Month: September 2005

  • Dreams

    Sometimes, when I awaken, I recall what I had been dreaming just before.  This morning, I recall a whole series of dreams.

    The comic strip Zits came to life in one of my dreams.  Jeremy
    found a bit of litter on the ground, a label from “Morning Sip
    Tea.”  He thought that something with a name like that would be a
    cheap gift that his girlfriend Sara would really like.  He made a
    mental note to get her some Morning Sip Tea.


    I walk into a dimly-lit, quiet, slick and swank bar with my date (someone I don’t recognize IRL) and my old friend Steve Brooks
    Coming toward us behind a row of patrons on stools at the bar were two
    men in ill-fitting shiny suits with the telltale bulges of pistols in
    shoulder rigs under their jackets.  Between them they were
    supporting a third man.  He was wearing an aloha-print shirt,
    untucked, hanging sloppily and hiked up on the butt of an automatic
    tucked into his pants.

    This guy’s eyes were deep-set and ringed with black.  His skin was
    pale and gray.  He looked like the living dead.  Steve knew
    the two men who were dragging him out of the bar, and they stopped for
    a brief conversation.  The gist of it was that the man between
    them was on a long-running binge and dangerously out of control. 
    It was hard to tell whether they were taking him out to help him or to
    kill him.


    It’s as if I’m looking down from
    an airplane at a scattering of golden sandy islands in a turquoise
    ocean, then I realize that I’m standing in the water and the islands
    are small and close enough together that I can step from one to the
    next.  I set off toward the horizon.


    I’m in an anonymous-looking room
    like you’d find at Motel 6.  I’m with a man (again, I don’t know
    who he is IRL) and we are taking things from our luggage and dressing
    to go out.  He gives me some cheap molded plastic Mardi Gras beads
    and I put them around my neck and go on dressing to go out.  As
    we’re getting ready to leave he looks at my tawdry “jewelry” and
    ridicules me for wearing it.


    I’m alone in a tropical setting
    where the vegetation grows down to the edge of a cove or pond of blue
    water.  I’m wearing jeans and a shirt.  The water is
    inviting, so I wade in and am half-floating there with the water up to
    my shoulders, when a little boy comes up to me and tells me I’m
    violating the pool rules by wearing my jeans in the water.  I look
    around and find that the cove has become a square-sided man-made pool
    and it is filled with people.  I start to protest to the kid and
    realize that I’m no longer wearing jeans but have on a swim suit. 
    I swim away from the kid, out into deeper water.



    Live fast.

    Die young.

    Leave a beautiful memory.

       February 2, 1931 – September 30, 1955 

  • “Papa” is still in the wind.

    The latest news on Robert Hale is that the Troopers are still looking for him and concentrating on the Valdez-Glenallen area.

    The Scripture-quoting patriarch was indicted
    last Thursday on 30 counts of sexual assault and related charges
    involving one of his daughters.

    The 17-member family, bound by strict rules
    that Hale drew from his reading of the Bible, broke apart last winter
    after a single, horrific episode, described by troopers this week. They
    said Hale locked a daughter in a small shack on family property near
    the Kennicott River in McCarthy and raped her repeatedly. Some other
    family members knew she was in there, heard suspicious sounds and were
    concerned, troopers said.

    Soon after, the older children left the
    family, which also had a homestead on an old mining site 14 miles from
    McCarthy, inside Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. A sympathetic Palmer
    family took them in. Troopers were contacted over Labor Day and began
    an investigation.

    “When our sister came to us for help, we were
    united in our desire before God to take whatever action was necessary
    to protect her,” the older Hale children said in a statement Tuesday.

    Multiple charges of rape and assault, as well
    as single charges of kidnapping, coercion, and incest, were pegged to
    an incident Jan. 10. Other charges broadly cover the seven years the
    family known as the Pilgrims have been in Alaska.

    Troopers who have interviewed the children say Hale was able to carry on his abuse of his daughter in secret.

    “It was a secretive thing, so most of the family wasn’t aware of the direct sexual abuse,” said investigator Derek DeGraaf.

    But the situation was complicated by the mysterious hold the father had over his family, said Massie.

