Another Freakin' Growth Opportunity

The world courses on.  Consumer confidence is rising, how's that for a good piece of news?
Another radical spike in Interweb/Series of Tubes viewings... thanks, fans.  Nearly enough to consider the capitalistic option of 'monetizing' this puppy.


"Don't believe in fear
Don't believe in faith
Don't believe in anything
That you can't break..."

Garbage's incredibly catchy "Stupid Girl"  (Not to imply anything sexist, of course.  It's a great song, that's all.  Get over the title.)

Let us speak of 'growth opportunities.'  They come and you either take them or you don't.  Life tosses them about, like dry leaves in stiff downdrafts at times, and we can just hope to make sense of them.  The grey area is very thin between 'going forward' and 'riding the current.'  If you're really fortunate, some of them turn into 'Bucket List 100' memories.  I've had a few lucky breaks...

1. I've driven a heavy battle tank 1300+ miles in West Germany and qualified as a gunner.
2. I've climbed Mount Fuji.  In October, after the first snows.
3. I've had a wild crow land on my arm.  (Sonoma County, California.)
4. I've partied with an Olympic luge team, speaking German, in Nagano, Japan. (+3 randomness)
5. I've caught a piece of paper in the wind, and it was something I'd written in a college newspaper.
6. I've been to Paris, France (and I smelt someone's underpants.)
7. I've fended off a bear with a mylar survival blanket in the Grand Tetons.
8. I've had a big rattlesnake two steps away at a jobsite, Tucson.  He wasn't there 2 minutes before.
9. I've crawled through a slimy old pirate's cave.  (Cheung Chau, Hong Kong SAR)
10. I walked through the smoldering rubble of 9/11 in NYC, just weeks after, with my brothers.
11. I've been inside the Pentagon.  More than once.
12. I've been inside the FBI's HQs in New York City.  (Beyond the 8" lexan door.)
13. I've left coins in the Colosseum in Rome, and in the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Italy.
14. I've hit a hub-cap with a 22. call rifle shot at 50 yards, whilst blindfolded.
15. I've been tied off by a world record-holding high-rock climber.  (Yosemite National Park.)
16. I've managed to keep most of my old friends...

SO many more to go...


