regime, the new owners were likely to call Western Exterminator anytime soon. It was time to take action.

After work I went to Anawalt Hardware, and followed the well-beaten path to the Rat Department. Hoisting myself up out of the groove in the concrete, I studied my options.

I was amused at the array of rat devices on sale. There were various kinds of rat-traps, rat poisons, rat catch-devices, rat condos, and rat sonic annoyers that you can plug into the wall sockets. Before I made my final choice, I had to check them out. One was a metal tubular tunnel that presumed Mr or Mrs Dim Rat was going to stroll in, and then stay in, while a light went off outside. You could then take the tunnel, and humanely turn the affected rodent loose somewhere else, probably after making it promise to sin no more. A simpler version was a card the size of a 5x7 postcard, with glue on it, that the rat would presumably stroll onto, and await you. The Sonic Annoyer broadcasts a frequency that is sure to piss off a rat. I'm certain its the identical frequency that makes Kenny G a favorite. All these were well and good if you wanted to make a lifetime project out of faith and redemption.

My aims were darker. I wanted to be the Dr Mengele of Rodentia; mice to the left, rats to the right. I chose a box of Rat Cuisine, in four convenient servings, and left.

Back home, I suited up with long sleeves, respirator, and rubber gloves before climbing the ladder up to the Hantavirus Speedway. Easing aside the trapdoor, my flashlight surveyed a gloomy rodent funzone, black as night. It was a landscape littered with sprung rat-traps, rat turds, one ancient dessicated mouse carcass that look like it took a direct hit from a Sidewinder missile...but no rat carcasses. Evidently the rats had sprung the traps as an after dinner amusement. I was likewise amused.

I could hear the voice of the vanished Western Exterminator guy, counselling as to why you wanted traps instead of poison. Oh yes, they are going to eat this stuff, and go die somewhere. With traps you can retrieve their little bodies and so forth. That presumes the rat takes a complete head shot, and doesn't stagger off somewhere to Rejoin His Maker. In any event, the constant updraft from basement vent to attic assures a steady mummifying environment, in the event a PETA-fied Howard Carter were ever to discover their remains.

Channelling my Inner Carl, I opened 2 boxes of fresh, turquoise-colored Rat Cuisine for my li'l friends. One, in plain sight. The other, tucked behind a beam, so the rodents who wanted to have seconds wouldn't have to be seen and sneered at by their peers for evident gluttony. I took the other two downstairs into the half-basement. One under a heating duct, the other behind abandoned tubing and ducting on the ground just out of sight at eye-level.

Bon Apetit, you little fuckers.

Mother's Day Bonkfest

2006-05-16T14:39:00.000-07:00

It all seemed so klar, Herr Komissar.

Sitting under Dwarf Bo Tree in the famed Corral Canyon parking lot under the late noonday sun, the shade was just enough to lower my core temperature down to brown dwarf levels. From there it was just the canonical 4.2 miles back to the Squirrel, a partial afternoon of temporized frolic in the Santa Monicas. But that was yet to come.

Earlier that morning, I was a mere portent of a Jung Mandala. I was heading up the Pacific Coast Highway, where coastal fog gripped Malibu like Aimee Mann's implacably hostile indifferent lyrics. Once up Latigo Canyon, all was a crystalline harshness that promised a fine hot day. So much for the love of a blonde.

Sunday was the Season's First Hot Training Run of the Rest Of Your Life. We've all been here before, and every year it gets flushed away. Hence, the joy of rediscovery. If gamma rays are subatomic iron molecules boring holes in your corpus delicti, then photons are their dilettante cousins, leaving only boiled basal cells in their wake.

Things were pretty quiet on the Backbone Trail from Latigo Cyn east to Corral Canyon. A few hikers out cool-chillin' while the sun is still somewhat moderated. Now turn left and go up the fire road up to Castro Peak. The sun is at your back, and is real happy to see you. Fortunately the breeze is sending bugs elsewhere, probably a Mother's Day chubby-chow brunch.

Dropping down the Bulldog Rd towards Malibu Creek State Park starts the first sightings of Velo-Bobs working their granny gears and Gumby Pursuits in slo-mo. Sweat pours off these hapless few: they are happy campers, this is normal.

But all this pales to the Work I Set Before Me.

