Turn The Volume On Anyway

I've been learning to live without you now
but I miss you sometimes
the more I know, the less I understand
all the things I thought I knew
I'm learning them again

I've gotten a few emails about my lack of posts.
I'm in a bad mood. I hate missing...him.
I've got too much crap in my brain and its all clogged up.
Nothing happens fingers to keys.
Wont last forever, but could be longer than I'd like.
Peace- I'm taking a break.

The Holiday Call

Erin and I call each other on holidays. Every holiday- big or small. It began when I got perturbed with her one year, pre-holiday, when I wanted to talk about some "Amazing Grace" topic and she was being an atheist downer bootie-head.

Well, I'll show her.

Fast forward to Easter. Easter isn't a big one for her. The whole "The third day he rose again from the dead; He ascended into heaven..." Apostle's Creed thing just doesn't jive in her mind. Who can blame her? She's Catholic. But even still, I called her an announced in my best mad scientist impersonation,

"He's aaaaaliiiive!"

With my usual celebratory "Risen Christ" Easter attitude, I assured her that she could breathe a little easier because I had officially prayed her way into Heaven. She was most gracious and, of course, thanked me profusely.

I also find it terribly fun to try to interrupt her in the middle of a holiday family event. Particularly those that involve extended family. My fantasy is to call Erin right when she sits down at the Christmas dinner table and butt in with a loud, obnoxious cell phone ring. I would bust into the most operatic version of "Happy Birthday Baby Jesus" I could muster. And she'd have to sit through the whole thing with me on speaker phone! Delicious! The very thought makes me giddy.

One year she answered on Christmas Eve (she gets two phone calls around then- Christmas Eve and Christmas Day) and she said in a hushed voice "We're about to eat- cant chat- call you back." I said a quick "Ok, bye." in a similar whisper and set the phone down with an evil gleam of twisted satisfaction in my eye.

Sooooooo close.

The beauty of Erin and I is two fold: we often disagree and we like it that way. I'm a Jesus Freak and she's atheist. She's a vegetarian and I crave rare cow butt. I like Tupac and Madonna, Erin heads for the indie labels. She assures me that some men really are good in bed. I lament having to waste the 15 minutes it takes the men I've pulled out from under the rocks. And there is little to no chance of changing either one of our minds about most topics. Even if we act like we might in conversation with you...nooo...we're just hoping if we give you a few head nods you'll shut the fuck up.

Ok, so neither of us are really that extreme. No, really, we're very open minded. I happily cook vegetarian dishes regularly, will conceded that the Virgin Birth aint all the probable, and In still have hope for the brother's, if you know what I mean. Erin would agree that humans may never fully understand the concept of existence in all its glory- while happily listening to my rendering of Man in the Mirror, by Michael Jackson. Stoned, I'm a rockstar.

This Thanksgiving, as with all holidays, I am thankful for my Erin, in whatever extreme she can bring. In fact...I might even try the tofurkey.

Frickin' Google

It seems if you google Duncan Hunter and/or California 52 Congressional District my last post will eventually pop up. More than a few of these surfers are Dumb Duncan Fans and have taken me up on my offer in the November 19th post:

Dear California's 52 Congressional District,

I know you've voted Duncan Hunter into Congress since 1981. And I know he's retiring now and that his son Duncan D. Hunter is hot on his father's coattails. And yes, Duncan D. is a Marine. And yes, you've got a lot of drug crime and maybe you think that he's the man for the job.

He isn't. He's wrong. Scary wrong. He's so wrong that I can't even begin to touch on it here. But I promise- if you write me, I will answer. And not in my typical wild curse-word laden manner. I'll send you the emails and blog pages of really smart people- I mean super smart people. Much smarter than me. Obviously, I have an agenda. But if you believe nothing else- believe that so does Duncan D. Hunter.
Get both sides. At the very least, you'll know your opposition even better.

Dont Be Doop'd,
DEE DEE YEE

Well, I came through. And after 47 emails, forwarding them on and having them thoroughly anwsered (like 10 page Law Review anwsered), I have decided to suspend my offer. My super smart politico friends are tired (and really busy as most super smart people are). I am too embarressed to ask for any more anwsers because, afterall, they get paid to think. I'm begging for freebies over here, know what I'm sayin'?

Thanks to Ben. Thanks King. Thanks JennyBenny.
Drinks on me.

The Brookings Institute in Washington D.C. is one of the oldest and most prominent private research institutions in the United States. The scholars of Brookings devote thier lives to the art of thought and logic. They're some of the smartest think-tank motherfuckers I have ever had the pleasure of calling friends. They give us all hope. http://www.brookings.edu/

Duncan Hunter

Could Obama bring down the militarys dumb-dumb Dont Ask/Dont Tell policy? Could The Man liberate our gay and lesbian troops?

(Dude- did you catch that? I just referred to a black man as "The Man". There are so many firsts in this administration is down-right silly!!)

So if Obama is our Great Black Hope...then who's the Evil Do'er, you ask? I'll tell you:

Duncan Hunter

Ranking Member of the House Armed Services Committee

This is what DumbDumb Duncan had to say on 60Minutes on Sunday:

We aren't the Brits. We're not the Europeans. We're not the Swedes. The Fallujahs of the world, the Ramadis of the world that require heavy combat and lots of fire-fighting capability- those are the places Americans go. The other countries tend to go to the so-called peacekeeper zones, where they have fewer fire fights and less contact with the enemy. And the European nations show little will to send large contingents of their military people into dangerous places.

With the Pentagon now making its recruiting goals, would we risk with doing
away with this system that works, where American families sit around the dinner
table and they make a decision that their young man or their young woman is
going to go into this military because they share the values of that military.
Or should we experiment at a time when our military is totally volunteer, when
it's extremely capable and perhaps lose that capability and perhaps lose those
number Perhaps lose those re-enlistments and perhaps lose that
effectiveness.

Duncan Hunter. Duncan, Duncan, Duncan. *tsk* *tsk* Duncan. Finger-wag, finger-wag! Your in time out. Go to the naughty chair! Your grounded! INDEFINITELY.
Richard Simmons will be upstairs momentarily to give you a spanking.

Dear Dumb Fucking Duncan,

I'll work backwards.

A) The Pentagon's making their recruitment goals?

In 2006 the Army had to start issuing waivers to convicted felons, lower their mental and physical standards, double their enlistment bonus and triple their reenlistment bonus. Congratulations! The Pentagon made the cut!