"HELM, confer with NAV in order to commence landing sequence for AMHRF.  WEPS, SCIENCE - on your toes.  I want full data-sets on the way in.  Could be useful in the future."
"Blinx, Klargen."
"XO?" I privated to him.  "You're ready, I assume."
"Aye, Klargen," he winked back to me.
"XO, you have the CONN," I pushed back in public.
I wanted to see him in command for a few minutes, and it didn't fall lightly on the bridge crew that I had given him this task - I trusted him - and that direct trust is big in their estimations.  Build morale if you can, I always say.
"WEPS, configure counter-stealth, SCIENCE maintain full holography, HELM confine maneuvering to 1.5 g's.
"Blinx, Klargen," they replied simultaneously, like quadrophonic music.  Confidence was high.
"Klargen," the XO privated, "Perhaps non-essential deck crew can pod-up for protection?"
"Good call, XO.  Certainly."
"T'ssin'lo herp derp blat s'pinto bonx."
"Blinx, Klargen."
A baker's dozen of the panel-assistant Greys filtered away to the lower decks.  Their panels darkened and shut off for security's sake.  We had every reason to believe they could read through our cloaking and 'know our systems.'  No reason to reveal our numbers, configuration, or stored data.
Changes had to be made.  Seven officers remained on the bridge with me.  I'd rather we looked like a 'skeleton crew' than a disciplined, formidable force.  We should look relatively weak to prevail 'downstairs.'  We all understand that we can't ask for favors if we look 'too strong.'
Sensor sweeps of the approach revealed a tight net of sub-radars, EMF counter-measures, and direct observation platforms.  And more than a few US military radar overlaps - they take security as seriously here as they used to at Area 51 - so we stayed cloaked.
The XO knew the way, from his studies.
"Main screen to IR/UV overlapping visuals," the XO ordered.  "WEPS, heat up toroid systems, just in case."
"Blinx, Klargen," they responded, right as rain.
The heat of Dulce and its buildings was visible in this mode, as were the hidden vents on Archuleta Mesa just beyond.
We approached from the south-southwest, over Rodeo Road most of the way, at an altitude so low we could count trailers on semi-trucks and passengers in SUVs.   Crossed Highway 64, then tracked over Sandhill Drive.  The high school football field and track slipped under us and we pitched left and felt the g's of the climb up the raggedy side of Dulce Rock.  The Rotatey Chair sucked me in tightly and I nodded at the XO, who was bracing himself against the side of the NAV panel.  Another hard turn to starboard, then a jink up, past mag-rock holographic sensor positions on the ridge.
As smooth as can be.
Ahead of us, after confirmation of codes, a 1/2 acre rectangular piece of living pine forest began moving from it's closed position.  Mean altitude was 2300 meters.
I privated to the XO about popping a local hatch, to sniff around.  SMMMMip!  Cold-evening mountain air - glistening with the tang of pinon pine,  faintly-sweet Ponderosa pine, and a barest whiff of juniper - rapidly filled the space above the Rotatey Chair.
"WEPS, arm toroid systems to subdue only," the XO ordered.  He wasn't gambling with historical issues, I mused to myself.  We all knew what happened way down on Level 6 long ago.  "NAV, Nopo pert lipon smat trem'o tinx."  (Rough translation:  slow, clockwise spin, like a skillet on a stove burner.)
"Lipon smat trem'o tinx, blinx Klargen."
"Good idea," I privated to him.  He already knew that, of course.
The Tinglev dropped in smartly, and we cautiously descended several hundred meters into the glassified rock cavity.  The diameter of this vertical shaft increased as we dropped, and our holographics revealed that 1/2 acre above to be the tip of a deep, cone-shaped hollow space, nearly a thousand meters deep, rimmed with a mix of conformal and/or retractable landing platforms, dozens of them on the way down.  The walls were smoothly polished, reflecting much of our IR landing light right back at us.  No other ships of any sort.  No movements below.  I popped my ears a few times as the pressure dropped.  Above us, the 'door' closed.  The air coming in was vaguely metallic, like welding fumes.
"HELM, Main to IR visual.  WEPS, disengage cloaking at your discretion.  NAV, set us down."
"Blinx, Klargen."  Holographics showed a landing bottom of approximately 14 acres, nearly flat and ringed with wiring, piping, and assorted 'base paraphrenalia.'  Still and lifeless.
And then, with a kiss, we were soft-down, safe and quiet on a southern orientation.  The Rotatey Chair eased up.
"HELM, de-grav."
"Blinx, Klargen."
The ship fell several inches onto the hard struts with a tri-part jolt and a big-metal shudder.  Crewman began filtering onto the bridge as we began to shut down now-unneeded propulsion and flux lines.   Several things quit whirring - the relative silence unfamiliar to me - I'd grown used to those latent sounds of the ship's physical forms and systems, even the echoes when I actually spoke aloud.
But it was so eerily quiet.  Greys don't fuss about noisily.
We all knew what had to be done.  Level 5 awaited outside, and WEPS made us re-appear.
"Cloaking is de-energized, Klargen."  There was a faint, arhythmic 'tinking' noise as the thermal shock of this low, cold place met the hull of the Tinglev directly.
"Very well," the XO replied.  We all knew they all saw us at that moment.  Wasn't the same ship or Grey captain that left here long ago...  This empty dock was our new place for a bit.
My excitement was sheer.  (Humans aren't allowed below this level.  That never ends well.)
"COMMS, send repair requests."  This was rolling the dice, as it were.  They didn't have to even let us in, let alone help us repair our dampener system.  But they had let us in, so maybe they would aid us in our quest.  Then the XO was breaking in... pushing me for an answer.
"Klargen, would you like the CONN back?"  The XO queried privately as he glanced back.
"You keep it for a bit, Number One.  I'm gonna look around."
"Blinx, Klargen.  Is there a plan?" He privated again.
"Makin' this up as I go along.  Aren't we all?"
"Tinglev Crew, XO still has the CONN," I said, in my forgotten voice.  They all slightly twisted to hear me speak.  With the normal, subtle push, it was probably overly loud to them.
I stood from the Rotatey Chair and walked back to my quarters to get dressed for whatever was to follow.  That meant making unobtrusive armor, concealable weapons, and adroit diplomacy into an outfit that DIDN'T look bad-ass, I thought.  I could feel my muscles in my abdomen tense up.   So much to choose from.
"Aye, Klargen."
"WEPS, ready a security detail..."




