Finishing a beginning

"Remember to never split an infinitive.
The passive voice should never be used.
Do not put statements in the negative form.
Verbs have to agree with their subjects.
Proofread carefully to see if you words out.
If you reread your work, you can find on rereading a great deal of repetition can be by rereading and editing.
A writer must not shift your point of view.
And don't start a sentence with a conjunction. (Remember, too, a preposition is a terrible word to end a sentence with.)
Don't overuse exclamation marks!!
Place pronouns as close as possible, especially in long sentences, as of 10 or more words, to their antecedents.
Writing carefully, dangling participles must be avoided.
If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
Take the bull by the hand and avoid mixing metaphors.
Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
Everyone should be careful to use a singular pronoun with singular nouns in their writing.
Always pick on the correct idiom.
The adverb always follows the verb.
Last but not least, avoid cliches like the plague; seek viable alternatives."
--William Safire

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."
--Confucius

"How much wood would a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?"
--Unknown

Okay, cliches aside, I finished splitting the wood. Let's not rehash why the felled trees were lying like beached whales in my backyard attracting bugs and blackberry vines. Suffice it to say, the 25-30 something odd rounds of conifer wood have been taunting me since last September when I had two trees "removed" from my backyard by the tree service from hell.

And as I've established in earlier posts, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than to get rid of 18-inch rounds of conifer wood that has not been split. I even called Trashbusters and they were in quite the quandry as to how to haul it despite their claim that they "haul anything." They finally quoted me a figure very close to a thousand dollars to get rid of the wood. And that involved something akin to a convoy of Trashbuster truck working round the clock for days.

So, as you may recall, I decided to split the wood myself. And I left you hanging with the impression that, after leaving two wedges appropriately wedged in a particularily knotty section of the tree, I had left the wood splitting project unfinished as many of the projects I've started in my life have been left.

But, I am proud to say that is not the case. In the past couple of weeks I have diligently donned my mirror-lensed protective glasses and my leather workman's gloves and attacked the wood one round at time. And here is photographic proof that I accomplished what I set out to do: split the wood to a level that rational people in need of firewood will take it off my hands without a struggle.





Above you see my sledgehammer, my splitting maul and my remaining wedge. The other two wedges are still buried in this nasty piece of wood.


This is the last of the megarounds of wood. And buried in it, posed for action, is my other splitting maul with the unbreakable, fiberglass handle. See the log's smug look of defiance? Little does it know that its log days were numbered.

Above you see the climactic point that makes splitting wood so satisfying.

And then the final blow and the wedge splits the errant log. Where's your smug smile, now Mr. Tree Round!

Finally the log is cleft and fallen, waiting to be split yet again to a manageable size.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a wood pile of heroic proportions! It's accomplishments like these that separate us from the animals (that and opposible thumbs).

But I must admit, once the realization dawned on me that I had actually completed something and the euphoria of that accomplishment had surged through me, I was filled with a sense of emptiness and dread. I mean, now that I've finished a project, doesn't that mean the pressure will be on to finish other things I start?

This can't be good. It's like climbing Mount Everest and realizing you've raised the bar a bit to high in your life. It's little wonder Neil Armstrong walked on the moon and has spent the rest of his days shaking his head and muttering.

Oh well, it's done. No use crying over split wood. And tomorrow is another day to lower the bar.

Peanuts

Eugene Arthur H****
"Peanuts"
1915-1992

As so many people prepare to celebrate Father's Day tomorrow, it makes me think that I am not caught up in the scramble to send dad a tie or socks. My father died Jan. 4, 1992 of stomach cancer at the age of 76.

It's not that I would have bought him a tie if he was alive today, anyway. He rarely wore ties because he worked in a warehouse for 25 years and then became a custodian at the local college when the warehouse closed down. He hated wearing ties anyway because they choked him. I inherited that sentiment (though I am forced to don the yoke of oppression more often then he did).

So, because I can't give my father anything material anymore, I decided to dedicate a blog entry to him. Because, as I grow older and have experienced the world I realize that my father, despite his faults, was truly a good and honest person.

His nickname was Peanuts. Though only a smattering of childhood friends called him that. The story goes that, back when he attended Garfield Elementary School (the same grade school I ended up going to) he had a crush on a girl. And to express his affection, he ran a mile to her home to give her a bag of peanuts.

That was my father in a nutshell (I couldn't resist).