Too bad none of their new recruits could.

B) American families sitting around the dinner table to discuss whether or not their children should serve in the Armed Forces?

Uhmmm...Someones been watching a few too many Leave It To Beaver re-runs. That quintessential 1950's family is legend. A cultural myth. It never existed. It was someones idea of ideal and people tried to achieve it....

Think "supermodel thin" and teenage eating disorders. Like that.

C) You think Peacekeeping Zones are for pussies, eh?

I got idea!! Ship your fat fucking ass to Darfur. No? Dont want to go? How about the Congo? I hear the Tche Refugee Camp's got a great feeding program. Still not good? You like Lebanon? The Hezbollah guerrillas are sure to say "Hi". Afghanistan's got a good NATO Peacekeeping force. I'm sure you could get in there.

Oh, please pick Darfur! Pretty, pretty please!?

D) We're not the Brits? Not Europeans? Swiss?

Did you just say that? DID YOU seriously just insult an ENTIRE FUCKING CONTINENT AND THEIR MILITARYS?

Dear California's 52 Congressional District,

I know you've voted Duncan Hunter into Congress since 1981. And I know he's retiring now and that his son Duncan D. Hunter is hot on his father's coattails. And yes, Duncan D. is a Marine. I know you've got a lot of drug crime and maybe you think that he's the man for the job.

He isn't. He's wrong. Scary wrong. He's so wrong that I can't even begin to touch on it here. But I promise- if you write me, I will answer. And not in my typical wild curse-word laden manner. I'll send you the emails and blog pages of really smart people- I mean super smart people. Much smarter than me.

Obviously, I have an agenda. But if you believe nothing else- believe that so does Duncan D. Hunter.

Get both sides. At the very least, you'll know your opposition even better.

Check out Family Day: A National Day To Eat Dinner With Your Children. http://casafamilyday.org/familyday/

Miss Lilian

Lilian is a mighty three. If you ask her how old she is she will violently shove three little fingers in the air, lock eyes with you and give a millitant "and thats the way it is" nod of her head.




Lilian attends a small, private inclusive school for average-abled and deaf children just outside Washington D.C. There are plenty of other deaf children there, but even still, you can spot Lilian immediately in the crowd. Her clothes are hand me downs from her four foster sisters and her hair was recently chopped (quite hapazardly in my opinion) due to a stubborn case of lice. Amoungst the hip little District kiddies, Lilian is a bit...rough around the edges, shall I say?

Her tuition is split between two deaf women, and two deaf men, who live in Washington D.C. As her foster mother puts it- her "fancy pants" school would never be possible on the small government check she recieves for caring for Lilian.

As her foster mother gripes about money, Lilian is reading the big people's lips and is quick to remind her foster mother that she doesn't have any "fancy pants". Lilian's fingers thrust in the air: "No pretty pants on Lilian!" And although her foster mother doesn't know ASL, she has a good idea that Lilian had a "smart-mouth-sign" and returns Lilian's icy stare with your-about-to-get-time-out eyebrows. Its do-or-die body language in Lilian's house.

Your probably wondering how all this happened to Lilian. To be frank, the first 4 months of Lil's life would make any of us want to crawl back to God and ask for a reassignment. Within moments of her first breath, she got ditched. Her hearing loss is most likely the result of exposure. How fucked does that sound, eh? Trust me, the sign for it is even worse.

If you ask her "You deaf? You hearing?"- a common question in "mixed" company- she will give you a small, sly smile. She's not sure what this "hearing" thing is yet, but she suspects its a trick question- or one of those questions growups ask children just to see if they know the awnser. Either way- she's annoyed. I watch her eyes sink deep and her fingers sign rapidly by her side, in no particular word order. She's thinking of how to outsmart me.

I wait patiently until she responds: "What hear do, I don't know? But I know I Lilian, Big Girl!"

I'm happy to say that I know Lilian, Big Girl, too.

We Won.

"For, while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it always must be heard." Baldwin, 1965

James Baldwin (1924-1987) was a queer, black American author and civil rights activist who treked the minefield of the human rights race with "an elequence to inspire a nation"*.

His book-length essay, No Name In The Street, is a moving account of his experiences through the assassinations and mourning of his three friends Medgar Evers, Malcolm X, and Martin Luther King, Jr.

I guarantee he'll make you say "wow" more than once.

*Maya Angelou

I think I'm in love.

HOLY HELL, it finally happened.

I got flag'd on Craigslist.

For all the times I have appropriately flagged some skeevie horn-ball for posting an ad that starts with "Cum over for some hot..." in the Platonic WFW section!

For all those times I have flagged "Help me transfer my money into your account...from Uganda." in the Employment section!

This is the thanks I get. And, to add insult to injury, all this for commenting on my SOLAR TOILET interest*. Of all things, I get flagged over toilet talk!

Some person put an ad/comment/discussion thing up on Craigslist and had a question about solar toilets. I decided to chime in and sent a link to my solar out-house blog post. Instead of writing a long drawn out post (stop rolling your eyes), I decided to simply say "Solar out-houses, a great alternative- check out my toilet blog on 52islandweeks.blogger.com".

Well, some post'er (tag name "jazzy_jeep3000"...dumbass) said it was a tacky attempt to try to get people to go to my blog and flagged my ass!

I have been accused of hor'ing out my website! By someone named "jazzy_jeep3000."

Please be kidding. All I can do is envision some asshole driving a gas guzzeling, jacked out Jeep with foot-high lifted 32 inch tires, a KC top-mount light rack and a Calvin-pissing-on-Chevy sticker in the back window (right next to thier McCAIN-PALIN sticker).

Have you nothing better to do jazzy_jeep3000 than harrass someone trying to do a little for the planet?

I, of course, had nothing better to do than blog about an out-houses.
Quite possibly, we're equal.



*(obsession...whatever).

Woah. Dude. Woah dude.

Ok, so I know. I know I post all too often about some art-form and then tear it to bits because it either A) skeeves me out or B) pisses me off (beside...don't artist like to evoke emotion?!) but this time its different.

Have you ever seen "Reverse Graffiti?" This one is by Scott Wade. Not only does it highlight a medium thats right under our noses- yet for obvious reason often overlooked- it makes what some consider unsightly amazing.

This shit right here- best thing I've seen all year. And I should know. I have mind numbingly important opinons when it comes to visual media.
My Art 101 proff said so in 1998.