I was pondering my own Da Vinci Code, the one that posits that a cryptic musical phrase played on an Ocarina encapsulates the Mystery Of The Age. This was also sharing neurons with my extended meditations on The SuperModel WayStation (a 501.3 [c] entity), tucked up enchanting Escondildo Canyon north of Malibu. Few facilities on the planet are so well-endowed to cope with tragically burned-out supermodels; to help them regain equilibrium in this world, and to enable them to make their own burritos! This amazing facility is funded through the generosity of the Carter-Wallace Foundation, in addition to specific earmarks provided by enlightened Republican Congressmen in less-salubrious climes. Gawd Bless them all.

I continued my ponderings. I was reaching the apogee of my terrestial orbit, glancing off the main parking lot at the park entrance. Trekking poles and zip-off pants were not in strong evidence, whereas triple-wide off-road strollers were. Some were fitted with aftermarket keg and boombox holders.

Turning rightwards up to the group camp, and camelling up at the tap before the last 11 miles back to the start, I savored the salt that wanted to pickle my eyeballs. Now humping and bumping south through Tapia Park, past a California Boy's Prison, then on a short stretch on the blacktop over Malibu Creek with cars hurtling past on their way to the beach.

All pleasures must come to an end, and I abandoned the petro-carbon Scenic Route to subject myself to the tender mercies of the Backbone Trail, westbound.

Oh joy! Somewhere on that climb my most favorite hip flexors decided that I was having too much fun, which made for some fine walking. And since neither Ian Torrence or a White Rhino were to be seen, I was safe.

Midday in the Santa Monica Mountains is a quiet time. There is no water for large stretches of the range, which thins crowds a lot. In this section, there is water at Tapia Park, and that's it between Trippet Ranch and Circle X Ranch if memory serves correctly. Fortunately, I had bloated up and out at the campgrounds in Malibu, before waddling off. Now I was starting to look for shade.

As it was early in the season, we are still soft-shelled crabs, and the sun was only beginning to beat down. Even in a standing pose, I was exposing 10% of my available self to the sun, and I was not gaining. Shuffling up and over the 3 main humps from the 3 way junction where the Pepperdine/Puerco Cyn and Backbone trails all meet up was just good clean fun. I saw the raised sandstone fins of the Backbone just east of Corral Canyon. I also began to look for opportunistic things like GU packages, forgotten bottles, and what the hell, fresh grapes like I found on Mt Wilson a month ago. No such luck.

Which brings me back to the Dwarf Bo Tree in the Corral Canyon parking lot. My slice of paradise that afternoon was the creosoted timber I was sitting on in the limited shade. A breeze lightened my burden of flies. A young Velo-Bob joined me. He was starting to get used to the differences between SoCal and his late-departed New Hampshire. We batted this and other topics around for a pleasant interval. I would've loved to brew up a billy of tea.

Then it was time to go. Standing up was creaky, with the fleeting memory of the date-expired GU and an even earlier ClifBar fading fast. Things seemed to have realigned themselves, and I was able to shuffle with competence.

The last mile to Latigo Cyn is a steep canyon drop and climb out. I passed 2 fresh-looking people who said they were marking the trail for a horse event the next weekend. OK. In that last section I passed over 20 ribbons fluttering from trees and bushes. All in a section where there are no junctions or forks. I suppose on horseback, you would see ribbons every 3 seconds. And if you or your horse were A.D.D, that could be a good thing.

Bone Regards,
Mr Trail Safety

Languid Early-Season Overtures To An Indifferent Muse

2006-04-29T16:25:00.000-07:00

My life is complete--I'd put the 40" spinner rims and rear-deck deflector on the Squirrel. The mountains beckoned.

This story begins in a desultory manner.

It was a cold and dreary night, Heather Locklear was on the sofa eating bon-bons, pining somewhat over the priapic departure of one Richie Sombrero, when suddenly...a shot rang out! She shivered as the flimsy peignoir slipped provocatively down, revealing what to my wondering eyes! but a copy of Dr Geo Sheehan's "Running for Dummies". Oh. My. God. There it was--the oft-thumbed chapter on What To Do After Boston.

People often ask me about my training methods. My answers are Delphic in their delineations. Here is an instance.

