Some people have asked me to show a picture of my dog, Angus, who died a few days ago. (See Angus Post). My wife found an old photo, which she had put on a disc for me. He was the finest dog I’ve ever known, of stronger character than many people I’ve met, and more dear to me than I realized; it took losing him to find out just how much. Man, I miss him.
Angus
It’s monsoon season here in Southern Arizona. From July through mid-September, moisture is pulled up from Mexico and, when conditions are right, thunderstorms develop, often violently. Hot air rises quickly from the desert floor up into higher, colder air, creating huge rain clouds that drop heavy amounts of rain in localized areas. This sudden deluge often forces damaging winds outward ahead of the storm. At least a dozen times over the past ten years I’ve watched seventy mile per hour winds cause the huge, sixty foot tall Eucalyptus tree which stands menacingly close to my house to hunch over like a dog trying to pass the dental floss he ate from the bathroom trash the night before. I’ve no doubt that one day the arboreal beast will fall on my house, with me inside it, flattening both and sending brick and bits of small intestine flying in every direction. I’m convinced that the tree’s expansive root system and its intricate, romantic embraces with my home’s sewer and water lines is the only thing that keeps it standing. Should said lines ever decide to spurn the tree’s advances, I’m done for.
Monsoon Skies
Many Tucsonans call monsoon season their favorite time of year. For one thing, all the snowbirds have scattered like beach-going Japanese when the ground starts to shake. While visitors flock by the tens of thousands to enjoy the mild winters here, they are deathly afraid of the summers. I’m not sure why; they rarely spend any time outdoors anyway, and because of the high humidity so common in the places from whence they came (Indiana, Iowa, and the Land of 10,000 Ponds), the living conditions in their home states are often more miserable than mine. (I was once in Washington, D.C. when it was eighty-eight degrees, with a relative humidity of an equal percentage; I developed a heat rash in the shameful regions and spent the day on the national mall walking like a giraffe sidling up to a watering hole). No matter; I say good riddance, because traffic is so much lighter when they’re gone. Good thing, too, because the monsoons do their number on the roads as well: with them come potholes, some of which could make a Smart Car look dumb. (As if there were no other way).
Recently one of my customers greeted me at the door in a back brace and neck halo; were he wearing a diaper and floating in some dense, eerily colored fluid, he could easily have passed as an experiment in a bad science fiction movie. He had been enjoying a deliberate and mostly persistent pedaling of his bike (this guy is ancient) on a major Tucson surface street, when he went through what he thought was a puddle; it was, in fact, a puddle, one whose brackish, oily water hid a deep hole with sharply defined edges. Though he couldn’t have been going more than a couple of miles per hour, he nevertheless went bum over elbows, landed in the street and fractured his back and neck in several places. (Granted, had he squatted and missed the chair in his living room he would have likely suffered the same fate. I wish I had seen the mishap; since it wasn’t me, and none of you know him, we can all laugh about it now). It’s a common occurrence, however; I’ve hit potholes in my truck that sent my steering wheel into a full grand mal seizure and my testicles bouncing in my throat like lottery ping-pong balls.
The other characteristic that Monsoon-loving Tucsonans share (other than silent, mutual disdain for winter visitors) is air-conditioning, both in their home and cars. The rest of Tucson, the proletariat if you will, use swamp coolers (a contraption that pulls air through water-soaked pads and then blows it through the home’s air ducts; effective when the air is dry and useless when humidity is high) to “cool” their houses, and drive with their car windows down. Do not attempt to engage these people in conversation while driving. Many would not hesitate to “trade up” and take your air-conditioned vehicle before the light changes. They hate monsoon season, but are best adapted to survive it; the fittest of these desert dwellers will represent the southwest in the post-apocalyptic olympics, while the rest of us simply wither and die.
Often the local television news is dedicated, almost solely, to the weather in the event of a significant storm; each station has their own “Monsoon Alert” or “Extreme Weather” team, and fight to be the first to report someone attempting to drive through a flooded wash. (Though I’m no believer of Darwin’s Theory of Evolution, wash-drivers lend credence to his Theory of Natural Selection). In a desert where rainfall average is perhaps twelve inches per year, an inch of rain is certainly news worthy. Were Tucson to get four or five inches in a twenty-four hour period, which happens frequently elsewhere, we would essentially disappear from the map.
The High Desert Surrounding Sonoita, AZ
House-flattening tree aside, I do enjoy the monsoon season. It adds a bit of excitement to an otherwise uneventful summer of toil and suffering (work), and some color to an oft-brown desert. Don’t think for a minute that my endorsement constitutes an invitation, however; you should stay where you are. I’m sure the summers are much nicer there.