Photo Credit: Reverse Graffiti: Activist Art Extraordinaire. Johanna Smith for The Huffington Post. 2008
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/10/28/reverse-graffiti-activist_n_138621.html

Undecided.

I notice little children everywhere I go- particularly babies. Blame it on whatever you like- "that" time of life, hormones- I see them all the time. Cute ones, naughty ones, pudgy ones, black and white, I like 'em all.

Typically I think they are cute and then I comment on their cute little clothing. Other times however, I grind my teeth and pray that the bottle recklessly shoved in their little mouths will quiet them long enough for me to eat my meal in peace. My writing, at present, is about an experience to the latter.

This morning when KT and I were loading up her bundle of gear into the car we heard the not-so distant scream of an infant from across the parking lot. As KT heaved her work gear vests, helmet and a duffel bag full of necessities into the backseat of her truck, I watched patiently over her shoulder while a young mother tugged on her baby, desperately trying to free the child's fitful foot from a tangled seat belt. All the while, the unfazed mother's shoulders and back strained under the weight of a large carry'all bag and what looked to be a portable crib. A balancing act fit for an Olympic Game.

Just moments before, KT and I had finished collecting our things to leave the house. At a morning hour that began with '5' and ended with who-the-fuck-knows, my body was screaming at me for a few more hours of sleep. We were up early and in a hurry- KT had training to get to. As I watched her heave the heavy weight of her gear onto her shoulder and fumble for her keys to lock the door behind her, I silently remarked how steadfast she endured her job requirements. She respected the weight of her responsibility too much to complain about its burdens.

Closing up the car, KT and I briefly met eyes and over the cries of that exceptionally frustrated baby and KT quietly remarked something to the effect of "I'm glad that's not me this morning." I nodded in agreement...my barely awake body didn't want to handle that kid either. We were happy to be on our side of the parking lot.

I trotted off to my car, with nothing in hand but my purse and I smiled. Granted, at that moment, KT wasn't about to trade her bags for that screaching infant. But would that mom have traded places with KT? The twenty pound portable crib for the ten pound bullet proof vest? Probably not.

So here we have two woman- experiencing the same thing- from polar ends of the feminine equation. And me? I was the neutral variable, somewhere stuck between, "wow, I wish I had a big fat gun" and "wow, I wish I had a chubby little baby".

Thankfully, neither KT, the baby momma, nor I have to make exclusive choices. We can be bullet-proof-vest-wearing mommies, armed with a Glock and Gerber.

And being American, we'll take it to go, please. We're on a tight schedule, gentlemen.



Check out Working Mother's article ranking America's top 100 best companies for having your cake and eating it too. http://www.workingmother.com/web?service=vpage/3214

Weird Craigslist

KT and I are looking for a coffee table for the living room. The hunt began on Craigslist.

For obvious reason, we went for one at Target.
If ever something begs the what-the-fuck question, this does.

Can I Vote on YOUR Marriage Now?

I like words and as I may have mentioned in previous posts- I admire linguists who delve into the subtle nuances of language.

A favorite saying, with regard to the definition and usage of a word: "A cliche has never been defined 'a cliche' because it rarely happens."

And I love acronyms- federal finance and military acronyms have their own dictionaries. A couple simple ones that I am almost sure your familiar with:

AMEX American Stock Exchange


F.U.B.A.R. fucked up beyond all recognition

Acronyms are the playful side of hell-of-a-mess word strings and hence, I always seem to get off topic with them. The point of this post is to discuss why acronyms are even used to begin with. Because while playful, they are also a careful way of saying convoluted, sometimes offensive, titles and phrases. You would think politicians would be all over them! Consider: here is a way to,

A) sound smart (because if you use acronyms often and the right way you sound way brilliant) B) have very few people understand what your saying

C) awnser the question without answering the question!

Perfect!

I think Joe Bidden should use more acronyms. How about this one Joe? DOMA. Thats the Defense of Marriage Act. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Defense_of_Marriage_Act Its Clinton's often overlooked greatest grand stand fuck-you to homosexuals. Its the only thing that can trump his cute little Don't Ask Don't Tell.

And why must marriage be defended you ask? No, no: its not the ever escalating divorce rate. You see, its the word that needs defense, according to this years Democratic ticket. For them, the word 'marriage' conjures up emotions...heterosexual emotions. And images....heterosexual images. And they, understandably, feel very protective and possessive of those emotions and images. Words like 'rape', 'abortion' and 'holocaust' will also invoke emotions, just on the opposite side of the swing set. Those words can make us digusted or angry. You get the idea.

Obama-Bidden believe that same-sex couples (Jesus, can we just say gay? Its like three letters ya'll.) are entitled to the same constitutional/legal benefits as heterosexual couples. They do not, however, wish to redefine the 'civil' definition of marriage. Hence, Joe and Obama would both have to say, and have said, "No, I do not support gay marriage." They would be those jackass'es that shake our hands and say words like partnership and union.

My point is that while there is nothing wrong with words like partnership and union- nor anything incrediably marvelous about the sequenced letters m'a'r'r'i'a'g'e, you, my politician, do not have to define any of those words...at all. Its not your place.

Certainly, there are some words that you, as my public servant, must define. You are charged with upholding the definitions, usage and application, of words like liberty, justice, equality, and humanity just to name a few. But by suggesting that you somehow can control the word usage of marriage, its defintion and application, you offend me. And then I laugh because....*sigh....oh fuck sake...

I'll tell you what Joe- lets "keep it simple stupid". You use whatever goddamned word you want. And I'll use whatever goddamned word I want. And, in all seriousness, I applaud you using whatever word that you understand and thats makes you feel most secure. Perhaps a word that doesn't challenge your heterosexually homogenized dictionary. Then I will, yet again, call it whatever I damn well please.

We need a revolution people and we ain't got no King.
Or Queen.
How 'bout Kween?

Three simple words can describe the nature of the social revolution that is talking place and what Negroes really want. They are the words "all," "now," and "here." MLK

We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal,
that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness--That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive to these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such Principles and organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. . . . Thomas Jefferson

New Running Theme - Weird Craig's List

I love Craigslist.com

I truly think you can find just about anything on Craig's List. I've found apartments, furniture, concert tickets...uuuhhhmm....

trust me, the list goes on.

While clicking craigslist, I often run into some of the strangest items on earth. Then I copy/paste the pictures and send them to my friends. They claim to think its as funny as I do, so I am going to start posting some of the weirdest things here. All can enjoy.