    When this story broke a couple of days ago, all I knew of the Pilgrim
    family was about their apparent disregard for park rules and ecological
    concerns in the park that surrounds the homestead on which they live,
    and for private property rights and the public rights of way in the
    little town nearby where they set up a business to get some tourist
    dollars.  What I had seen of Papa in the media struck me as a
    sleazy and self-righteous hypocrite, using scripture freely as a screen.

    The ADN website had links to earlier stories.  One of them amazed me with the complexity of this man’s life. 

    Papa’s papa was football hero I.B.Hale, two time All-American offensive
    tackle at Texas Christian, who led his team to a national championship
    in 1938.  Instead of accepting the professional football career he
    was offered, I.B. joined the FBI.  He was a “close associate” of
    J. Edgar Hoover.  After the FBI, he became head of security for
    military contractor General Dynamics.

    The son, Robert, eloped in 1958 at the age of 17 with the daughter of
    John Connally, who later became governor of Texas and Nixon’s Treasury
    secretary, the man who was wounded in JFK’s car that day in
    Dallas.  A month later, Kathleen Connally Hale was dead.

    “Kathleen had been open and sweet and
    wholesome, a daughter to be envied by anyone who raised a child,
    watched her bloom. She had never caused us the least of worries,”
    Connally wrote. “But suddenly a wall had gone up that we could not
    penetrate.”

    At the coroner’s inquest, Bobby Hale said
    she’d been alone in their apartment with the shotgun when he returned
    home from looking for her. He tried to persuade her to put it down. He
    said he’d grabbed for the gun and it went off, according to Connally’s
    account.

    “I have not spoken to Bobby since then,” the
    former governor wrote. “Over the years, he has attempted to call me. I
    have never taken his call, nor will I. If this seems flinty and cold,
    so be it. Our daughter was gone and so was Bobby Hale, as far as I was
    concerned.”

    The death was ruled an accident.

    In a 1997 book about the Kennedy administration, The Dark Side of
    Camelot
    , investigative reporter
    Seymour M. Hersh places Bobby Hale and his twin brother, Billy, in a possible plot involving his father to blackmail
    President Kennedy.

    Hersh’s story is based on FBI documents
    obtained through the Freedom of Information Act. It involves Judith
    Campbell Exner, the woman revealed by a congressional committee in 1975
    to have been having an affair with the president even as she had close
    ties with Chicago mob boss Sam Giancana and mob associate Johnny
    Rosselli.

    The affair was known to FBI chief Hoover. He had Campbell’s Los Angeles
    apartment under FBI surveillance in August 1962, when agents observed
    two young men break in through a sliding glass door on a balcony.

    According to FBI documents in the case examined by the Anchorage Daily
    News, the burglars’ getaway car, a blue Chevy Corvette, was registered
    to I.B. Hale, the former agent who was now chief of security for
    General Dynamics.

    Hersh’s account was also corroborated by an ABC-TV documentary.

    The FBI said the description of Hale’s sons is “generally similar” to
    that of the two burglars seen at the glass door, one of whom later
    drove away in the car registerd to Hale. The Dallas FBI office reported
    one of the sons drove a Chevy sports car and was possibly in California.

    The FBI agents did not try to intercept the burglars or report the
    incident to police — presumably, Hersh wrote, because they would have
    blown the cover for their own stakeout.

    Exactly what happened in the apartment is unknown; the FBI agent
    interviewed by Hersh said agents assumed an electronic listening device
    was planted.

    Three months later, Hersh wrote, the Kennedy administration shocked the
    Pentagon and Congress in awarding what was then the largest U.S.
    military aircraft contract in history. The $6.5 billion contract for
    the experimental TFX jet fighter went to General Dynamics, a distant
    second to Boeing in all the procurement studies.

    Had Kennedy been blackmailed? The surprise contract inspired
    investigative hearings in Congress, which found no collusion between
    the company and high government officials. But investigators did not
    have access to the burglary information in the FBI files, Hersh said.
    The congressional investigation, unfinished, was called off after
    Kennedy’s assassination in 1963.

    Papa says he dropped out in the 1960s, spent
    some time in Haight-Ashbury, lived on an Oregon commune, and wandered
    around South America on horseback.  When he was 33, in 1974, he
    met Kurina Bresler in the California desert.  She was 16. 

    “The Lord spoke to me. He said, ‘This is your wife. She’s strong and she will bear you many children,’ ” Pilgrim said.