The title of this series (in case I hadn’t made it clear before) is gleaned from the fact that in the unfortunate event of a house fire and in addition to my wife and daughter, there were three dogs and nine cats that the fire department needed to find, save, give mouth-to-mouth to and, if necessary, defibrillate before returning to retrieve my by then dry-roasted, one hundred percent third degree burned, completely blackened and yet still considerable carcass from the ashes of what used to be our home. Sadly, since I posted the first in this series, we lost a beloved dog (see Angus); on a brighter side, I’ve moved up to number fourteen on the list, and as a result may well be found only just barely burned beyond recognition, medium well if you will, and with the seventeen remaining teeth I have still available to help identification.
I find it important to note that in not a single one of the many introductions of animals into my home over the years has my vote been counted; I feel like the lone North Korean cabinet member who said “What? Not the kid – he’s dumb, creepy and weird.” In each case, Not This Time Man, standing proudly with chest thrust forward, hands on hips and cape snapping in the wind, was mere show at best; his superhero weakness was gullibility, and so was repeatedly placated by promises of “fostering” that were never meant to be kept.
It is my intent to introduce each of my four-legged tormentors to you, and do so in relatively quick fashion, as there are many of them. For today’s post I will mention only the two remaining dogs, Scout and Harper; the former belies any cursory description, because she is far and away the most vexing animal I have ever owned or met.
Scout is a big bitch. That is to say she’s a large female, weighing over fifty pounds, though the word as it is generally used to describe certain women would certainly be appropriate for Scout as well. She is part Belgian Malinois (a breed often used by law enforcement) and part cattle dog; consequently, she is always sniffing out my drug stashes and herding all the animals in the house. She likes no one the first time she meets them; despite assurances that guests are welcome, she refuses to extend the same courtesy and any attempts to ingratiate one’s self to her are met with growls, baring of teeth, and in the case of the truly insistent idiot, a quick nip or bite. It takes many visits for her to accept anyone, and even they are greeted at the door, and for the next five minutes, with her loud, incessant barking.
Scout
She is incredibly smart, certainly by dog standards. Though she lived with my in-laws for only a couple of days (they decided, brilliantly, that she would be too much for an elderly couple to handle), she loves them both dearly and is thrilled when they come to visit. She learned to get the paper in one day; she learned to keep the paper until she got a treat the very same day. More than once she’s run up threateningly to a pedestrian on my street, her bark muffled by the newspaper in her jaws. Fortunately, because she is unwilling to let the paper go, the walker is spared a bite and I a lawsuit. She can open doorknobs, and does so maddeningly every time you close a door behind you. We installed a baby gate in our hallway to keep the dogs from the back bedrooms; she learned to open it within days. She’s also an amazing athlete, able to catch tennis balls, frisbees and bits of food from considerable distances.
Maddeningly, she is the world’s most neurotic and retentive dog. If the newspaper is wrapped in plastic, she will tear it to shreds. If you try to take out the trash, she will tear it to shreds. If you make it out the door with the trash before she sees you, she will howl as though her leg was stuck under a truck tire. If you try to replace the bag in the trash, she will tear it to shreds. If you stop playing fetch with a frisbee or tennis ball, she will tear them to shreds. She pulls socks from shoes, holds them tantalizingly close to you, then absolutely refuses to let go of them if you grab on. If you let go, she will tear them to shreds.
She has to be the first out the door; more than once I’ve been dropped like a clipped linebacker when she tried to bolt past me on the way outside. She is desperate to go for car rides, then sits sideways, her cheek pressed firmly against the seat the entire drive, as though too concerned for her safety to look out the windows. (Granted, she has driven with my wife on several occasions). My daughter and I took her camping with us once, and she spent both nights trying to bury her leash. (She was hooked to it). When she decides she wants out, she will cry incessantly and refuses to stop, no matter how many times you swing at her (…um, theoretically), until you let her out. Then, if you don’t go with her, she’ll either refuse to go or will bang on the glass door as soon as it’s closed behind her. So annoying.
And yet I like her. Why? Because she loves me, head over heels loves me, no matter what I do or say. She follows me everywhere, wants to be with me no matter what, even growls at other family members if they get too close during what she considers “our quality time”, and I know she would defend me to the death if I were attacked. In a nutshell, I love her because of her exquisite taste and character judgement.
Harper, a lab/pit bull mix, is technically my daughter’s dog. She rescued him from the pound, and took him back to her apartment; he was eternally grateful. Then she moved home for a time, and he with her. She moved to Colorado over a year ago for a graduate internship and we agreed she should leave him with us. Since then she’s married, returned to Colorado and lives in a place that won’t allow pets. In all, he’s lived her over two years; I still have hope that she’ll take him someday, and I know she feels the same way.