Damn. I cant write for shit tonight. This reads like a stoned high school freshman writes.

Nevertheless...this "thing" below freaks me out.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhh! Its a doggy baby!!

AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Happy Elephant!

Jesse and elephants both love the fall.

I love happy elephants!

Photo Credit TreeHugger.com

*gag* cough* *gag gag* *cough

So Kate Moss was feeling oh-so angst'y when she was in a relationship of sorts with heroin addict/musician Pete Doherty. She made some art. Her medium of choice? duh....lipstick.

Her xbf also decided to throw in some of his artistic inclinations with an inscription at the top of the print: Who needs blood when you have lipstick? His medium of choice? duh....blood.

This being said, it was "purchased" from Kate by an "anonymous collector" and then "they" sold it to an auction house.

Yea. Right. Sure. Uh huh. No! No! I totally believe you.

So the auction house was trying to sell it and the shit-on-canvas actually got up to $25,000 pounds, which is like, waaay far under 40 P.D.'s reserve price, man.

It didn't sell. (insert shocked expression here)

I sware to GOD I would have registered as a buyer at that auction house and the minute- the very fucking first second!- I would have screamed, "THIRTY NINE THOUSAND, NINE HUNDRED AND NINETY NINE POUNDS AND NINETY NINE CENTS FUCKBAGS!" And then just wait- because no one in their right mind would have done shit. The next bid would have won it. And who really wanted to do that? Aaaaand, thats what I thought.

Seriously, though. Who the FUCK bid 25,000 pounds? Who? Stand up. Go on. Get your stupid fucking ass out of the chair and make yourself known. You need to be shot.

Take it like a super model.

Photo Credit AFP/HO London

Such a pretty girl.

I wouldn't trade you for anything either.

Jesus Quintana: What's this day of rest shit? What's this bullshit? I don't fuckin' care! It don't matter to Jesus. But you're not foolin' me, man. You might fool the fucks in the league office, but you don't fool Jesus. This bush league psyche-out stuff. Laughable, man - ha ha! I would have fucked you in the ass Saturday. I fuck you in the ass next Wednesday instead. Wooo! You got a date Wednesday, baby!

One day, we'll be stoned watching the Big Leibowski.
Whats better than that?
Heaven.

These Are The Men That Are Running The Bail-Out

If you pray, pray now.

Photo Courtesy of Getty Images http://www.cnn.com/

the Priest

a friend of mine wrote to me today
every time he does i can't help but wish i could see him speak instead of read him write

for some reason he is in paris through the winter
i dont know why and i dont plan on asking
he just is
details have always been of little consequence to either of us with regard to us

instead of watching him smile i have to fucking interpret ":)" in a paragraph
but because these:

:) happy
;) wink
:/ shucks
:I chubby
:* whistlin'
:( sad
:& sick
:# hungry
: blank

make me cry it may be easier to not read him anymore
that goddamn war is enough to make anyone crazy

:O screaming



Ask the high rising spears, of our aspirations
Bring witness the swords, did we lose hope
We are a band, honor halts our souls
Of beginning with harm, those who won’t harm us
White are our deeds, black are our battles,
Green are our fields, red are our swords.

The Family In Between

My brother- my step brother...wait, my former step brother...

Fuck it. Crazy fucking family issues belong on the the pych chair, not the Internet.

I'll call him "Aa" - he passed a message to me today through our uncles. His uncle is friends with my uncle. And somehow, despite the fact that I only knew him for a brief time when I was very small, he is a very distinct, permanent fixture in my memory.

In fact, he is the center of both my earliest memories.

One is a few flashes of a snow fort we built in Nashua, New Hampshire. I think I was four. Something bad happened- I think the fort collapsed. Whatever happened, I remember being terrified that he was hurt.

The second memory is my earliest- from when I was about three. It has two parts. The first is a flash of him helping me onto a little pink plastic swing in my front yard. I couldn't seem to get my second leg on it the right way. I can see him running across the grass and me, trying not to cry in frustration. He was smiling and so animated while he showed me how to put my leg on the swing the right way. When he was done with his instruction, he got off the swing, helped me on, and gave me a huge push. The most vivid part of the memory is when I turned around, so proud to show him I was swinging. But he was already running away, satisfied with his Big Brother performance.

I was thrilled to finally be on the swing, but a little sad that he had left. I wanted him to come back and swing with me.

The same could be said right now.

Oro & Plata

Grizzlies are making thier comeback. Yes, thats a picture of a buffalo at left, but we're talking about bears right now. This past Tuesday the United States Geological Survey announced that there are 765 Grizzly bears in northwestern Montana- way up from previous estimates of 300ish not so long ago.

Funding for the US Forest Service to introduce protective measures and revise the Grizzlies embattled habitat came from an ear-marked federal grant of a little over a million dollars. The USFS, once again, under extreme odds- and next to no national support- made it happen on very, very little dollars. They are an impressive group of highly committed, creative folks that understand this Earth lightyears beyond most.

When I was out in Montana I didn't see a Grizzly. I didn't, for that fact, see any bears. I did, however see a Buffalo. Ever seen one? Don't they look look like a downsized Mammoth?

About three days after one particularly bad blizzard, I wrapped up, strapped on some 1970's snow shoes and dug my way out of my snowed-in house. The snow shoes were amazing things. So amazing, in fact, that I decided to see if I could walk up to the gas station about a quarter mile away. I ventured out, throwing black soot behind me to find my way back. I felt like Grizzy Alice.

About 100 yards from the gas station, I smelled the worst smell I have ever...just trust me it was bad. I saw about half a dozen people hovering around and I picked up my steps. As I got closer, I saw a Buffalo propped up against one of the gas pumps. The gas pumps, you see, are temperature controled, so theres a little heat emanating from them. This poor Buffalo didn't feel good, so he came into town to take the edge off his chill. He was exhausted, terrified, and felt too damn bad to do anything but lean against a gas pump. My heart hurt for him.

Everyone waited at a safe distance for the US Fish & Wildlife Service to show up. We wrung our hands, and watched him with hawkish eyes. If he made one flinch, we all took a few steps back in fear and cried in helplessness. He was obviously hurting. After four hours, we had four Rangers, half a dozen cops, a couple Vets and a huge crew from the Park Service. They helped that Buffalo, and by all accounts on-scene, he was going to be just fine. As the Rangers drove away, we all clapped and cried some more. Our Buffalo was safe.