"I'm not giving in to security under pressure, 
I'm not missing out on the promise of adventure, 
I'm not giving up on implausible dreams,
Experience to extremes..."

Rush, "The Enemy Within" released 1984.

Real segues?  Who needs 'em?  Over-rated.  Let's play a game!

One of the following Tales is true:

I.  "The Mutilation of the Hermae:  A Brief Synopsis For 'Weird History' Buffs"
(I first heard about this at an Honor Student Invitational at UW, circa summer 1981.)
Long ago, far away, there was intermittent war between the city-states of Greece, and a few foreign entities as well.  415 BCE.  A constant of the times was the Greek devotion to their numerous Gods.  In Athens, statues of Hermes - the God of travelers and thieves alike - graced the temples, crossroads and porch entrances of many a family home, proudly displaying a turgid weenis, for luck.   (And if history and Loverboy have taught us anything, it is that an erect member means someone's trying to 'get lucky.') Collectively, these statues were known as the Hermae.  There were listless thousands of these encouraging pieces ornamenting the city.  A veritable Bonerville.
Tensions still abounded with Sparta.  Prominent citizen Alcibiades had turn-coated from his Athenian lineage to the 'enemy' in Sparta, then he allied himself with Athens once more.  (Indecisive prick that he was, apparently.) War with Sicily also loomed, and the fleet had readied to sail.  One night remained before Bad-ass Team Athens, with Alcibiades as Fleet Admiral, sailed west, outfitted for sea/land war and certain glory.
Then, as dawn broke, disaster.  Or close enough.
Imagine the horror of emerging from your home to find that the proud phalluses of your local Hermae had been chipped away in the night.  Marble schlongers littering crossroads.  Some statues were completely dashed to bits.  An earthquake wouldn't have been as alarming, as Athens was mythically castrated.
Hermes himself was probably deeply offended, they knew.  The Athenians, ever superstitious, surging with mass hysteria, awaited total calamity.  Metaphorically 'dickless.'  They may have even dabbled with pacifism for a spell.
The Sicily naval attack, the ongoing conflicts with Sparta - all this was nearly forgotten in the midst of such sacrilegious debasement - the sailors, soldiers and men of Athens backed down, this sudden impotence having descended.  Alcibiades, becoming a popular suspect in the 'mutilations,' returned to Sparta.  A few years later, Sparta attacked Athens.  The Peloponnesian Wars raged on.  (That's a whole 'nother story.)

Some historians make the argument that this instance was the first effective use of psychological warfare.  The enemies of Athens beat them before they could even leave home.   The Chinese military scholar Sun-Tzu also mentions - in several ways -  the potential ability of a general to end the battle before the field has been taken.
A.  "The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting."
B.  "If you are far from the enemy, make him believe you are near."
C.  "The greatest victory is that which requires no battle."

II.  I knew this really weird guy who could camouflage himself rather adeptly.  He had some military experiences and took that skill-set to heart.  The crude simplicity of hiding was codified:  Break up your outline, Use multi-fractal layers, Don't clash, Move slowly yet naturally.  He could crawl across a college campus in broad daylight and not be seen, moving with the leaves and the wind in a slightly fluid way...  Colors and patterns picked to match the immediate scenery.  Maybe someone saw a fleeting blur, but lost focus on it almost as quickly.  Some say this guy could 'suppress his presence' so much that you could just walk by him and not know he was there, even up to two feet away.  One tale goes about the time a massive party was spilling onto his brother's property, way out in the tall woods.  He became a sword-fern bush ringed by cedar fronds, and nearly got peed on twice.  He even foiled some would-be car-thievery with an abrupt admonishment from 'nowhere.'  One of his brother's dogs, upon his return to the house, knew he was there scant feet away, but couldn't see him and got rather perplexed.  Don't know what happened to that guy.

III.  On a really OCD weird side-note, someone who reads this blog...

...is making, has made - or thought about making - a 'sweet Kesar rice' dish known as 'beenaj.'  (It looks tasty, by the way, except the green raisins cooked in, ewwww.)