Harper is a charming, good-natured dog, and likes most everyone. Say anything to him, and his tail will thump uncontrollably. His puppy-dog stare will melt even the coldest heart. Had I met him twenty-four years earlier, his penchant for stomping inappropriately on vulnerable body parts would have destroyed my contributions to the family blood lines. Though innately sweet, he is a proud and willing defender of home and those he loves. I pity the fool who enters my home without permission or lays a hand on a family member; he is eighty pounds plus of muscle, unbelievably strong, and his fierceness terrifying. He and Scout are best friends, and I’m grateful to him for wearing her down a bit every day.
Still, peace is one of the best products of a happy home, and these two have taken most of mine from me. When they play, their grunts and growls drive me mad and things get knocked around. On rare occasions they will fight; I get to break it up – water works best – and I get to clean up the water afterwards. Their sudden, ear-shattering barks have defibrillated my already beating heart dozens of times; if I don’t make sixty, I have them to blame for it, and not a lifetime of poor food and recreational choices. When someone comes to the door, sheer and utter chaos ensues; most people don’t end up coming in, and the ones that do invariably head straight for the bathroom. I don’t remember anymore what it’s like to have a home without dogs, but a big part of me says I’d be willing to try.
I believe I have mentioned before that this blog will never be political in nature; by that I mean I will never try to sway one’s politics to my own. Why? Well, because like most of us who have a functioning brain, I cannot in good conscience subscribe mindlessly and blindly to the rants of a particular party. There are certain tenets of both major parties that I feel are inarguable (the details of which I leave to the imagination, lest I offend an existing or potential follower into leaving me). The most basic ideology to which I subscribe, i.e. I am always right, no one else holds as doctrine. Sad, really; things would go so much better (at least for me) were others more brilliant (like myself) in their thinking.
“Better to be thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt.” – Abraham Lincoln Image via Google
Anyone can see that modern-day politics have descended into mindless indoctrination and shameless turnabout: I offer as an example the Republican campaign for the U.S. Senate seat currently held by retiring Arizona Senator John Kyl. Current ads by candidate Wil Cardon accuse opponent Jeff Flake of opposing SB1070; I was confused at first that someone would choose to attack his opponent over such a polarizing topic (hundreds of thousands of democrats (and several republicans) oppose this same bill), until I realized that it was a republican primary election, wherein the arbitrary profiling and detention of an individual until their immigration status is determined is considered generally acceptable. (Hmm…this may sound like I’m politicizing, but I’m not; I’m a white, overtly obvious Christian American male – Thank you, Jesus; can I have a hallelujah?; what do I care if the powers that be detain someone based solely on their looks, race or religious inclination? I can’t thing of a single time in history where that’s gone wrong). The point is, should Cardon defeat his fellow republican, he’ll no doubt dump any ads mentioning SB1070, because it will alienate too many voters in the general election. The questions, then, become these: What do candidates really stand for?, and forget party lines; What is it that truly define our candidates and make them worthy of our vote?
This is a presidential election year. Someone will be chosen to lead this great nation in increasingly troubled times. I, for one, want to know what sort of man they are. Do I want to hear their response to questions about the economy? No, because I’m going to hear vague, party-pandering, pat answers that offer no real solution. What about those concerning national defense? I couldn’t care less what they have to say; all will appear proudly pro-military, because even though we spend $252 billion more than the other top ten spending nations combined, no self-preserving candidate (is there any other kind?) could make the necessary cuts and survive the fallout from the resulting loss of jobs in the defense sector. (alright, maybe I’m politicizing a tad).
No, I want answers to the real questions: ones that cross party lines, that don’t allow pandering to a particular group, that reveal a man’s true character, what he stands for – his personal ideals – and the depths to which he will go to defend them. Soon our two candidates will face off in a series of debates that will help determine who will lead us in the coming years. I have given this enough thought to justify writing this post – literally minutes – and I offer to you now the absolute best method for choosing a president to lead this great nation into the future: a single event, candidate versus candidate, with the one who most often correctly answers The Ten Best Questions for a Presidential Debate becoming the next President of the United States of America:
Courtesy of Google Images
1) Toilet Seat up or Down? The correct answer is, of course, up; the President is an extremely important man, and his health of paramount importance; toilet seats, even those in the White House, are pervaders of the most insidious sorts of bacteria. Assuming the first lady shares the presidential restroom, the impetus is on her to ensure the seat is up, or in less frequent cases, down if the President’s functions are of a more thoughtful nature. In fairness, should a future candidate be a woman, than the opposite answer will be correct. Any answer of a different sort is a sign of weakness in a candidate and should be counted against him or her.