    Betty Freeman, a singer and actress, said her daughter was in drug
    trouble and running from home and Hollywood when she met Hale and quit
    high school.

    “In spite of everything he tells you, he trapped her with sex and drugs,” she said.

    They married and legally changed their last name to Sunstar, which
    makes me wonder why current news stories say that Papa Pilgrim’s legal
    name is Hale.  Oh, well, there are a lot of things about the
    Pilgrims that make me wonder.  The Sunstars lived, stole, and
    alienated their neighbors on a New Mexico ranch owned by Jack
    Nicholson, where Papa was known as Preacher Bob.  They left there
    on their way to Alaska in the late 1990s, when the ranch was in the
    path of a wildfire.

    Since they have been here, Bobby “Papa” Pilgrim-Sunstar-Hale and his
    adult sons have had run-ins with the law over illegally-taken game,
    trespassing, allowing their horses to run loose on a small-town
    airstrip, and a bunch of other violations stemming from the Park
    Service’s efforts to protect the Wrangell-St. Elias International Park
    from them.  Papa has characterized at least one of the law
    enforcement people who thwarted his desires as “worse than the
    terrorists.”  In the bulletins notifying the public of his
    fugitive status, he is described as “armed and dangerous.”  No
    kidding.

  • I’m learning.

    Don’t misunderstand – I love to learn.  Now that my consumption of
    psychoactive substances is curtailed, that little jolt of dopamine my
    body produces each time my brain makes a new connection is one of my
    few remaining highs. 

    I never really know where my next dopamine is coming from.  I can
    study for days before the penny drops and I “get” one of those new
    concepts I’ve been trying to
    learn.  That’s the typical pattern of my learning in the tech
    field, where my self-education was long neglected and the AHA! moments are now hard-won, and in some of the
    humanities, where there is relatively little ground I haven’t covered.

    There is always a more abundant source of those shots of pleasant
    neurotransmitters for me in accidental discoveries.  I opened up a
    virtual flood of them when I discovered a calendar of September events
    that listed “Ask a Stupid Question Day” for September 28, between
    “Crush a Can Day” and “Poisoned Blackberries Day.”  (And what in
    the world, I ask, is that?  I think I’ll
    leave that search for another day.  All I know now is that Poisoned Blackberries Day
    coincides with the Festival of Tezcatzonctl, Chief God of Intoxication
    in Mexico.)

    I
    have learned that the apparent intent of Ask a Stupid Question Day was
    to encourage people to overcome reticence and ask questions, presumably
    to encourage learning.  (Ironically, my father, exhausted and
    exasperated from my flood of questioning, used to tell me that I’d
    learn more if I’d just shut my mouth and open my ears.)  What
    I have not been able to pin down with accuracy is precisely when Ask a
    Stupid Question Day is.  Every source I found agrees that it is
    sometime near the end of September:  today, tomorrow or the next
    day.
     

    Today is also reportedly Bird Day,  Teacher’s Day
    (China),  National Hunting and Fishing Day,  Confucius Day
    (Old China), Fiesta of San Miguel (Mexico),  Thailand Independence
    Day,  National Strawberry Cream Pie Day and  Drink As Much
    Beer As Possible Day.  Please, please, please, for your own sake,
    try to avoid over-celebrating either of those last two, and don’t try
    celebrating them both.

    Perhaps my most delightful discovery resulting from the present effort has been Wilson’s Almanac.  Here is today’s entry in Pip Wilson’s Blogmanac from Oz:

    Study says belief in God may contribute to society’s dysfunctions

    “There’s
    a new twist to the evolution versus creationism debate. A new study
    from America suggests that widespread belief in God may contribute to
    the dysfunctions of a society …”
    The World Today

    A curious theory that might or might not have any scientific basis, but it does strike one right in the “I just knew it!” nerve.

    Of
    course, saying that the USA’s greater religiosity than other nations
    explains its higher crime rate, and so on, is rather like saying that
    unmarried old women have fewer birds in their gardens because they
    shoot them, when it might be because they own more cats. Of course,
    they might shoot the poor little birds, who knows? American spinsters,
    anyway. More study on all these hypotheses must be done.

    As for
    this bloke with the new theory — I wonder if he just took a mortgage
    out on his house, or wants a European vacation or something. Because he
    can always defend his belief by saying “more study must be done”
    (meaning he wants some money) and no one will disagree with him. Don’t
    you just get the feeling a lot of scientists do this?