There isn't anything better than working for the Red Cross and seeing everyday people volunteer countless man hours and make immeasurable sacrifices for other people. The next best thing is to see us do it for the other greatest creatures on earth. We live in a wonderful Country.

I went a bit overboard for Alicia Brock

Uhm, lets just say I found Alicia Brock's work after scouring Etsy for half an hour for some decent (and inexpensive) photography. I clicked on her page and now I want just about everything she has. I actually had to edit the list below to make this blog not-so-long. You can order large sizes too for just over $100 which is AWESOME considering how much I would love to have a big ass one right over my bed. I didn't copy/paste because I dont want to have to write for permission and wait. I'm too excited.

Check this out:

I love 'Connected'.
http://www.shop.aliciabock.com/collections/frontpage/products/connected

"Pure and Simple".
http://www.shop.aliciabock.com/collections/homecoming/products/pure-and-simple

"Return to Summer".
http://www.shop.aliciabock.com/collections/homecoming/products/return-to-summer

I love "Flock".
http://www.shop.aliciabock.com/collections/abstract-and-texture/products/flock

I love "Yellow Koi".
http://www.shop.aliciabock.com/collections/abstract-and-texture/products/yellow-koi

"Soul Mates".
http://www.shop.aliciabock.com/collections/polaroids/products/soulmates

AND they come on Fine Art Canvas for like an additional $100, but ooooooh! Wants and gimmeee's! I'm going to wait...maybe I'll give it to me for Christmas...but oooooooh!

Friends, for goodness sake, don't start buying 'em up before I can get one. She might jack the price up and that would make me sad. Let the Alicia Brock savings fund begin.

While I usually have a pretty good idea as to the meaning of some of the more unusual, high end words I use (that's how I make nerdy sound unique, and lengthy sound cool)...the meaning of some common phrases often escapes me and leaves me wondering.

For instance, last night I used the term "wig out". As in, "I almost freaked". And then I thought- where the hell does wig out come from and why does the word wig seemingly replace freak...as in "freak out"?

That's where etymologists come in. They study the origins of words. Linguists, kinda, but not really. But they do hang out with linguists, so they're cool. Careful not to confuse them with Entomologists- they study bugs.

So I was looking through 'Dawg Speak', self described as a Slanguage Dictionary, from the University of Georgia and ran across this:

Wig out 1789 British; the noun wig refers to verb 'a harsh scolding or reprimand'; 1955 American; perhaps from verb wig 'to scold, rebuke'. From the idea to flip one's wig (British elite).

So wig means to scold, rebuke, etc...

Now I can say "Why do you wig me man?" You can say it too! Bet it will wig some people out.

cAR wOES

Spent the night with C.L. All was lovely.

Wake up- tear myself out of bed- drive to 7/11 for coffee-get a flat-put on the spare-drive away from 7/11. Spares flat. Call AAA. Wait an hour. Miss my morning class. Tow the car to Kramer Tire. Alignment, bearings, a CV joint, break pads and two tires- all bad. Miss my afternoon class. Spend lots of money. Drive to home to Mam's. Catch the mailperson while walking in. Read mail. Cobra eligbility runs out October 1.


Fuck.
Me.


The good news? I didn't cry.
K- I did for like 10 seconds, but it wasn't a through-and-through boo'hoo session. Just a lil misty.

Thank the Goodness (i.e. my father) that I have AAA. I have no idea how many times they have come to my rescue. They dropped me off at Kramer Tires on Independence Blvd in Virginia Beach. And while Kramer's seemed a bit high, they also seemed relatively straight foreward and didn't make me feel like a dumb bitch. Isn't that always nice?

I want to live somewhere that cars are "optional". Washington. Boston. Chicago. Bum-fuck-ride-a-bike. I don't care. Just no car. I want to walk to the grocery store, to coffee, to dinner. I want to take the Metro, Underground, T.... whatever to work. I want to catch a cab to the bars and home from from shopping. I miss 13th and U - all within 5 blocks:

My favorite thai.
CVS
Whole Foods
Mexican, Maggie Moo's, Subway, Pizza Hut, Mediterranean, Harry's
Dupont
Barnes and Noble
Star Bucks
17th Street "gayville"

*sigh.

I whining. Which I am actually finding much more annoying than just crying.
Pardon me for a moment...

John Mayer's Say. Aaaaaaaawwwww!

Take all your wasted honor
Every little past frustration
Take all your so called problems
Better put them in quotations

Say what you need to say.

Walking like a one man army
Fighting with the shadows in your head
Living up the same old moment
Knowing you'd be better off instead
If you could only

Say what you need to say.

Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You better know that in the end
Its better to say to much
Than to never say what you need to say again

Even if your hands are shaking
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closing
Do it with a heart wide open

And say what you need to say.

Family is whoever you say it is.

Told ya we'd be ok.
Oh, ok, fine.
So you had to tell me too.
You can get your "I told you so" when you get home.

More Viewers - More Meaning

Since hyper-linking this site to my new MySpace I've had a lot more friends, family and...none of the above, read this Blog. For a very long time, by ASL number Viewer Count in the upper left hand corner was at zero,zero,zero,zero. Now its got almost 40 hits. Which isn't that much but...enough for me to have gotten some responses.

"Whats this mean?"
"Whats your motivation for posting that picture?"
"Was that me you were referring to?"
"Are you mad/sad/angry/frustrated with me?"
"Did you mean to come off so angry/happy/concerned/dorky/in love?"

I guess I should let ya'll in on my motivation behind writing on here. Its just for me. I think it - write it - post it- forget it. I shove my baggage into CyberSpace, and the last place I want it to land is on the people I love. I don't even want it to come back to me- so I don't even read the damn thing.

The pictures and the words have no hidden meaning for you, the reader. They have meaning for me, but if I try to explain the meaning- after you've read it- I have a hard time articulating it very well. It comes off wrong. I feel shy. I fear that you won't love me as unconditionally as I probably love you.

If you choose to read, and by all means go for it, please take everything with a grain of salt. This web page and a buck wouldn't buy you a cup of coffee. That means that while it's a peek- and I emphasize peek- at my scrambled, rapid fire thought- its not worth upsetting anyone.

I love you all and loving you is my life's meaning.

Annoying.

If your girlfriend is Deaf, for the love of FUCK, learn sign language.
If your too stupid to learn ASL then don't date her.