...is surfing through 'Kallery' taking art history quizzes.

...is perusing 'Stumbleupon' for inspirational New Age photos and memes...  

"?" I say.

We already know, don't we all?  

If anyone's paying attention, ALL three are true.  From a certain point of view.   Roman numeral two is autobiographical, just wanted to refer to myself in the 3rd person for a spell.

Here's to AFGO.  My Bucket List involves settling all my scores.  Workin' on that.  Some are elusive.

Thinking With My Left Foot

Sometimes you hit what you're aiming for.  Sometimes you don't even aim, and end up there anyway.

Beatrix gave me a purple/green hacky-sack, a watercolor painting, and a silver and turquoise ring way back in the day, in the weeks before she became 'someone else.'  The hacky-sack died of over-use long ago, and the ring got pitched into the waters of Bellingham Bay, from the dock at the north end of Boulevard Park.  It still sits in the silt and sand, 10-15 feet down, remembering.
The painting, of a mandala she saw during a climax I participated in, is still in my hands, signed and all.  It's actually a nice painting.  (She was rather talented with that medium, maybe she still is...)

Let's talk about getting older and learning forms of control.  Physical, emotional, intellectual, psychic.  How wise can you get?  How flexible?  How much shit can you take?  You do eventually find an upper limit to these, and then seek out the proverbial 'more.'
You used to be able to raise the needle off the LP record and put it wherever you wanted on that side of the album.  Total control of those musical memories you'd ingrained already.  (Need I mention that headphones in those days were huge by today's standards, like Princess Leia muffins on your ears?)

I used to be a bit clumsy as a youth.  Hit my head a lot running through the forest.  Tried to catch a boomerang - bled from that.  Tripped on uneven sidewalks, whatever...  My hand-eye coordination was, let's just say, in need of further development.  I ran into the basketball hoop-poles and DIDN'T make the lay-up.  I was never a good batter, but I was a good pitcher.  (Which doesn't make sense.)  Running was a more obvious sporting choice for me.  Even long distance.  Anything where I could just run was better than trying to 'be on target.'
Until...
I remember the first time I shot a BB-gun - in Hazel Dell, Washington, maybe 1972, or early 1973 - and I hit what I was aiming at - a red-winged blackbird in a low, lonely tree in a clearcut.  I was mortified when I hit it, saw the puff of feathers, and it dropped.  It was injured beyond health but not quite dead.  I didn't fire any weapon for years, still reliving that salty moment of God-like, brutal choice.  I wasn't at all happy I'd killed that bird in one way or another.  It was a challenge I didn't really think I'd succeed at, hitting it on a childish dare...  and when I did, I felt like shit.  Seriously.

"...Thought I'd heard you talking softly,
I turned on the lights, the TV, and the radio.
Still I can't escape the ghost of you.
What has happened to it all?
'Crazy' some'd say.
Where is the light that I recognize?"
"Ordinary World"  by Duran Duran (and it still kicks ass.)

Fast-forward a few years, a few moves. (Our family moved a lot, for the record.)
A low, forest-ringed horse pasture in northern Snohomish County, autumn, in 1980.  The mist usually fills this space due to its relatively lower elevation on most cold, grey days, but with my friends on this odd day, it was clear.  Couldn't see Jason's parents' house through the fog, so they couldn't see us.  Freedom to chew Apple Jack leaf tobacco and smoke leftover 'parental' cigarette butts, maybe a little leafy, wanna-be pot in an aluminum can, fashioned into a hot-burning impromptu pipe...  (If we'd had beer, we would've drank it.  Being 15 sucks sometimes.)  We had a shitty .22-caliber rifle, a box of ammo, and some serious male-teenager gravitas.  Back in the early 80's, five teenage boys and a rifle weren't cause for alarm in some parts.  We were 'out of trouble' more than the opposite of that.
Hub-caps and old beer bottles, beware.