2) Toilet Paper Rolling Out Forward or Backward? This is actually a trick question; a good president will always be a man (or woman) on the go. As such, the entire roll should be in hand for the sake of efficiency. With the index finger executively extended into the roll, the directional path of the paper is unimportant.
3) Do You Prefer Beer, Hard Liquor or Wine? Most Americans prefer beer, and some of the best in the world come from the United States. There are many fine vineyards here as well, with several world-class offerings available. We have many prize-winning distilleries in our country; some of our whiskeys, in particular, are top notch. The correct answer, therefore, is yes. The job is innately stressful, likely more so than any other; if the candidate answers “none”, they are either lying, or if elected are too high-strung and will inevitably succumb to the pressures inherent in the position.
Courtesy Google Images
4) What Sport Do You Play? Perhaps no other single question more accurately defines a candidate’s worth. Mr. Obama plays basketball; this should be considered a most favorable characteristic. No one knows what Mr. Romney prefers, but his first name is “Mitt”, so perhaps he plays baseball. “Mitt” also means “with” in German; one might assume, therefore, that he sits on the bench while other, more talented white people play soccer. Polo is an unacceptable answer; this is not a sport unless you are a horse, in which case you would be considered undesirable as a candidate.
5) Who is the Boss, You or Your Wife? One would assume that the best candidate to rule our country should first be the ruler at home. This is another trick question; any man who says he is the boss at home is either a liar or divorced; neither are considered ideal characteristics of a successful candidate.
6) What Kind of Car do You Drive? The answer will reveal much about a candidate. If he answers, “I don’t drive; I am driven.”, he’s a snooty elitist and clearly out of touch with the common man. If he drives a foreign car, he’s probably smart, but politically inept. If he drives American, he’s politically savvy and supports the taxi and auto repair industries. The correct answer is “I drive a Lincoln and my wife a BMW.” The candidate who answers in this way scores well both for the aforementioned reason and for caring about his wife.
7) How Many Children Do You Have, and What are Their Ages and Dates of Birth? If a candidate stumbles through any part of this answer, he is not electable. This is especially true if he ends his answer to the first part of the question with “That I know of.” His answer should come easily, with the children listed in order of birth and with some detail about each that makes them seem special, rehab stints notwithstanding.
Image via Google
8) Which President Do You Most Admire? Anytime you’re interviewing for a position, it’s good to know some history behind the company. While several answers might appear favorable and for any number of reasons, the only correct answer is Theodore Roosevelt. While campaigning for another term as president, he was shot in the chest by a would-be assassin; though bleeding profusely, he went on stage before a huge crowd and gave his speech anyway, beginning it by announcing he’d been shot, opening his jacket to reveal the blood and announcing “It takes more than that to stop a bull moose.” Now there’s a man worth voting for. (He lost).
Mr. Haney – Image via Google
Image courtesy of Google and Disney’s “Fox and the Hound”
9) Who’s Your Favorite Disney Character? If they don’t have one, they’re un-American and out by default. If a villain is their favorite, they are not to be trusted. The correct answer is “Chief”, from The Fox and the Hound, whose voice characterization was provided by Pat Buttram. (Better known as the salesman, Mr. Haney, from Green Acres). Classic.
10) What’s Your Favorite Food? If the candidate mentions a vegetable or seafood of any kind, he’s obviously either a man whose taste buds have been compromised, or someone who was cruelly manipulated and indoctrinated by others. Either way, these are sure signs of weakness and fatally poor qualities in a president. If he says pizza or some other foreign food, he’s an idiot. The answer is the hamburger, which sounds German but as a food we all know is one hundred percent American. Try to order one in a German restaurant; one waitress brought me a mound of ground beef and onions covered in melted swiss cheese. (It was actually pretty good).
I guarantee that if we ask both candidates in the upcoming presidential election these ten questions, simultaneously and without benefit of prior knowledge as to their content, the best man for the job will become easily apparent. Someone once said that the best candidate for a political office is someone who isn’t running for it. Interesting statement; there seems to be the only one guy who has all the answers…
The first time I met Angus I liked him instantly. We quickly became fast friends; he was a good time guy, funny, always entertaining, affable and up for anything. I had, to this point in my life, never met anyone so uniquely positive and consistently happy. I soon found myself relying upon him to pick me up during times of stress or difficulty; he was unfailingly reliable and good-natured in his performance of this duty. His counsel was always wise and always the same: life is for living, trouble only fleeting. Enjoy what God has provided and show your gratefulness with unbridled enthusiasm. His faithfulness and zest for life captured the hearts of my family as well, and all of us quickly grew to love him as though he were one of us.