I got a phone call last night from someone who is dating a Deaf woman- they we're in the emergency room, and the hospital had yet to get their interpreter in. SO, in the middle of an asthma attack, a young, scared woman was forced to *write everything she needed to convey to the endless stream of doctors and nurses caring for her because no one was there that could understand her.

Learning Sign isn't hard. Its a visual language which makes it more entertaining than say...picking up Arabic in your spare time. There are free classes everywhere. I, myself, took classes from the Mormons in the MLK Library in Washington D.C.
Weird? Sure. Quality education? Most def. Pun intended.

Point: If you care about someone and you profess to want to devote your life to them, it might be a good fucking idea to learn how to communicate with them in a complete, efficient manner. Asking someone who is Deaf to lip read for the rest of their life is exhausting. And no matter how "great" they claim to be at lip reading the fact of the matter is that if your in a stressful situation i.e. the EMERGENCY ROOM, having a fight, buying a car, giving a speech, sitting with her parents for the first Christmas dinner- lip reading wont cut it.

She bought you a fucking BMW.
She cries when you go out of town for the weekend.
She sucks in her stomach, worried that you will notice that she's missed the gym for a week.

Give a little back. Twerp.

Can we just skip this step? No? I didn't think so.

Trusting, in any relationship, can be highly disconcerting.

Illustration, see right.

YOU COME HOME RIGHT NOW YOUNG MAN!!

When he was 10 years old the sound of me screaming that from the front door would have set him running for home. From down the block I could see his big ears and clumsy feet hauling ass for his Sissy.

So, I'll try again.

You come home right now young man. I miss you.

Fall

Fall is coming. I woke up this morning to the -thunk- of my 4:45 AM newspaper (thanks Max- you’re a real doll). When I stepped outside I took a deep breath and there it was: the unmistakable crisp scent of fall. Sadly, just 4 hours later the air once again smelled of the low-tide marsh at the end of my street. Oh well. By late August, I take what I can get, even if its a 4:45 sniff.

My three favorite things about fall:

- changing leaves
- hooded sweatshirts
- wine

Not necessarily in that order.

A few years back I found myself living in the District (again), missing the coast of Northern California. From Berkeley, I was only about an hour south of Sonoma. Sonoma's landscape never failed to take my breath away. But in D.C. ...not so much. So ewhah and I headed west for a little more than an hour and ran into this surprisingly amazing Virginia winery.

Ok, the wine sucked. But the land was gorgeous, the town was cute and hell- we we’re drunk. All was well.

I’m going to try to do the same thing again- check out some of Virginia's wineries. After all, Thomas Jefferson was a wine aficionado and convinced that the plains southeast of the Appalachian Mountains near Charlottesville were perfect for growing grapes.

Being Virginian, I must bow to the damn near omnipotence of Thomas Jefferson. I’m going lookin’ for booze.

ClipArtCredit Dan Berger appellationamerica.com

Tonights the Democratic National Convention.

Guess who I'm voting for.

Back to School

For the first time in a long time, I found myself in a classroom this morning with a pen and a three ring binder. How odd. Fun, but very odd.

Classes should be good. I have no idea- repeat no- idea why I decided to study hard, often boring, things in college the first time around. In my classes today- an architectural drafting course and a CADD class- we drew stuff and learned buttons on a computer program. Seriously- I must have been out of my mind in my late teens. Political science and Arabic? Nightmare. I could have been drawing that whole time, but noooooooooo...ugh.

Last time I was in college, it wasn't that fun. I took the things I had to take in order to get the job I wanted once I was out. Classes were simply a means to an end- fuck the journey, give me the destination. This time, I am going to try something different. I am going to try to enjoy all of it- the classes and the work. I may get this CADD certificate and go right back to the career I had before. I might not. No clue where I will end up with all this. But either way, I hope this time I have fun getting there.

MySpace

I'm on MySpace. S.F.W. got me. Lord knows it took her months of heckle but her tireless efforts have finally paid off. Dear S, grace of a butterfly- wherewithall of a cross country trucker. I'm still not sure how she did it.

I am also not sure exactly what to do on MySpace, so I asked her. She said its time to start inviting friends. She's put up my background- a lovely tribute to breast cancer awareness, and posted a Project Runway quote near my picture, which is disturbingly on target with my personality. "Where the hell is my chiffon!" Frankly, I would have chosen a statement a wee bit more macho, but irate femme seems to fit well in this instance. (insert heavy sigh)

I digress. Inviting friends to be my MySpace friend is a bit wacky to me. If I am too selective, then I exclude. If I am too embracing then I am inviting the notorious MySpace drama into my life. Not happening. So- my solution is to limit how many MySpace friends I have. At 10. Doesn't matter which 10. New or old friends. But 10 seems like a lot, right? I mean, I cant possibly keep up with 10 people (or pretend to keep up)- nor, quite honestly, do I want to. I don't even want to get "alerts" about 10 people. How the hell people have 50, 100 friends - or simply allow that many people to look at their shit- blows my mind.

One great idea S.F.W. had was to post book reviews on our MySpace. That sounds kinda fun, seeing as how we discussed the various plots of our recent reads last night for almost 45 minutes.

And away we go.

Dimples of Venus

Boo Boo mentioned this morning that one of her guy friends was intrigued by her "back dimples". Of course, we decided to investigate the anatomy of the lucky women that posses this little discussed, widely admired, upper-butt trait. She googled "dimples on back" and wow, what a response. One young man noted on a list serve devoted to the female form, "How could I have gone all through college and not known about back dimples!" Obviously he's a boob-man or he would have noticed.

I, myself, am a boob girl. I like all boobs, except ones that look like my mom's. Which are large. Very large. Like....stupid big. I'll stop now, because I can feel her death-stare all the way from Georgia. But seriously, anything small or medium, high or low is good with me. The butt? I could care less.

But these back dimples, or as Wiki says "Dimples of Venus", are amazing. I have seen them on women and damn, pretty freakin awesome. BooBoo thinks that eventually a plastic surgeon will be able to give you Dimples of Venus for the cost of a few car payments. She may be right.

Funny how parents used to think if we can keep our baby girl's boobs, stomach, and ass cheeks under-cover we're doing good. Now we have to monitor our kid's lower backs? Ridiculousness.

