I HAVE BEEN INFORMED


THAT I AM NOT POSITIVE ENOUGH.

FINE.

ROSH HASHANAH IS COMING UP, SO I PRESENT THE ENTIRE WORLD WITH THIS:

happy new year

 

I LOVE YOU ALL, FOREVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

The Birthday Party, part I


from www.shutterstock.com
from http://www.shutterstock.com

Ever since my dog got hit by a car the day before my 20th birthday, the occasion has seemed less than auspicious. After all, if  the magic of your birthday can’t keep your dog from getting hit, how much power does it really have?

When I was a kid, of course, birthdays were magic. By themselves, they turned a day no different on the calendar from any other into the most special day of the year.Did we have to do anything special in those days, other than cover a cake with candles, sing a song, and open up cards from every relative I knew?  I remember that one year we had all my party at the Frontier Inn (of blessed memory), a cowboy-themed hamburger joint, but mostly I remember parties in the house. I remember a lot of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, dropping clothespins into milk  bottles (clothespins! milk bottles!), duck-duck-goose, red rover if we could play outside, and then the same games at other kids’ houses. What I don’t remember is coming back from those parties thinking that they were lame, or that the goody bags weren’t good enough, or that the experience wasn’t novel enough. Sure, in time party anxiety crept in–were other people having a good time, was the party a success, but not until late junior high.

At least that’s how I remember it.

My last birthday party, my 50th, was horrid. My best and oldest friend had just died, I wasn’t happy about turning 50, I didn’t like where I was in life, and I sure as hell made it fucking well clear that I DID NOT WANT A FUCKING BIRTHDAY PARTY. But that’s another story.

This story is about my daughter’s forthcoming party, and how difficult it is to plan the damn thing. As a parent, I want her birthdays at this age to still retain that aforementioned magic but it’s getting harder.

On top of it all, there’s even a more than reasonable chance that I won’t have a home to throw the birthday party in.

Packing, Part IV


image

Luciano Pavarotti was a famous Italian tenor whose career spanned LPs, cassettes, CDs, and finally digital downloads. He became hugely famous for being huge, canceling concerts, and having over-relied on a once-brilliant reputation. He made ‘Nessun dorma’ from Turandot so famous that even Aretha Franklin got cheered for destroying it at the Emmies one year–she had to step in for Pavarotti, who had, once again, canceled.

Horse talk: From an old journal entry


ruidoso downsSometime around 1996, I went to a workshop called Writers for Riding. It took place at Ruidoso, home of Ruidoso Downs, once an important place in the world of quarter-horse racing, and now just another fading track near yet another Indian casino.

Was the conference a scam? Maybe yes, maybe no. There used to be turf writers in the US. but this wasn’t about turf writing–it was just about horses as a centerpiece to write around. There still are turf writers, but they are a dying and diminishing race. As one turf writer wrote:

The truth is, there is not that much racing media left, at least from the traditional standpoint of the daily newspaper. In fact, horse racing hardly exists in many American newspapers that used to employ one or more full-time racing writers and handicappers. Feature stories, outside of the Triple Crown, are few and far between, and many papers in racing cities have stopped publishing handicapping selections, entries, and results.

–Ray Paulick, http://www.paulickreport.com, November 23, 2012.

I found a canary yellow legal pad with some scrawls on it today. I am dumping stuff (see The Great Book Sale), but not without a moment’s reflection.

We all stayed in large rented condo. Who was there? Carolyn Elkins, who was my friend for a while, was there. She came with her sister, Marilyn. (Oddly enough, the trip was to be  life-changing for Marilyn.)  There was a Rebecca, from Arkansas, and a Becky, who was older and if I remember correctly had skin deeply etched by the sun.

After our initial excitement at meeting each other and the perfunctory politeness, the personality element is beginning to insert itself. The sore spots are starting to wear. The Olympics were on, and Becky could not resist making fun of the synchronized swimmers, especially the inverted legs-out-of-the-water splits maneuver. She used language from porno magazines. But when I suggested that the Olympics should be performed as they were in ancient Greece–naked–she got offended in a way that seemed to come from left field. Rebecca, the Arkansan, has her buttons pushed quite easily if the shortcomings of the South are brought up. I live in the South, as do Carolyn and her sister, and none of us seem to think that it is some sort of wisteria-covered paradise. Sometime, before the week is over, I will solemnly assert that the best thing that has happened to the South has been an influx of Northerners.

cutting horse

The names in my notes now mean nothing to me, whether I remember the person’s face or not. They are just names. There was a rodeo rider named Johnny Gas, according to my notes, but if I google that name I get Johnny Cash. There is a Walker Porter, DVM. The internet tells me that he is now retired, and that his wife of 55 years died last year. Someone must have gone to the desert endurance races in  the UAE. Maybe it was Dr. Porter. It seems fairly certain that he did head down to Guadalajara to be the veterinarian at some match races. The track wasn’t flat–the starting gate was on an uphill.

Lee Abbott taught part of the course.One thing that annoys me about about writing courses is that the book signing session, with the weird sort of pressure to by a copy. Does anyone want a signed copy of Strangers in Paradise, or Love is the Crooked Thing?

Ronnie Stewart–trainer  a three-word note says. He is on facebook, and is still working with horses.

Another forgotten rodeo cowboy, a note–probably a quote from Abbott–to “exhaust the emotional possibilities of a moment.” I am sure that that is not one of my ideas.

Here’s an interesting quote, but I can’t give it proper attribution:

“The American Cowboy is most overrated work in the U.S.”

cowboy

 

 

 

Burn My Neighbor’s Lawn Mower!


It’s fucking 8:30 in the evening. It’s been a long day.  It’s time to be enjoying the evening. But no, my idiot neighbor is out there making sure that the grass won’t be too tall in the morning in case it grows overnight. Does he add up the hours that he expends making sure that his lawn looks nice? I feel like telling him that I’m sure the grass over his grave will be nice and neat–won’t that be enough? How is it that I always end up next door to people whose life’s mission it is to make sure that their house has curb appeal?

The last place was worse. There was an acre of conservation land that used to belong to my neighbor, but which he still considered it his most sacred duty to keep mowed. Out there on the riding mower, hour after hour, in a tank shirt, or (heaven help me) shirtless, going in endless, noisy circles. Mowing down blackberries, columbine, leaving nice edges for poison ivy to flourish…

 

SF Giants 10, Chicago Cubs 7


Even tho’ Timmy got no decision, the Giants win over the Cubs was a good thing, even for this erstwhile Cub fan.

Tomorrow I tell you why. At the moment, I’m writing up the surgery notes from spaying a 6 pound dog with a uterine infection. Fun.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started