He was first and foremost a kind and warm-hearted soul, but inside him boiled the inherent feistiness of a proud and true Scotsman. Though small in stature, he walked with the confident swagger of one much larger and, when forced to take the offensive, he attacked with the ferocity of a kilted warrior. Clearly, this was someone comfortable in his own skin, possessing and exhibiting only the best and most endearing qualities available to the male order and someone with whom I was pleased and proud to stand beside, to call my dearest friend.
Angus’ finest quality was his unquenchable thirst for life. He was up for anything; I can’t recall him ever turning down an opportunity to go do something. A simple walk together, a day trip by car, whatever; his answer to any outing was always the same: Let’s go. Whenever possible, we would ask Angus along on family excursions and were blessed by his inevitable assent and utter joy to be included. We were all the better for having him come along.
After many years Angus began to show his age; a couple of battles with those larger and stronger than he only served to hasten the process. He was nearly blind and deaf, his movements slower and more deliberate, and his personality more withdrawn. He retained his good nature, but slowly stepped back from his role as consoler, entertainer and confidant. Predictably and perhaps selfishly, though each of us still loved him, we sought him out less often and our lives became less entwined.
Angus had always enjoyed the outdoors and in particular the garden behind our house. This past Sunday he went out to dawdle through the yard like he always did, taking time to enjoy God’s splendor – the plants, the flowers, the birds, the smells – only this time he didn’t come back inside. We found him in the garden, lying alone in the deafening stillness of death. How tragic to have lost someone so dear without the chance to have said goodbye one last time; how devastating to have allowed the illusion of seemingly infinite time to postpone an opportunity to show someone how much we loved them; and how painful the sudden finality of death in revealing just how dear that someone was to us.
Farewell, sweet and gentle Angus. We already miss you beyond that which words can express. I, for one and for certain, will never forget you. You were the best dog I have ever known.
Let me first say that while she is the primary source of my anguish, I do not think of her as such; my wife is the most kind-hearted person I know. She has always had a weakness for those less fortunate: the downtrodden, the weak, and those who are at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to survival in a modern world. Her first act of pity was to marry me; after rescuing me, though, she began to focus her attention and assistance elsewhere, more towards those who have no way to argue on their own for their rightful place on God’s earth. I refer, naturally, to the animals of this world: from the great Polar Bear in the north, to the Uruguayan Amazon Spotted Scrotal Tick in South America; and from the Bengal Tiger in the east, to the rectally burrowing Anderson’s Earwig of the western United States. Okay, so perhaps I’ve made up the southern and western representatives, but you get the point: my wife loves animals, in any and all forms, and will defend them with the same tenacity that she employs against any attack (real or perceived) on her children.
Some examples of her boundless love and concern for God’s creatures: We very nearly rolled our car multiple times whilst roaring down a God-forsaken stretch of highway between Reno and Las Vegas at ninety-five miles per hour, because my wife gasped loudly when a mouse crossed the road in front of us (I don’t know why I hit the brakes so hard – perhaps I thought it was a western Nevadan, understandably trying to end his misery); our mail is so heavily laden with pleadings from animal sanctuaries that our mail woman’s right arm looks like Mike Tyson’s, and an umbilical hernia pokes from her abdomen like a half-inflated weather balloon from the strain of reaching across the passenger seat to deposit mail in our postal box, while the rest of her looks like a Dachau survivor in blue, government-issued shirt and shorts; and my wife, who begins to cry immediately upon seeing the lifeless mass in the roadway until she sees, and I convince her, that it’s only a clump of wet carpet fallen from an installer’s truck. (Even then there’s a silent and furtive mini-funeral for the piece of floor covering that once served a nobler and greater purpose).
Over the years, I’ve succumbed to an inevitable force. Sure, I’ve donned the cloak of the courageously stubborn Not This Time Man (my secret super hero), but my wife has seen me for what I truly am: a hopeful, but ultimately gullible pushover who draws a clear line in the sand, knowing subconsciously that a massive haboob (look it up) approaches that will erase any evidence that said line ever existed.
At present, in the roughly thirteen-hundred square foot storage locker that is my home and, in addition to the only three humans in residence (myself, my wife and youngest daughter), there live nine cats and three dogs. I’ve drawn a line in the sand in front of two of the cats, the latest additions to the menagerie, and stand strong as Not This Time Man, with head up, chin out, hands on my hips, muscles rippling and cape unfurling in the wind. The rest I’ll begin to introduce to you in How I became #15 on the “Save in Case of Fire” List – Part II, coming sooner or later.
I’d like to think that when strangers see me approaching, the first thing that pops into their heads isn’t “Holy cow, that guy is fat…Anyone count his children lately?…Keep your hands and feet away from his mouth.” (I already know what people who know me think when they see me coming: “Yay! It’s Rich! He may be the most amazing person I know. What a treat.” Or words to that effect). Granted, I’m a big guy, but there’s no billowing fat descending slowly to the floor like cooling lava flows, and what is wont to accumulate I manage to keep mostly sucked in whilst out in public.