    I think
    America has a high crime rate because they have too many birds in their
    gardens, and we all know what they can do about that.

    I totally agree with this.  Too damned many people believe in God and far too few of us know the divine presence within.

    I have learned something about myself through this searching and
    questioning.   I may have a gift for asking spontaneous
    stupid questions, but when I try to think of one, I draw a blank. 
    Likewise, when confronted with a question (and I’m not even going to
    try to judge whether one is smart or stupid) my mind simply does not
    gravitate toward stupid answers.  I tried.  I failed. 
    Forgive me.  The comments sections of my last two blogs contain a
    multitude of questions, and I have failed utterly to come up with
    adequate answers.  You overwhelm me.  I am in speechless awe
    of your unfathomable curiosity.

  • I’m confused.

    After announcing that Wednesday, September 28 is Ask a Stupid Question
    Day, I went on a web search to see if I could learn more about this
    annual observance I’d never heard of before.  Immediately, I
    discovered some contradictory information.  Some sites say it is
    Sept. 28, some say the 29th, and others say it is on the 30th. 
    Could this be Ask a Stupid Question Week?  Was that a stupid
    question?

    And what’s with this:  you Xangans don’t seem to be equal to the
    task of asking stupid questions.  I got some very astute questions
    and some hilariously funny ones, but nothing that really qualifies as
    stupid.  I’m sure someone can do it.  Keep trying.  Get
    those stupid questions in here, please.  You only have another day
    or two or three.

  • Take your neighbor a stack of flapjacks.

    Today is National Good Neighbor
    Day and National Pancake Day.

    …aand, in preparation for Wednesday, which is Ask
    A Stupid Question Day, I’ll allow the rest of Monday and all of Tuesday
    for you to leave your stupid questions in comments here, and I’ll try
    to think up some stupid answers to post on Wednesday.



    In other news briefly, a notoriously odd and colorful Alaskan character is in the wind.


    The patriarch of a family that has a running
    feud with the National Park Service over access to their property
    inside Wrangell-St. Elias National Park has been charged with numerous
    counts of sexual assault and incest.

    Robert Allen Hale, 64, who goes by the name
    of Papa Pilgrim, was indicted Thursday by a state grand jury in Palmer
    on 30 felony counts, including 10 counts of sexual assault, one count
    of kidnapping, eight counts of incest, eight counts of coercion, and
    three counts of assault, Alaska State Troopers said.

    The family includes 15 children but the indictment lists just one victim.

    Hale remained at large Monday. “He could be anywhere,” said Alaska State Troopers spokesman Greg Wilkinson.

    Hale’s wife, Country Rose Hale, said family members cooperated in the investigation.

    “We’re sorry. We just appreciate the prayers of many thousands of
    people out there that could help us get through all this,” she said.
    “God is on the throne and he’s going to forgive Papa for the things
    he’s done wrong.”

    There’s more….

    Don’t forget to ask your stupid questions!

  • NOT A REAL POST

    My blog for today was posted just after midnight and has some substance
    to it.  This is just some needed housecleaning.  You see, I
    do these quizzes and I don’t suppose there’s much point in doing them
    if I don’t post them and posting them along with my more substantial
    text causes a jarring juxtaposition, so I save them and post the
    accumulation occasionally, usually on a weekend when the rest of the
    world has gone silly, so that I can feel like I’m part of the culture
    that surrounds me.

    Only about half of the paragraph above is true.  Your guess on which half is as good as any.


    Real thing
    You are THE REAL THING!
    You are just a regular person with alternative
    beliefs.  You don’t feel you have anything to
    prove and are just enjoying life.  Good for
    you!

    What kind of pagan are you?
    brought to you by Quizilla

    Hathor
    You scored 57 Affection and 45 Chaos!
    You
    are a maternal figure and your family is your life. You help outyour
    mate as much as you can, and create an environment of love andhappiness
    around you. You don’t always think of your own needs and canget lost in
    the shuffle.

    Hathor is seen as a woman with a cow’s ears
    or with cow’s horns and a sun disk. She is the wife of Horus (Her name
    means “Temple of Horus”)and she is sometimes seen as the mother of the
    Pharoah. She is a protective, nurturing Goddess.