Boo Boo- as you venture off into the wild life of college, please keep your pants up. None of this low-rise crap. I want to see those jeans at your navel. God forbid the boys find out you have back dimples.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dimples_of_Venus

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can

Ok, I am going to try. But please don't laugh at me if it fails miserably. I have already set aside "professional assistance" funds. :)

The Dude Anwsers All

The Dude: Look, nothing is fucked, here, man.
The Big Lebowski: Nothing is fucked?
[shouting]
The Big Lebowski: The god damn plane has crashed into the mountain!

Soooo...about 5 months ago I screwed something up at work and because of the nature of this screw up, it is just now being discovered, by not only me, but the people on the ground trying desperately to fix it. I could tell something was seriously fucked as soon as the phone calls and email started coming in faster than I could form a curse word to express my angst.

Did I mention its my fault? Yeeeaaaaaaa.

In logisitics, you *really *really *really dont want to mess up timing. Dont. Ever. You set up a transport system and the chain gets broken- your fault. You can go from hero to blubbering asshole in a matter of seconds.

So scream at me, scream with me, pound your fist, curse like a sailor, throw out crazy-impossible solutions, but do not tell me that "everythings going to be fine". Or, "we'll get through this". "Just take it easy". I feel too guilty to hear that. I can't fix it.

I should have stayed at church for the social hour. *sigh

God, let this get better before it gets any worse.
Much love,

Humble Pie.

Cookie & BooBoo

So BooBoo (after the baby bear) is going off to college. She left her parents, serving in the military in Japan for a local University here in Tidewater. She's staying next door with Cookie, her former teacher, until the big dorm move-in day.

I can not WAIT to drop her off Wednesday! She's pretty much the cutest thing ever. I remember going off to college and my mom and grandmother driving away. I handled it all pretty well. But her parents are in Japan- she's grown up on an Air Force base in another country and she frequently says she's "studying in the States". Like she's studying abroad or something. I guess, in a way, to her she is. I would be crying a lot. She's surprisingly sturdy.

It amazes me what 18 year olds can do. Little babies, so sweet and naive and then BOOM, out of no where they say something as if they were a highly aware 30. Go figure. After all, just this weekend I was the 30 year old whose grandmother popped her on the head for trying to juggle kiwi in the grocery store.

They were begging for it- I sware.

Ugh

So I am sure that most everyone has heard about the young Chinese girl who sang the anthem during the Olympics. The little girl whose voice was used was deemed not cute enough by a Government Olympic oversight committee so they found a "prettier" girl to lip-sync the song.

Back in the U.S. we would simply have sent the less-standard looking child with God's beautiful gift of a voice to Extreme Makeover: Children Under the Knife Edition.
She could have gotten new teeth and everything!!

I think a lot of girls in the United States, me included, had some version of this idea: Meet man, man thinks your pretty, he loves you, you get married in a white dress, sex makes babies and your done. Hoo-rah to all the girls who never did. I don't want to go off on an arm-pit-hair-feminist rant, but...I will.

As long as "men" are the choosers in our global society and "women" are the options, men will set the standards of beauty, whats "normal" and whats not. These standards are false. Lie, lie, lie. There are some men who don't perpetuate those standards. Some men have a humor and acceptance about sexuality and the female form that I have rarely found outside the lesbian community. I know a few and I pray they procreate.

I have asked myself why I don't have Heidi Klum's hair, Julia's smile, Angelina's everything. I see Weight Watcher's, Jenny Craig, Atkins, Nutri System, Ali. Barbie's with ittie-bittie-waists and rappers that...wait a second....

Its Good to be American

Oh my gosh- did ya'll see that!?

I get home from a really nice date (thanks C.L.) and my g-ma is watching the men's swimming relay. We were both screaming "GO!!!!! Gooooooooooooo!" at the top of our lungs for two awesome minutes.

In the last stroke- the very last stroke- the oldest of the US Men's Swim Team, Jason Lazak, gives a good ol' Olympic fair-and-sqaure-fuck-you, to Frenchman Alain Bernard, who just the day before was quoted as saying, "The Americans? We're going to smash them. Thats what we came here to do."

Thats ok France. Next time. Really.
Smash us.

Image Credit to Paul Chiasson, The Canadian Press / AP

A Few Good Men

Aaaahhh, Love. Big smiles, beautiful brides, babies, flowers, hugs and kisses...
Panic attacks, screaming in-laws, sobbing sisters, drunk dates, and stolen glances at your ex.

It's a Wedding!!

I am terribly upset. Terribly might be an understatment. "Mad as a wet hen"? Pissed as shit? Nothing seems to fit. I was so excited to go to this wedding- to see two people who I think so highly of commit their lives to one another and then...THEN I decided to bring a date. You know how when you go out of town with someone for the first time you see them a little differently when you get back. Yeeaaaaaa. Well, how about you just not see them at all?

My date, "Mr. Carsalesman", was wasted drunk- asking for coke- being generally the most obnoxious person EVER- the entire time. And I was devastated. Mortified. Because I just....DAMNIT!!!! It was S's and J's day and damnit, damnit, damnit it was a big deal for me too- I was looking forward to it! I was so happy to be invited and to meet Baby M and Mr. Carsalesman almost blew it for me.

One of these days, Mr. Carsalesman, Baby M is going to be big and strong like his daddy and then he is going to kick you ass for me! Ok...he's not really going to kick your ass because I am going to strongly encourage a pacifistic perspective when it comes to butt plugs like you. But still, we'll talk about kicking your ass. We may even use rude language. If he's, like say, 17. Maybe wait till 18.

I didn't let him come to the actually ceremony. He got ditched. I just couldn't let him be there at one of the most important moments of S's life. It wouldn't be fair. I wanted to sit there and watch the service and celebrate thier love sans any bullshit.

I saw MAR at the reception. I tried not to stare, but I was acutely aware of the fact that she was in the room. I turned back to look at her a few times as I was leaving- I didn't know if she was looking at me but I smiled and she smiled back. I sound like a love drunk teenager. But I'm not in love with her. Certainly, I couldn't be. But I do love her face...and I do love her raspy laugh, her blond hair...
I could go on, but Pride called and said Pathetic was on his way over.

I love a lot about her and it makes me sad that she can not be- or doesn't care to be- a part of my life. We promised we would always be friends- that if it didn't work we could go back to how it was before we were romantic. But it ended in such a shocking- no fucking way - moment that...well, you didn't see that one coming did ya MAR? We got blind-sided and it cost us.