My wife, son, daughter and I went to a local buffet for lunch recently. I won’t say the name, but its exact opposite would be called “Sour NotTomatoes.” Two women, along with two little girls, went in just ahead of us; the women were clearly sisters, and quite possibly twins. Now I am not one to speak poorly of others (those who follow can back me up here…Oh, shut up.), but here I simply must comment: to call the women immense would only serve to belittle the meaning of the word; a red flag should, by law, poke from each of their back pockets and a steady beeping sound accompany every backward motion. Each Sumo-like step either took produced a rippling effect across their bodies, like a pebble tossed into a still pond (of, in this particular case, cottage cheese or tapioca pudding). I once read that Lake Tahoe, if drained, would cover the entire state of California in one foot of water; this claim could be tested very quickly if both were to jump in simultaneously. If they were indeed twins, it was strange to see them out and about; I thought both had been felled on 9/11. If either had…oh, whatever; you get the picture: I am not kind, and these women were big. The two little girls, contrastively, were quite thin; obviously, they were being starved, as almost all the available food in their home was instantly sucked into the collective vortices of these two truly gargantuan beasts. This explained the joyful exuberance the two little ones exhibited just inside the doors; here, at last, was a chance to finally eat.
The dining experience at this particular feeding trough begins with two very long rows of sneeze-guarded, identical and ostensibly healthy food choices: salads, vegetables and the like. Customers can choose which row to stand in, the choice inevitably based upon potential wait time. I very cleverly chose the line opposite the two tray-wielding pachyderms, because it would likely move quicker and there might actually be some food left. (I was right). Still, I could not pull my eyes away from them as they loaded their plates. By the time they had reached the cashier, their dishes were piled with the most precariously loaded Matterhorns of every salad offering imaginable. A man clad in climbing gear and snow goggles might easily have been seen standing atop any of them, ready to stab the flag of his country into the offending mass.
These two were the poster children for the American predilection for dietary excess, but they certainly weren’t the only ones. Obesity was at virtually every table and food station, though in contrast to the twin cities, the rest had managed so far to limit their use of available space to a single zip code. Fatties outnumbered normal, healthy individuals by perhaps a ratio of four to one; I found myself watching in entranced horror at the never silent, often violent consumption of mountains of food at tables all around me.
The sight really took me off my food; after only a plate of salad, one bowl of potato soup, a bowl of chili and crackers, two pieces of pizza, a plate of macaroni and cheese, one more bowl of soup, another piece of pizza and a bowl of vanilla soft-serve covered with chocolate syrup and peanuts, I was done. I was barely able to get my money’s worth, much less that of my wife and daughter, who ate like a pair of Auschwitz sparrows. I haven’t really decided if I’ll ever go back; I almost think that a light, sateless lunch is hardly worth the disgust I feel in watching the gluttony that has become America at lunch.
My family has always enjoyed hiking. We began when our children were very small, taking them on various trails in the deserts and mountains around our hometown of Tucson, Arizona. If you love the outdoors, it’s hard to beat this area. The desert, particularly in the late fall and early spring, is lush and beautiful, and wildlife is abundant; we almost always see something of interest, from larger animals like deer, javelina and bobcats to the smaller and creepier inhabitants, such as tarantulas, scorpions and snakes. This is why I like to go: for the chance to see something wild and really cool, hopefully from a safe and uncompromising distance.
Finger Rock, Santa Catalina Mtns. North of Tucson
Hiking was, for me, most enjoyable when my children were small. The pace was more to my liking, and we had to stop often so that they could keep up. We could only go on a trail for a half hour or so before turning around; often it seemed like we should have gone farther, but we wanted the experience to be enjoyable for them. This was, I felt, a very sweet and considerate thing we did as parents. Soon, however, I found we were going further and further in each time on the various trails we frequented, and I found myself silently grateful for the opportunity to turn around. Worse still, we weren’t waiting for our children to keep up anymore; now they took the lead and I was constantly calling ahead to remind them to stay in view. I did this under the guise of good parenting and concern for their safety, but in fact I wanted them close enough to call 911 lest I be mauled and partially eaten by a lazy, I’ll-eat-anything black bear, or more likely suffer a heart attack from over-exertion.