    My test tracked 2 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
    free online dating free online dating
    You scored higher than 99% on Affection
    free online dating free online dating
    You scored higher than 99% on Chaos

    Link: The Ancient Egyptian Goddess Test written by kitsunechild on Ok Cupid
    Your Inner Child Is Happy
    You see life as simple, and simple is a very good thing.
    You’re cheerful and upbeat, taking everything as it comes.
    And you decide not to worry, even when things look bad.
    You figure there’s just so many great things to look forward to.

      I’m thinking of adding another quote or two to my list of favorites.

    There’s this one that appears to be making the rounds of the web misattributed to Nelson Mandela:

    Our greatest fear is not that we are
    inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light,
    not our darkness, 
    that frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant,
    gorgeous, handsome, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who
    are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not
    serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about
    shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were
    born to make manifest the glory of God within us. 
    It is not just in some; it is in everyone. And, as we let our own light
    shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As
    we are liberated from our fear, our presence automatically liberates
    others.

    from A Return to Love, Reflections on A Course in Miracles
    Marianne Williamson

    This other one is an old favorite of
    which I was recently reminded by someone who felt humiliated by my
    response to a comment she had left here:

    “It is better to stay silent and let people think you are an idiot than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”

    authorship uncertain,
    commonly attributed to Abraham Lincoln

    …and, by the way, it is never my
    intention to humiliate anyone or hold him or her up to public
    ridicule.  I just have a strong liking for honest and open public
    discourse, as long as it doesn’t deteriorate into ad hominem insults or
    boring, repetitive flamewar.

    I don’t know if I’ll add those to the list.  It’s so long now….

  • Driving down the winding highway through the Su Valley late Saturday
    morning, I was fighting gusting headwinds and crosswinds that made me
    think my car’s steering had gone wonky until I noticed a flag in
    someone’s yard, snapping and twisting.  A couple of times a bend
    in the road conspired with a shift in the wind, and a tailwind boosted
    me over the speed limit and almost off the road.

    Birch leaves skittering across the road ahead of me looked like golden
    coins scattered from some pirate’s spilled treasure.  A few trees
    still held tight to their leaves, giving back to the sun the golden
    light gathered in during the summer now gone.

    At the library in Willow, I dropped off the books that Doug and I had
    checked out on our last town trip together.  The assistant
    librarian had looked with distaste last time at my handful of high
    quality detective novels (Robert Crais and Lee Child) and asked me if I
    wasn’t interested in something with some literary merit, suggesting a
    young woman’s collected reminiscences gathered from some old Europeans
    who’d survived WWII.   This time, she made no comment at all
    until I was turning to leave.  All she had to say this time was,
    “…and she’s off!” 

    At my response, “Yeah, down to the Wasilla Library,” she groaned and
    grimaced, and much of the way on into Wasilla I was wondering
    why.  Sometimes I wonder why I don’t ask such a why or try to
    defend the literary merit of great genre fiction.  I don’t wonder
    for long, though, before I realize why I don’t bother.  Why bother
    with fools?

    With exquisite timing, as I waited for the light to change in the
    left-turn lane just before Felony Flats, Greyfox was a couple of cars
    ahead of me.  As he parked in front of his cabin, coming home from
    a trip to Big Lake to use their library’s computer, I was pulling into
    the space beside him.  We did our usual routine, exchanging the
    collected mail and a pair of warm flannel sheets I’d brought to him,
    for the media bag and mongo he had collected for me. 

    As I had left home today, I’d had the nagging feeling I was forgetting
    something.  As I sat on Greyfox’s bed and drank a cup of coffee, I
    remembered that I’d left in my fridge the chicken-rice casserole I’d
    meant to take to him.  It wasn’t until he asked me about them,
    that I remembered that I had also forgotten his new shoes that had come
    in the mail.

    We piled into Greyfox’s swank new minivan and he played chauffeur. 
    We enjoyed our spicy and economical senior citizens’ enchilada platters
    at La Fiesta, did a little shopping, then went to the library to pick
    up the CSS guide that I had placed on hold a month or two ago when the
    online catalog showed that it was “in process” at the library, probably
    in a stack on a counter in some back room, waiting to be
    catalogued.  Finally they processed it out into circulation, and
    I’m the first one to get to read it.  We had an hour or so to kill
    before the NA meeting, so we sat in the library and read.  It is a
    well-written guide and I’ve already picked up some helpful tips from it.