Peanuts was born in Portland, Oregon in 1915. We don't know who his natural parents were. He spent his first five years in an orphanage. My grandparents apparently responded to an ad in the newspaper and adopted him. My grandfather -- Eugene Chester H**** -- gave my father his name. My grandmother -- Walburga Gertrude L***** -- gave him her love.

Of course we didn't know any of this until my grandmother died when my father was in his late 50s. My father had no recollection of being adopted. Relatives wrote him a letter after his adopted mother died and matter of factily asked if Wally had ever mentioned that he was adopted. It did trigger a memory that whenever his mother's relatives would visit, they referred to him as the "little Bastard." He'd always attributed it to other things.

We'll likely never know who dad's real parents were. The courts have no record of them.

Anyway, dad's new parents moved him from the Oregon Coast where they operated a tent city vacation resort to Boise, Idaho in about 1925. This is coincidentally the same year my mother was born in Boise. They were destined to meet 25 years later in 1950 and get married.

I don't know much about my father's early life. I know he liked to hunt pheasant and fish with his friends. I know he graduated from Boise High School in 1936 at age 21. Apparently during the five years he was in the orphanage, he'd suffered from a growth on his throat that affected his ability to speak. My grandparents had the problem corrected, but he didn't start school until he was nine and was always older than his classmates from then on.

My father's hair was gray by the time he graduated high school. It was white by the time he was in his 30s. This made him always appear even older than he was.

When the war broke out, my father was drafted. Rather than enter the army, he immediately went to the local navy recruiter and enlisted before the draft board actually called him. He ended up being assigned to a sub tender and was a Torpedoesman First Class. His entire time in the Navy was spent repairing the motors on dummy Torpedoes. He never saw action. The most exotic place he saw was the Panama Canal. The only real skill he brought out of his time in the service was how to swear.

When he got out of the Navy, he returned home and started working for the Salt Lake Hardware Company. He became a supervisor in their warehouse. For recreation, he still hunted, fished and of all things, roller skated. That's where he met my mother. She was 25 and he was 35 and still living at home. She worked at a bank.

My mother recalls when my father proposed, he asked her, "Would you like to get married, and things?" She always laughed about what the "and things," might be.

As I've chronicled in another blog entry, my father built a house right next door to my grandparents house on property they gave him. In a year or so my brother Ted Eugene H**** was born. My other brother Dan Everett H**** was born in 1954 and I, Tim Edwin H****, was born in 1958.

My father was 43 by the time I was born. His hair was completely white. I remember working on the roof of my grandmother's garage once and an old man went by and hollered up that I was a good boy for helping my grandpa. Dad was pissed. But he refused to dye his hair for fear of what the guys at work would say.

Every year, my father would use his two weeks vacation to take us camping at one of two of his favorite places in the mountains. He taught my brothers and I to fish. He taught my oldest brother to hunt. He lost the stomach for killing things by the time I was of age.

When my father was 55, the warehouse closed. I remember his panic at being out of work at a time most men could see retirement in the rear view mirror. He quickly took a job with the state at the local college as a custodian. As with his other job, he did it with pride and taught me to respect every one's profession, no matter how society tends to view it. He worked for years in the men's dorm that housed most of the Boise State Broncos football team. They ended up adopting him.

My father retired ten years later. His passion at that time continued to be the Boise State Broncos football team. He would mow lawns in the neighborhood to save money to buy his season tickets. And everyday when they practised he would ride his old Schwinn bike to Bronco Stadium to watch them. He would carry hard candy in his jacket pocket and throw it to the football players. That provided him with a new nickname. Peanuts became the "The Candyman." A local news program even did a segment on him.

My father's other passion was the search for buried treasure. He would spend his evenings poring over books and magazines dedicated to lost treasures of the west. He would make weekly trips to the library. I credit him for fostering my love of books.

Finally, on a trip home to Boise after I'd gone away to Seattle to finish college, I noticed my father's finger was bleeding. I asked him what he'd done and he looked puzzled. When I left to go back to Seattle, I urged my mother to get him to a doctor (not an easy request since they were Christian Scientists). A week later, she called me and said a doctor had diagnosed the problem with his finger as a tumor. They amputated it and did tests. Cancer had spread through his body, but was concentrated in his stomach.