Rapeseed Fields
I first noticed this new phenomenon when we took a vacation to Germany in 2001. My cousin and her husband, a man of sixty-four, took us on a hike in the German Alps. It began innocently enough, with a pleasant walk through fields of brilliant yellow rapeseed, but then the path turned suddenly demonic and schizophrenic and began a steady, meandering incline. After an hour, we stopped at a pasture gate for a snack of apples; my head filled with silent cheers and imaginary confetti and streamers for having reached the halfway point. Soon, though, we were off again (with the promise of a happy surprise mere miles up the mountain), and the mental confetti and streamers were replaced by an endless internal tirade of obscenity directed at this old, seemingly tireless German man. My youngest child was only seven, and so I feigned concern for her well-being. Sadly, she was fine and even cheery; I was the one whose knees bleated in pain like a prodded sheep with every step and whose lungs were set to explode and splatter inside my rib cage. Soon I could be found at the back of the pack, arms folded across my chest, lower lip jutting from the bottom of a perpetual scowl, kicking rocks and generally acting like a snotty little brat. After seven miles and the German equivalent of the Bataan death march, we came upon a charming little Chalet in the middle of nowhere that offered ice cream to the yodeling mountaineers who ventured by. As I consoled myself with an oversized bowl of sugary decadence, I couldn’t help but notice more than a few natives of advanced age who had walked even further from the other direction and were now set to complete the trail in the way from which we had come. Though I should have been humbled at the sight, instead I chose to be offended by their freakish conditioning and silently cursed their obvious penchant for clean living.
Things have only gotten worse for me since. My children have all grown (my youngest is now eighteen) and are very athletic; when we begin a hike together, they are off like roaches when the light is turned on. Even my wife can out-walk me. To her credit, I can tell she slows a bit for my benefit; I presume this is because I have the car keys and she knows I might bolt for home at any time.
My wife’s birthday was last week and she asked that we go to the mountains for dinner and a hike. The town of Summerhaven, only a forty-five minute drive from the city and nestled in the Santa Catalina Mountains north of Tucson, sits at a shade above 9,000 feet and offers a cool, refreshing alternative to the often oppressive Tucson summer heat. We left town and its 105F temperature and climbed the mountain by car; by the time we arrived at our destination things had cooled to a perfect 67F. We were all hungry and decided to eat first. We sat on an outdoor patio and our food was brought to us in relatively short order. I immediately descended upon a fat bacon cheeseburger and a healthy (visually, anyway) pile of french fries. When I’d finished, my plate was clean, save for a couple of chip marks on its surface and some bent tines from jabbing my fork wishfully at an apparent mirage of scattered fries. I leaned back with a complimentary burp and contented toot, put my hands behind my head, closed my eyes and settled blissfully into the digestive process. So sated was I that I began to reach for the top button of my pants, before it shot off on its own and concussed a passing waitress.
“Let’s go on our hike.” Immediately my son, daughter and wife all stood to leave.
Dang it. Clearly I was the only one who had tested the limits of gluttony; a hike was the last thing I wanted now and I’d hoped the others had felt likewise. It wasn’t my birthday, however, and so I teetered off after them, pausing to grab a toothpick and thereby completing the living depiction of the typically disgusting, overindulgent American male.
The 2003 Aspen Fire burned almost 85,000 acres and destroyed 350 cabins and homes in and around Summerhaven; evidence of the disaster still remain today.
My family chose the Mint Spring Trail, which climbs and then straddles a ridge overlooking the small mountain village. It began most unfairly with a climb whose verticality was interrupted only by a series of maddening switchbacks. I felt like a zoo-born tiger, reduced to walking mindlessly and tediously back and forth in front of a fence – only this fence line went upwards in both directions . I looked down and saw that if I merely allowed myself to fall, I would be back to my car in a matter of seconds; after teetering on the edge of some incredibly bad personal choices for some time, I cleverly opted to follow the others at whatever pace I could manage. My son and daughter soon became fleet, occasional and distant images; my wife, bless her heart, came in and out of view more frequently (I had the car keys).
After what seemed like days (it was probably five minutes) the trail began to even out, but my relief was short-lived. I felt a sudden and instantly compelling intestinal shift, accompanied by a sound like that of a jacuzzi starting up; my situation, already testing the limits of my physical endurance, had become dire. Soon I found myself examining the various plants along the forest floor, choosing which might have the broadest and softest leaves should use of rudimentary tools become necessary. Fortunately, things gradually improved. I spent the rest of the hike walking like Charlie Chaplin, but without going into further detail I can say that I survived the ordeal with innards and dignity intact. 
Despite my trials, the hike was by all accounts a success. My children enjoyed their time together and were too far ahead to hear my constant, plaintive whining. My wife either didn’t hear or more likely chose to ignore me, having endured it now for literally half of her life; and I was able to temper the furious beating of my heart, the tribal drum beat in my temples and the stabbing pain in both lungs by stopping to take pictures along the trail.