Rejection. Humiliation. It only highlights what a miracle S and J are for one another. And Baby M? Well, it just doesn't get any better than that. Dear Lord, hold S and J through all the crap that comes with love. Help them to remember that the love is always stronger. Amen.

Off Grid

There are few people who impress me more than those who can go "off grid".

Rain water collection, solar panels, organic farming. Simply waking up when its light and going to bed when its dark. Candle light- its cost effective and makes you look super sexy in the buff.

I just thought of my Erin. All this alternative energy and naked talk. Erin looks good naked. Most people dont. She's also one of the few people in the world I think could figure out how to go off grid, survive and actually enjoy it. Short term of course. An experiment, if you will.

Which brings me to the main idea of this post: Plumbing is for pansies. Erin and I, through our mutual academic pursuits, discovered the undeniably fascinating and immensely important science behind proper poopy disposal. And BOY is she going to love this one: Introducing the S.C.A.T. !!

Solar Composting Advanced Toilet (S.C.A.T.)

The SCAT System recycles human poo and pee into a dry, deodorized compost that can be safely applied to the immediate surrounding landscape. Its free-standing, self contained, and uses organic stuff like peat moss to promote composting. Theres no rotating drum- the SCAT system employs earthworms for mixing and aeration. Earthworms who must truly believe there is a Nirvana.

Passive solar heat, through the roof panels, drys out the compost. Convection currents provide ventilation. You can buy pre-fab side panels that make it ADA compliant! Screw your porcelain god- this thing is the Mecca of all out-house.

Hey Erin- Dont eat your neighbors poo.


http://www.solartoilet.com/

The International "Healing" Foundation

Richard Cohen. Richard, Richard, Richard. *tsk* *tsk* Richard. Finger-wag, finger-wag! Your in time out. Go to the naughty chair! No more PlayStation. Your grounded indefinitely! Richard Simmons will be upstairs momentarily to give you a spanking.

Richard Cohen wrote the book entilted...gag-gag...sorry. Ok. I YouTube'd "Kate Moennig" for a minute and I'm feeling more empowered.

The book is entitled Coming Out Straight: Understanding and Healing Homosexuality (Oakhill Press 2000). Richard, you see, "was" a fag and now he's "not". Cuz he be a'curin himself. He wants to share with you what he has "discovered over the past thirty years of personal and professional investigation". Richard, according to his webpage, believes among other things that:

• Homosexuality is a "Same-Sex Attachment Disorder".


• Anyone who experiences same-sex attractions is latently heterosexual and merely stuck in an early stage of pychosexual development.

Richard, I would like to share with you what I have learned from my thirty years of queer investigation. I believe that we are both walking, talking manifestations of God's image. From the moment we were conceived in His image, He loved us. He knew that while we were on Earth we would do some things right and do some things wrong. Through Grace, we are forgiven for those wrongs.

Let us Pray for Richard Cohen. (Thats Christian-cue for bow your head. Now.)

Dear Lord, please forgive Richard Cohen for being a dirty douche bag. You made him gay and someone has gone and convinced him that thats bad! He needs Your strength and love to stop being a dirty douche bag. Forgive him for distorting Your gifts of healing and compassion and for becoming the dirty douche bag he is today. We also pray for Your queer community. We know that Richard needs us too, Lord. He needs our support and love to stop being a dirty douche bag. But sometimes we fall short and call him names like, "Dirty Douche Bag". Please fill us with Your Spirit so that we may guide him away from being a dirty douche bag and come to call him things other than "Dirty Douche Bag Man". Let us all know Your eternal love.

Amen.

Please check out Whosoever Magazine, an online magazine for LGBT Christians.

http://whosoever.org/bible/jude.shtml

Burnt Orange and Chicago Maroon!?

My school colors, "Burnt Orange" and "Chicago Maroon" are absolutely ugly. In 1896 a University Comittee selected these colors because, according to the Virginia Tech website, "no other college utilized this particular combination of colors." Well, duh. Your telling me we could have chosen anything and we got THIS?

Hokies around the world would call me a Judas for even thinking what I am writing. Let me conclude by saying that beyond Red-White-Blue, no other color combination invokes such intense emotions. Pride, happiness, the enduring sense of a highly principled community- good 'ol Maroon & Orange!!!!

I also feel intense emotions for Orange and Navy Blue; pity and superiority come to mind.

Babylonian Sand Storms

Mention the places 'Mesopotamia'... or try 'Babylon', and most people will look at you like either A) your way too into a 101 course in the Classics, Arab style, or B) your really into the Brit musician David Gray.

You know the song 'Babylon' by David Gray? You may recognize the refrain:

If you want it
Come and get it
Crying out loud
The love that I was
Giving you was
Never in doubt
Let go your heart
Let go your head
And feel it now

Babylon, Babylon
Babylon

Great song. YouTube it and give it a listen. Wiki says that supposedly its on the US Military Torture list. When played, it can be used to create an uncomfortable living environment for detainees. I'm sure David Gray is thrilled.

I'm off on a tangent.

The purpose of this post: My brother J, a Combat Engineer in Iraq, sent me the picture above. Its a sandstorm, Iraq style. A wondrous (he would say Satanic) wave of sand whips across the region with little warning making visibility almost nothing. You know when your at the beach and the wind blows bits of sand on your skin...the tingeling sting on your arms and face? Yea, well this would probably feel more like a dermabrasion procedure. On a flesh wound. A dermabraised, sun-burnt, flesh wound. Ah, thus is War.

When I was in Jordan I was very close to Southern Iraq- in fact, according to the Bedouins I was traveling with, I was right at the Jordan-Iraq line. I remember the day Noor pointed across the desert and said "Irraaa Qa". I stared in sheer astonishment. First because how the hell could she tell? It looked like the same mesmorizing, thousand acre sand dune that had been stretching out before us for the past two weeks. Secondly...well, underneath all my trekking bravado I'm a RedWhite&Blue pansy ass. At that moment it became painfully obvious that I had wandered a little too far off the beaten path even for me. I squelched my "Mommy!" scream and plastered on the most impassive expression I could muster. Afterall- I'm American: my Shield of Superiority helps to keep me at the top of the food chain.

The emotion of that moment was unique. It would take several lofty, rarely used words in a barely intelligible string to describe what I felt. I know there is nothing that can ever reproduce that feeling. This picture my brother sent to me has come as close as I think anything ever will.

I love you Bro. Allama'ak.