I finally got a chance to fire at something, and I remember we were on the west side of that pasture, facing north.  Sol hadn't broken through quite yet.  A solid line of second-growth douglas firs bordered us on the left, and there was a prominent tree about 50-60 yards north, just inside in the pasture fence.  A first-growth cedar stump was the only dominant feature in the pasture foreground, an old relic from before our grandparent's births.  It was soggy, deep cedar red, with a few ferns on top.
Like I said, it was my turn.  We had a firearm.
A squirrel had the audacity to climb that fir in front of us.  (Where we could see it.)  Soon, the teenage goadings included that mammal's inclusion as a potential target.  It was so far off, and the weapon so crude, there was no way I wanted to 'waste my shot' on it.  There just wasn't any way this chintzy rifle was gonna allow me to hit that varmint.
But I couldn't escape the dare.  They SAID it couldn't be done.  I raised the rifle and sighted in.  I breathed slowly, and pulled the trigger.

I took the center portion of its spinal cord/spine away from that poor creature's body.  A not-so-bloody arc was missing from its back, like a piranha bite.  It held on with its front legs to the tree, but it was clearly not going to survive that shot.  Rear legs paralyzed, dead weight kicked in.  In short seconds, with that big chunk of it missing, it scrambled and fell into its oblivion.
Again, I felt like shit.  The distance of that shot was rather unbelievable, but I DID hit that poor thing.  My brothers and friends started complaining that it was a 'one in a million shot.'  Whatever.  I had taken two shots in my life and killed two things.  There was a trend starting, a dreadful luck with 'things that aim to kill.'  We all brushed it off as total luck.
We advanced up the pasture, plinking steel cans and beer bottles we'd found.  I was acting cocky, I had actually hit something, no one else could brag yet.  They tried their shots.  Someone put a hubcap on the cedar stump as we went by, and when we we got up to the horse-barn, I mentioned that I could hit the hubcap on the stump from there.  We were, at this point, at least 50 meters away, looking slightly downhill.  The hubcap was a silvery glint below the sword ferns.

Now, it gets really weird.  Almost unbelievable.  But it did happen.

First, a musical pause:  (Something I played a lot in my 1976 AMC Spirit, 'Red Shift,' back in the day.)

"That's all I wanted, 
Something special.
Someone sacred -  
In your eyes.
For just one moment,
To be bold and naked,
At your side.
Sometimes I think that you never - 
Understand me (Understand me.)
Maybe this time is forever,
Say it can be..."

"Father Figure" by George Michael.  (Reminds me of West Germany in the late 80's, because that's where I lived and worked, readying myself to put steel-on-steel for NATO.  So, listen to the whole thing, mein freunden.  S'not like you have anything better to do...  Shit.  You probably do, but - still - find a way to hear this song.)


The Tinglev was nearing the nexus where Las Vegas, the Colorado River, and too many civilian and military radars converge.  Area 51 had been more or less deserted as we flew over, now an unused stage.  Nothing pinged at all on sensors.  Our heading was now 172 degrees at 475 knots, and it was the only place we could fit through.  After Shasta we had to avoid numerous Triangles, hugging scenery and changing speed and elevation so often we almost all got sick.  Inertial dampening was now almost completely useless.
My crew didn't have the benefit of 'Rotatey Chairs.'  We had to run this gauntlet slowly, carefully, to get this craft fixed, one way or another.  Enough pasty grey bruises for my crew.
"MAIN to visual," I ordered, "XO, WEPS keep me informed."
"Blinx, Klargen."
The lights of southern Las Vegas filled the screen for a fleeting few seconds, glittering, and soon faded.  At the NAV console, the XO braced himself for the upcoming turn above Hoover Dam.  We all knew that was going to be hairy.  There's a new bridge there, it's awe-inspiring.  I wanted to look at it and not be busy thinking about their steering.
"NAV, at your discretion, commence turn to 32 degrees.  Pick an arc-speed and relative altitude, keep us below possible mag-rock holography."
The XO turned back to me.  He'd forgotten about that down here, he 'privated' to me.  He pushed something to the bridge crew I couldn't make out, but it must've worked.   The whole vibe changed.  We all felt confident we'd get to Archuleta Mesa soon, without issue.
"Klargen, COMMS."
"Go ahead, COMMS."
"AMHRF is requesting clearance codes, signal is patchy."
"Send them, encoded.  Boost transmission past cloaking alignment, if possible."
"Blinx, Klargen."