    Good meeting, but how I do get weary of being asked with such pointed
    concern how I’m doing!  Friends don’t see me for weeks and maybe
    they wonder if I’m out getting loaded, or maybe they know and care
    about my other chronic disease (besides the addictions).  I won’t
    lie.  I say that I’m okay mentally and spiritually, but not so
    good on the physical level.  Maybe I slightly exaggerate the
    mental well-being, but what I mean is that I’m not depressed or anxious
    or any of that.  Just nuts, as ever, still crazy after all these
    years, as anyone with perception can see without my telling them.

    The heavy shopping, two vast supermarkets and miles of aisles, we saved
    until after the meeting, in deference to the frozen foods, dairy
    products and fresh produce that would have had to wait in the car
    otherwise.  The sartorius muscle in my right thigh had spasmed so
    hard during the meeting that I sat there and kneaded the knots out of
    it through the latter half of the hour.  It had seemed prudent at
    the time to take some ibuprofen, and I suppose it was the right
    move.  I made it through the shopping without further muscle
    spasms.

    Fatigue hit me as Greyfox was driving us back toward his cabin.  I
    moved a few bags of groceries from his car to mine, then knew I needed
    to rest.  This time, for once, I paid attention to that need
    instead of stifling the body’s complaint and pushing ahead to finish
    the task.  I rested a while on Greyfox’s bed, then discovered when
    I tried to get up that I couldn’t quite do it alone.  That scared
    me.  I strained my shoulder trying to push myself up off the bed,
    and lay there rubbing away the spasms until Greyfox came in and gave me
    a hand up.  He had moved most of the rest of the bags to my car,
    so it was fairly quick and easy for me to finish up and get on the road.

    I noted with relief that I still had a half tank of gas and didn’t need
    to stop to fuel up.  In the condition I was in, every little step
    I could save or task I could skip was a big plus.  Almost as soon
    as I left Wasilla’s streetlights behind, the rhythm of the road and the
    sound of the jazz on the radio took me out of myself.  I heard
    Lady Z singing Twisted Cupid and went into a delightful but insane fantasy about a lover who awaited me at the end of my trip up the valley.

    I came back to myself along a dark stretch of highway and realized I
    had no idea where I was.  I passed a lighted house that didn’t
    seem familar and wondered if I had fantasized myself right on by my
    turn-off.  Before panic could set in, I recalled that when I’d
    checked the gas gauge I’d also checked the trip odometer I’d reset the
    last time I filled the tank.  I looked at it again, did some quick
    subtraction and realized that I’d only gone 36 miles, about three
    quarters of the way home.  Then some familiar landmarks appeared
    and I was okay.

    Deliberately choosing not to lose myself in the romantic fantasy again,
    I started thinking about CSS and XHTML.  Apparently, my mind was
    willing to take off along any path I offered it, and before I knew what
    I was doing I again realized that I didn’t know where I was.  Then
    I rounded a curve and saw the distinctive lights of a roadside tourist
    trap, so I was aware, briefly, that I wasn’t lost.  But when I
    crested the hill just before Sheep Creek, a couple of miles from home,
    I noticed with surprise where I happened to be, and that time I had no
    idea where my mind had been in the interim.  I don’t think it had
    gone back to the fantasy or into a fugue of web design problems. 
    I simply don’t know what it was doing while I was out of it.

    This is jarring, unnerving, but not as scary as it would be if I did
    not know that this stuff is “normal” for someone in my condition. 
    I have experienced similar episodes of non-mindfulness, loss of
    vigilance, thoughts that just wander away, but this is the first time
    it has happened while I was driving.  I trust that decades of
    behind-the-wheel conditioning would ensure my ability to respond to
    highway or traffic hazards as necessary.  Some part of my
    consciousness must have been in control of the car.  Otherwise, I
    wouldn’t have made it around all those curves and switched from high
    beams to low and back for oncoming cars as necessary, which I know I
    did… I remember that, vaguely, almost as if I observed it detachedly,
    from a distance.

    This is not easy to articulate.  It is confusing to
    contemplate.  I’m tired… more than tired, exhausted.  There
    are still groceries to be put away, and then I’m going to bed, tired
    but wired as usual after one of these trips, and with something new to
    think about, to let my mind wander off to as I read myself to sleep.