I’ll continue to hike with my family; despite the agony, some of my favorite memories have come from them. I guess I just need to do it more often, build some endurance and realize I’m an old fart and it’s okay to fall behind and enjoy the hike at my own pace. And if I’m eaten by a not- terribly-picky bear, hopefully I’ll get some good pictures first.
I took this picture from the pier in Ocean Beach, California back at the end of May. I have a new camera that I’ve been playing with, and I was trying to get a decent action shot from the dozen or so guys and girls surfing there that afternoon. This guy seemed to be the only one who wasn’t super retentive when it came to picking a potential wave to ride, and the only one who seemed fairly adept at riding them when he did. I hated him instantly.
This could be me, unless you know who I am
First, I have to say that I’m pretty proud of this picture. I think it’s pretty cool, despite the fact that he’s the guy in it. For likely all of us, this is the most we’ll ever know about him: he’s athletic, has good balance, can afford wet suits and nice surfboards, and looks way cooler than he probably is. Well, I had the benefit of watching him among his peers, all of them bobbing in the surf like clumsy, tired sea lions (I had silently hoped for a better picture, one of a Great White exploding from the water with an arm or leg stuck in its teeth, like the bits of pork and beef that hang from mine as I explode from the all-u-can-eat buffet at the local Barbecue Pit), and I was able to accumulate considerable assumptive evidence that he was, frankly, a tool. I don’t like this guy and here’s why:
1). He’s a guy. Generally speaking, I don’t like any male adult until I have the opportunity to get to know him. This has worked well for me in the past, because I’ve found most men with whom I’ve had to associate were unlikable once I got to know them (there were exceptions); the preemptive dislike saves considerable time, effort and, had I applied this philosophy earlier in life, many cuts, abrasions and bruises.
2) He lives in Southern California, possibly in Ocean Beach. That is not fair. I love Ocean Beach; everyone there seems super chill and goes about their business casually and without judgement of others. I want to live in a community where you can step out on your front porch each morning in torn t-shirt and boxers and no one stares scornfully at you. (Actually, I do live in one, but that’s more a function of socio-economics). Sadly, I am too poor; a similar level of subsistence in Ocean Beach to that which I enjoy in Tucson is at present unattainable for me.
3) His name is “Trey”, “Spence”, “Cam”, or simply “Dude”. Even if he has a normal first name, like “John”, or “Jim”, his last name is “Ringo”, “Slaughter”, or “Sixkiller.” My first name is Richard, and the most common nickname associated with it is to me almost unmentionable and in all ways unacceptable. Worse still, my stepfather has the same name and by virtue of age claimed the prefix of “Big”, while I was left with “Little”. This is no way for a boy to grow up.
4) Either his watch is waterproof, or he’s an idiot. I don’t even own a watch. My wife, partner or cellphone will tell me when it’s time to go. Wearing a watch while surfing implies that he has a pressing engagement that will, at some point, necessitate his leaving the water. “Hi, Jean. I’m going surfing. Hold my calls and push the meetings to 3:30.” Please. When I’m in the water, the only urgent calls to leave are 1) onesies, and hey, it’s a big ocean, 2) twosies (it’s not that big of an ocean), or 3) it’s time to eat, and my gut tells me when that is.
5) He failed to follow surfing protocol. There seems to be a certain code to adhere to when catching a potential wave. Apparently, when you lie on your belly and start flailing your arms like a baby sea turtle trying to make it from egg to tide, the others are supposed to back off; this guy would go and basically force the others off the wave, lest they be subjected to an unscheduled prostate check with a pointed, six foot fiberglass board. Granted, most of the other surfers seemed to be pretenders, or at the very least extremely selective when it came to judging the quality of an incoming wave, but it was still clear that he held little regard for his fellow surfers.
I don’t like this guy; I don’t care if he knows it. If any of you know him, you can tell him I said so. Course, maybe I should have taken the time to get to know him…
I used to like to draw cartoons when I was in college; much like my writing, they were usually tasteless and, at best, hit or miss. I had amassed several hundred of them on various artist’s pads, and lent them to a female acquaintance (my best friend’s ex) who wanted to share them with her friends. Thing is, she met someone and moved to Hawaii, tawdry wench that she was, and when I asked her for them back…long story short, she’d left them with said friends and they had thrown them all away. (My first experience with critics). Probably over five hundred hours or so of work, gone forever. I haven’t drawn any since, and that was almost thirty years ago. Thing is, now I have this outlet, and a captive audience (you will likely feel like a captive having them forced upon you). I may, from time to time, stick them in lieu of pictures into my posts or, as in this case, just draw one and post it. I’d like to know what you think, unless of course you don’t like them. And if you don’t like them, you don’t have to throw them away – just delete. Anyway, here’s the first:
RC Peddy, 7/2/12
thestrugglershandbook 