"I bet I can hit that hub-cap, blindfolded, using The Force." I announced.
They laughed at me - I was so lucky once - it couldn't happen again, right?  A clean red paisley handkerchief served as a blindfold, and was wrapped in a way that I couldn't see anything except a faint glow of grey light.  I closed my eyes and they spun me around a few times, handing me the rifle and aiming me in the general quadrant of the lower pasture.  I started a slow, tightening spiral, feeling the balance of the weapon, the level of the trajectory I needed, and the 'draw' of that target.  When the spiral fell in on itself, I took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.  I knew, before I pulled the trigger, that my aim was dead-on.

I could hear a metallic 'plink' and reached up to pull off my blindfold.
"No fuckin' way!  No fuckin' way!"
Daren began running down to the stump.  Jason took the rifle and my brother Brian pursed his lips tightly, and we began our march to the results.  The hubcap wasn't on the stump anymore, and when Daren picked it up, and turned it to us, we could see a clean hole in the aluminum, nearly dead-center.  It wasn't a shot you could make, even with your eyes open - unless you had a well-aligned scope.
"You peeked," Brian accused me, but he and I both knew that I hadn't.  Even if I had, the odds were spectacularly against hitting that hub-cap.
"No way,"  They kept repeating.   "How could that happen?"
But, 'way.'  It happened.  There is no rational explanation whatsoever.  There is no logical reason for that bullet to find that arc and find its mark.
Except, perhaps, using The Force.  I truly believed I could hit it, and my confidence survived the jeers of friends and brothers.  Disbelief is not as strong as belief.
Suffice it to say no one hit that hubcap after that - from that distance - with their eyes open, including me.

On the 7th of February, 1992, I was playing hacky-sack with two close friends on the sidewalk outside of Tony's Coffee.  Tony's had been a refuge from the dreary memories of Beatrix, a place to write poetry, sip double-mint mochas, and people-watch.  (Or girl-watch.)  The day was grey but warmish.  Kicking around the hacky-sack, we were occupied with keeping it going.  Then Beatrix and her Mom came around the corner from the north.  The hack dropped.  She recognized me and whispered to Beatrix to hold her hand up to block me from her view, and did the same.  Two people I knew very well walked by me and headed east up the slight incline.  I followed for a short distance, muttering, 'Well that's childish of you two," just loud enough for them to hear.  They ignored me so hard it was obvious as hell, then turned and entered the Mexican restaurant.  I went back to my friends, and they knew who I had just seen by the look on my face.
"That was her, wasn't it?"
"Yeah.  Can't even acknowledge me, I guess."
"Pretty mean thing to do," Doug offered, "Less than a year ago you were engaged to that girl?"
"Yeah.  But now I don't exist, I s'pose."
"But you do, Brent."  Dave consoled me as much as he could.
"Tell that to them, they want to be blind."
"You didn't say 'Air raid," Doug mentioned, "Were you too surprised?"
"Yeah, totally.  I never knew they'd both be like this."

Beatrix' car was parked directly next to Doug's Ford Ranger truck.  (She wouldn't have known that it was his or that I arrived in that vehicle.)  I pulled a picture of her from my latest journal, ripped it up into 3 large pieces, and threw it on the damp asphalt next to her driver's side door.   I had another copy of it, so it wasn't a big loss.  Two hours later, it was still there.

Where am I going with this?  Perhaps an old poem is in order...

11 February, 1992.

You, with your pretensions of fire,
Passions waiting to be heard,
Your instincts are obscured and blurred.
You can't claw through the fog
Because you gave up your talons.
Let 'right' be damned, you said to me. 
Will you never let go of that anger?
Or will 'all' be soggy with blind fear?
Don't dare to roar on my turf,
Before you can see it clear and wide.
You are far, but I am near.
Open your eyes, feel that tide.


I learned to think with my left foot to master hacky-sack.  I pushed my consciousness to the foot I didn't favor.  The hard things are more rewarding than the easy things when you're done with them.  One day, at 1510 Iron Street, a mutual friend came up to our hack-circle.  He'd come from the direction of Beatrix' rental house.  Conversation ensued.  Travis knew her fairly well - I discovered later -  but didn't know I was the guy she had been with before Bellingham.  We all chatted and hacked for a bit.
"You should go to Fairhaven College," he finally offered.  "You'd love it there."
"Too many psycho chicks depending on restraining orders."
"Who did that?"
"Beatrix Blankety-blank."
"You know her - you're THAT guy?  Oh my God, you aren't what I expected."
"Yep, the devil incarnate."
"No fucking way."  He laughed, mystified as to why Beatrix would be afraid, loudly fearful, of moi.