  • Had to be done….

    I am the guy who came out to the entire school in his senior speech and got a standing ovation for his courage.

    I am the girl who kisses her girlfriend on the sidewalk and laughs at those who glare.

    We are the couple who planned and studied and got a damn good lawyer and BEAT the state that wanted to take our child away.

    We are the ones who took martial arts classes and carry pepper spray and are just too dangerous to gay bash.

    I am the transgender person who uses the bathroom that suits me, and
    demands that any complaining staff explain their complaint to my face
    in front of the entire restaurant — and shares with my other trans
    friends which restaurants don’t raise a stink.

    I am the mother who told her lesbian daughter to invite her girlfriend over for dinner.

    I am the father who punished his son for calling you a fag.

    I am the preacher who told my congregation that love, not hate, is the definition of a true follower of God.

    I am the girl who did not learn the meaning of “homosexual” until high
    school but never thought to question why two men might be kissing.

    I am the woman who argues (quite loudly and vehemently) with the bigots
    who insist that you do not have the right to marry or raise children.

    We are the high school class who agrees, unanimously, along with our teacher, that love should be all that matters.

    If you agree, repost this. Do it. You don’t have to be afraid. You can handle it. You’re stronger than you think.

    I am making a difference. Hate will not win.

    Suggested by Foxxy

  • Domestic Tranquility

    For
    a few moments today, some of the kittens slowed down enough for me to
    take some pictures.  This day was remarkable in that none of the
    kittens had to be chased out from behind the Navajo rug that hangs on
    my wall.  It’s bad enough when they climb the front of that
    rug.  When they climb the back side, it’s unnerving–just these
    little shapes moving around behind the rug, reminds me of when I did
    acid and the walls rippled.

    These are the two males from Hilary’s litter.  On the left is Cecil, on the right is Beau or Bobo or Bobobo-bo_Bo-bobo
    The apparent difference in their sizes is purely a matter of
    perspective.  Cecil is actually a little bit bigger than
    Bobo.  His feet are almost as large as Auntie Orange/Nemo’s. 
    Doug is predicting that he will be huge.

    I have had very few opportunities to get pictures of these guys. 
    Either they are curled up in a pile, asleep, or they are bouncing
    around at full gallop, usually.

    Fuzzy Alice, the girl of that litter, is getting a butt-sniff from Koji at right.  Cats are like flowers to that dog.

    Alice is also known as Alice Blue, Alice Fluffbutt, Alice Blue Gown,
    and HEY, GET DOWN FROM THERE!  She is, of course, the one who
    originally was designated, “A”.  Superficially, she looks bigger than
    her brothers, but it is all fluff.  Frequently, when the kittens play,
    Bobo and Cecil (originally designated “B” and “C”) pair off together
    and Alice plays with her foster brother Albion.  Hilary is so small it
    is difficult for all four kittens to lie side by side to nurse, so
    often I see her nursing just the two boys above, or just Alice and
    Albion while the other boys sleep or play.

    Albion,
    at left, is the odd one of the bunch.  His mother is Greyfox’s cat
    Frankie, who is also the mother of our ginger cat, Nemo.  They are all
    free-range alley-cat mixed breeds, and Frankie has the crossed blue
    eyes and darker “points” typical of Siamese cats, all overlain with
    very faint calico markings.  Albion here also has the crossed blue
    eyes, snow white fur longer than Frankie’s, and ginger  points.

    After a few days of rejection when I brought Albion home, Hilary
    accepted him as one of hers and doesn’t seem to show any
    favoritism.  He spends more time with her than her own kittens do,
    probably partially out of insecurity due to his being uprooted, and
    also because he is the only one of the kittens who goes outside.

    At
    right, Albion explores the great outdoors.  One of the reasons I
    didn’t wait longer before bringing him up here from Felony Flats was
    his adventurousness.  The night I brought him home, I had to track
    him to a neighbor’s porch.  Greyfox and I were worried that he
    might get
    into trouble or into traffic if he stayed there much longer.  It’s
    a harsh life down there for cats, as well as for domesticated primates,
    and there aren’t nearly as many trees and weeds around there, either.