Last weekend, Dr Casino Bingo and I did a Circuita Minora, a Mini-Me Transect if you will, a diet-slice portion of the San Gabriels. After duly fortified by a Grade-B Breakfast, we made it to the Trail Head at Clear Creek, the crossroads where the Angeles Forest Hwy crosses Highway 2. The winds were probably 4 on the Beaufort, with a following SW swell 12' crests on 10 second intervals. Visibility was down to 2 miles. Anything lighter than a Lindsay Lohan was in danger of being blown away.

We began up the trail in a manly manner. The cloud deck was above us, perhaps at 4000'. We ignored the ominous portents, because it made better copy. We passed the abandoned remains of Adventure Racing support crews whose hiking poles had snapped under the harsh glare of kleig lights.

Eschewing the murmured temptations of the Old In-Out-Outback of Josephine Peak, we decisively struck out for Strawberry Peak. There was nobody to challenge us, and our Splits Were Good. We had gotten a full 2-1/2 miles before the Lisa Loeb Inflatable Conversation Doll had come out and made its rounds. In penance we observed 10 full seconds of silence.

As we rounded up and over towards the Ransom Of Red Box the weather became noticeably chillier. We couldn't help but become more like Katy Couricesque in our perkiness. We made Switzer's Camp in a brisk time, seeing only .43 of the normal scrum which were huddled around smoky BBQ grills waiting for summer.

A mile later, after an unroped 4.9 section of vintage mid-century asphalt and New-Jack Scree, there it was. And I’m standing at the crossroads, believe I’m sinking down.

Bone Regards, Mr Trail Safety
"Tanned, rested and ready from his Secure, Undisclosed Location"

Listen up! This message is being sent by or on behalf of Mr Trail Safety. It is intended exclusively for the individual or entity to which it is addressed, excluding non-specific incarnations and bardo-state entities. It contains concepts that will challenge you. You may adjust. Insofas as this communication may contain information that is proprietary, privileged or confidential or otherwise legally exempt from disclosure, it is certain to cause cerebral flatulence and conceptual infarctions among the simple-minded and comedy-challenged, perhaps You. If you are not the named addressee, you are not authorized to read, print, retain, copy or disseminate this message or any part of it; including channelling the aforementioned fabulisms to spirit-bodies, Taiwanese Dream-Catchers, Heritage Barbie Dolls or Dale Earnhardt Collector plates. But go ahead, live dangerously, drive left-of-center and give it your best shot. If you have received this message in error, you deserve it--you'll have subsequent incarnations to work out the kinks. Or simply prostrate yourself in front of your Thos. Kinkade Heritage Reproduction while making a Burnt Offering.

Here, have some salt.

Rollin' Away the Stone: Year Zero-Six

2006-04-17T14:43:00.000-07:00

I: Alles Kaputt
The bungee cord of recovered memory took me back.

Back to the opening scenes of the powerful film "Das Bööty", where the lanky Herr Kapitan G of U-812 was studying the world through the powerful ZeissOptikon Periskop. He'd been stalking the elusive "Convoy Odalisque" for several days--the round-bottomed freighters were tempting, but he had to wait for the proper moment.

Little Dieter the radioman was monitoring the convoy signals. Suddenly he began to pick up the cluster LS-MFT...LS-MFT...LS-MFT. A distress call broadcast in the clear.

Herr Kapitan G 's commands were curt, with no schwitters.

"Es ist total alte Schule...senken Sie den Periscope"

The periscope retracted swiftly to the deck as the klaxon brayed its 2-note "Muff-diving! Muff-diving!" alert.

The Bosun bellowed "Prepare torpedoes!"

The swift and deadly Mark VIII-PunktFunf FleischTorpedoes were readied, armed, and chambered.

"Triple Cap latte! Ach rechts oben kommen!!

"Torpedos 1, 2, 3, 4 away"

There was a burst of sound and bubbles as the torpedoes pursued their prey with blind one-eyed tenacity. Eine Kleinische Schlacht-Musik, Kapitan G thought grimly.

He watched intently through the periscope. Torpedo 2 struck MV Ethyl Murmanskaya right behind the wheelhouse with a blinding flash. Five thousand tons of volatile personal lubricant ignited in a cataclysmic explosion, which made twin miniature reflections in his oval glasses...