Later that month, I was talking with my buddy Andre, and he mentioned that he had been staying at the house with Beatrix and F.  He mused about a time Beatrix came in from a sweaty bike-ride and stripped down buck naked in front of him on her way to the shower.  Later that year, he got busted for receiving an ounce of weed from LA in the mail.  But not at her house...

On another, slightly related note:  As a cook at The Quarterback Pub and Eatery, I had to deal with a lot of things - preparing and finishing food, 3 bosses, 6-10 waitresses, 2-3 bartenders, and the public. Fire Code had us at 225 for seating.  Maybe two cooks on at a given time.  Busy.  The kitchen was easy to watch from almost anywhere in the place.  I started as a prep/line cook and just kept churning out food for months, my circadian rhythm destroyed by late nights, lots of business, and endless french fries, fettucines, and fresh fish 'specials' we'd dreamt up.  The tips were good.  There was a steady turnover of waitresses, as it was a college town and the demands of that job are impressive and difficult to master.  Some stayed, some left after a day.
One day, we get a new one, a petite brunette named - I'll call her something else - Deedee.  After a few hours, on her first day, it became obvious she was a cocaine or meth user.  She started out light, then got edgier, until she could take a 'smoke break.'  Then she'd be 'reset.'  She never smelled like cigarettes after these outings, so...
One day she came in with new earrings, shaped like hot-air balloons and made from an exotic metal.  Maybe titanium, I thought.
"Hey, Deedee, those are cool earrings.  Where'd you get those?"
"Thanks, I got 'em in Arizona."  That piqued my interest.
"Is that titanium?'
"Yeh, good guess."  I had her attention.
I knew then who had made them, intuitively, but milked it out of her slowly.
"Flagstaff area?"  I said, probably filling up ketchup bottles.
"Yeah.  You know Flag?"
"Never been there.  Never been to Arizona."
"There was a guy-"
"Were you along the freeway south of Flagstaff, east of Sedona, by the off ramp to the (censored) Ranch, and got them from a guy named D. in a white schoolbus?"
She looked shocked.  Her color changed.  She started chewing her inside cheek, coke-nerping.
"Are you a cop?"
"Nope, just a cook, Deedee.  That bus is in Bellingham right now, not far from here.  I've seen it rollerblading home to my apartment."
"You aren't a cop?  But, how?" She quizzed.  "I've never even worn these here before."
"It's a small world, Deedee."
She didn't show up ever again after that.  I hit my mark, blind-folded.  Thinking with my left foot.

Beatrix is still indifferent, and still silent, to me.  (At least she's consistent, right?  Counts for something.)
She hasn't written a new blog in 3 months.  Just the one.  Was it just a 'toe-dip' into the water?  Has she forgotten how to swim?  Is she still petrified of the water in which the sharks of memory swim?
Too busy to heal old wounds, or even acknowledge the past for karma's sake.  Just put 'glurg' on there...  Throw a dog a bone, sheesh.

Did SHE ever learn to think with her left foot?  Has she ever hit the proverbial hub-cap?  Is her hand still in front of her face?  Did she master the inverted dive?

Future prediction:  I won't hear jack-squat from her until a month or two after her mother passes, which may be tomorrow, or 25 years from now.  I'm not holding my breath, therefore.

But she may be.  Because someday it's gonna happen, and that 'suspected' promise she made will die with her.

Til then, I'm still persona non grata, a fangless stalker, a fear to be gasped at.
But I'm really not.

I'm the Captain of a captured alien vessel, headed into the mix.

"HELM, take us in."
"Blinx, Klargen."

(Then she posts a video, on Sunday, with a soundtrack I mentioned a few weeks ago.  "Give a Little Bit" by Supertramp.)  Not like I noticed, right?
But I did.  I CAN think with my left foot.

And I can hit targets I CAN'T see, or aim at, even.  Groove on that, Beatrix.  I'm sending bolts of love and friendship.  They'll look like something else, of course.

Whenever you can quit being so specious about our past, I'm here.  I always am.