    At
    left, Cecil and Koji go nose to snoot, with twice-fuzzy Alice (fluffy
    fur and out of focus) in the foreground.  Please ignore the
    unmade bed.  Would you believe that it does no good to make the
    bed when it serves all day as the critters’ playground?

    It only takes a few instances of Koji jumping on and off the bed to
    push the mattress out of place.  I always have to realign the
    mattress and put the bed back together before I can crawl into it at
    night.

    Okay, just one last pet picture, Koji and Nemo obviously wondering why I’m creeping around with the camera.

    The reason I titled this entry, “Domestic Tranquility,” the ONLY reason
    the menagerie was tranquil enough for me to get these pictures today,
    was because Hilary, sweet little insanely overprotective mother Hilary,
    was outside at the time.

    BTW, people, I put together a little gallery of a few of my favorite
    pictures from the recent past for some new friends I’ve made at a BBS
    site where I post now.  You can see them HERE.

  • Bear Story

    I
    blogged about the shooting of this bear’s mother.  I think the
    followup story is worth sharing.  (photo credit:  Jim
    Lavrakas, Anchorage Daily News)

    Ever since their mother was gut-shot and
    killed during the midsummer climax of Russian River fishing, a female
    bear cub has stayed by her wounded sibling, sometimes allowing the male
    with a gimpy leg to eat fish she has hauled ashore.

    The male cub was shot in the leg the same
    weekend its mother died, perhaps in the same incident. Since then, the
    two half-grown orphan bears have remained at the river to feed on
    salmon. But it hasn’t been easy.

    The male bear limps and swims slower. Snatching fish appears to be more difficult.

    But to the amazement of tourists and bear-savvy locals, the female bear seems willing to share the salmon wealth.


    The fate of the crippled bear — along with
    the cinnamon-colored female and a third cub that has disappeared –
    weighs on the minds of many Cooper Landing residents. Even as birches
    go yellow and the last sockeye spawners rot in the shallows, people say
    they’re still angry over the shooting of the well-known sow.

    “Every day I have more than one customer who
    comes in the store and says that he’s worried about that bear,” said
    Glenda Mitchell, who owns the Cooper Landing Grocery and Hardware store
    with her husband. “I don’t see how he can defend himself from another
    bear with that leg. And I’m concerned that he can feed himself.”


    So far this year, 17 brown bears have been
    reported killed by people on the Kenai Peninsula, including at least
    seven sows of breeding age, Selinger said. Brown bears are considered a
    “species of concern” on the Peninsula with questions about their
    conservation and population still unanswered.

    The bear family had been a remarkable sight
    for at least two seasons, often delighting anglers with their bold
    tolerance of people. But the cubs also occasionally misbehaved,
    according to some observers, raiding backpacks and stealing fish from
    people.


    The sow was discovered dead in the forest
    from at least two bullet wounds during the first week of August. The
    three nearby cubs were agitated, and one was limping.

    A 26-year-old Anchorage man was later accused
    of shooting the mother on July 31 with a Chinese-made assault rifle and
    leaving the area without reporting what happened to authorities, as is
    required.

    Last month, Michael Oswalt pleaded not guilty
    in Anchorage District Court to six misdemeanors, including shooting a
    brown bear in a closed season, failing to salvage the hide and skull,
    and recklessly endangering people on the river. His trial is set for
    Nov. 14, according to the district attorney’s office in Anchorage.

    Within several weeks of the shooting, the
    boldest and smallest cub disappeared from the river, fate unknown,
    Selinger said. But the other two, a male and female, remained, with the
    male continuing to limp as they foraged for salmon.

    Selinger and three state biologists darted
    the male in late August with a tranquilizer so they could examine its
    condition. Even as the male went down, the female cub stayed close and
    ended up darted as well.

    The female bear was in good shape. The
    skinnier male bear had been shot in the joint of its left front leg,
    Selinger said. The wound was healed over and didn’t appear infected.
    The biologist worked the limb closely to check for a fracture or
    grating noise. It appeared stiff, he said, but sound.

    Selinger said they decided the two cubs had a good chance of making it if left alone on the river.

    “That bear will always have a limp, but bears
    survive that way,” he said. “If it can gather enough food and avoid
    being killed by other bears and stay out of trouble with humans, that
    bear has a good chance of surviving.”

    Doug O’Harra, Anchorage Daily News

    Full story at ADN.com.