I had awoken in a sweat. It was OK.

II: Nomex Is An Island, Its a Peninsula
The penance section of the Chantry Road was empty. Mostly. Save for a few most excellent Chantry Road Hikers who had deployed their hiking poles, mainly to get a better purchase on the relentless blacktop. Moving past them, I was on the Righteous Path to Ascend Mt Wilson-Phillips, and it was good.

I was alone in a breezy silence; the only sound was my tantric breathing in counterpoint to the grinding noises of my thoughts. Climbing up the now-mossy green rocks of the Winter Creek Trail, I set my sights upwards for the Manzanita Ridge. Coming around a corner I surprised a young adult cougar. It a stripling lad, heir and tributary to the Chucky the Cheese-Kutting Kougar predatory tradition.

Seeing the cougar made me realize I was hungry. I unwrapped an industrial caloric extrusion, and savored the complex flavors and textures; red oak sawdust and pink urinal cake, bound together with WD40. Chased it with a swig of water, and left a fluorescent cloud in my wake.

III: The Killer In Ewe Is the Killer in Me
Upper Winter Creek was empty of all traffic. A few apostate squirrels made desultory insults in my general direction. I caught the whiff of post-Saturday night squirrel whiz. The poison oak was trembling and dewy, the glowing ingenue of the trail, begging to be touched in that special way. I manfully declined the oblique proposition, and made relentless forward progress.

The top of Mt Wilson-Phillips was shrouded in the modest veil of mystery and scudding clouds. I began to see outriders of the REI Tribe in traditional Sabbath finery as they made their way down from the top. Evidently another solo unsupported bid.

Water flowed from the summit tap which is always a good thing. The wind whistled through the pavilion, carrying with the echoes of many Alannis Morisette songs that have escaped from the lowlands beneath the mountain.

The Sturtevant Trail was again empty, with only the skidmarks of yesterday's children to remind you of your eventual mortality if you ride a mountain bike. But the mountain lion sleeps well tonight, bwana, for all of our tomorrows. I took a long, reflective pull on the narghyle. Omar knew his shit.

Past the spruce, down the rocky trail to where the canyon oaks dwell and frolic. I'd read in the paper that Halliburton was bidding on a contract to mine and log in this part of the forest. This would remove all the chaotic and unpredictable irregularity. In its place would be uniform tetrahedral slopes, garbed in bamboo, tended by giant robots armed with machetes and AK-47s, which have a better service record according to Consumer Reports.

I was coming into the Sturtevant Camp drainage, populated by the mystic and reclusive Sturtevant Canyon Bears. These bears generally wear green hooded sweatshirts, beer hats, have surly dispositions, and are known to have a fondness for pen-fed Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts.

Free-range Boy Scouts are non-existent, while the pen-fed ones are given a carefully selected diet high in HFCS, white flour, and various stabilized culinary lubricants. The Bears can track packs of these sojourners simply by following the caramalizing vapor trails. Its a remarkable process, one that's been put on hold while the Chantry Road has been closed, and the seasonal herds of Boy Scouts have not been able to have been trucked in to their summer ranges.

IV: Where You Goin' WIth That UB40 In Your Hand?
I stopped by the Sturtevant Camp to visit with the Camp Manager. There we discussed the recent developments wherein some cabin owners had discovered that squirrels had set up meth labs beneath the floor boards. The most effective solution was to burn them out, which was not met with enthusiasm by the squirrels.

This being Easter, an influx of chocolate bunnies had been noticed. The erstwhile hosts had responded by biting off their ears and asses in retaliation. The bunnies were mute in their sufferings, as was their destiny.

Now was the time to Make Time, For Time Waits For Nobody's Goat's Head Soup. The trails were warming up as I came more into the general range of Big Santa Anita Canyon. Looking down various drainages and washes I marvel at the creativity of the names; Dead Horse, Lost Rider, and Remote Control Canyon come to mind.

Surfacing again at Chantry, it was clearing and sunny. I tucked it in and made my tangent-cutting drop down to the bottom, where the Shire of SIerra Madre slumbered in the wan afternoon light. The inhabitants were closing in on their final Easter Dinners, and if it wasn't Lamb With The Bone In, it was Wild Tofurkey in some description.

And thus another day was spent in the contemplation of resurrection. Word.