I flew back to Boise. It was Christmas of 1991. Dad was bedridden and in constant pain. I helped my mom take care of him those two weeks. I'll always remember holding him he cried about how bad the pain was. And I was reminded of the times he'd held me in the same way and comforted me over some scrapped knee or cut.

My father died at home in January of 1992. He was cremated. At his own request, there was no funeral. That summer, my brothers and I drove with my mother and my nephew Brendan up into the mountains above Boise to the Middle Fork of the Boise River to a spot my father used to love to fish. Brendan couldn't have been more than 3 or 4 years old. My brother Dan carried him on his shoulders as we hiked down a trail to the river bank. And that's where I said goodbye to my father.

But, even as I write this, I can picture myself waiting in our front yard for him to drive up in his old 1936 Chevy. He'd step out, hand me his empty lunch box to carry in the house, hold my hand and ask what was for dinner.

Happy Father's Day, Peanuts.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary....

Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells
And pretty maids all in a row.

--Nursery Rhyme

I was just messing around with an image I took of Our Lady Mary, Mother of God from the Mission of San Juan Capistrano a couple of years ago and came up with the eerie image you see above. The old nursery rhyme, "Mary, Mary, quite contrary" came to mind and as usual, I had to google to see the rhyme's origins.

Funny how the nursery rhymes we grew up with and continue to tell our children are really pretty morbid remnants of the past. The Mary of the this traditional English nursery rhyme is not Mary, Mother of God, but Mary Tudor or Bloody Mary, the daughter of King Henry VIII.

Bloody Mary, ironically was Catholic. Mary's garden is symbolic of the graveyards that were filling up during her reign with the corpses of those who dared to continue to adhere to the Protestant faith promoted during her father's time as the English king.

The silver bells and cockle shells referred to in the Nursery Rhyme were nicknames for popular instruments of torture at the time. The 'silver bells' were thumbscrews. The 'cockleshells' were instruments of torture attached to the genitals (though there are some people today who would consider that recreation, not torture).

Pretty 'maids in a row' alluded to a device used to behead people called the "Maiden." Apparently, beheading a victim used to be quite the challenge. It could sometimes take up to 11 blows to actually sever someone's head. And, suprisingly enough, the victim often resisted and had to be chased around the scaffold. Imagine that. To solve the problem, a mechanical instrument (now known as the guillotine) called the Maiden (shortened to Maids in the Mary Mary Nursery Rhyme) was developed.

Apparently Bloody Mary was also the inspiration for "Three Blind Mice." She was the farmer's wife who chased them around with a carving knife. The three blind mice were symbolic of three noblemen who blindly adhered to the protestant faith despite Bloody Mary's persecution of non-Catholics. She didn't actually cut off their tails, but she did have them burned at the stake.

By the way, Jack and Jill going up the hill were inspired by French King Louis the XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette. Jack (King Louis) fell down and lost his crown and Jill (Marie Antoinette) came tumbling after. If you remember your French history, Louis and Antoinette were beheaded with a Guillotine.

Oh, and "Ring around the rosy," refers to the Bubonic Plague.

So, keep this post in mind the next time you are tempted to tuck your little ones in bed with a nursery rhyme.

Pleasant dreams!

I will sell this skull

eBay item 3980430624 (Ends Jun-19-05 12:09:04 PDT) - Unique one-of-a-kind steer skull decorated in gold leaf

It's kind of the power of positive thinking. I am visualizing selling the Gold Lame skull. I see it being purchased by a nice farmer who lets it play with all of my childhood pets that my mom said were now living on a farm.

I mean, the only way I convinced Tess not to throw it away or give it to Value Village was to assure her it would sell for major bucks on eBay. So far only 8 people have even viewed it. But I am not giving up. Because I believe what makes our country great is the entrepeneurial spirit that brought the Pilgrims to these hallowed shores. Wait a minute, they came seeking religious freedom and prime real estate to burn witches, didn't they?

Well, regardless, the Gold Lame Skull is that symbol to me that PT Barnum was right, there is a sucker born every minute. So, faithful reader(s), tell all of your friends that Tim-Elvis is parting with the Gold Lame Skull and you can have it for an opening bid of $9.99 plus shipping and handling.

Bid before midnight tonight and I'll sleep better.

The Hearse

by T. E. H****
Copyright 2005

Bob Gooden wasn't having a good day. Actually, Bob Gooden really wasn't having a particularly good life.

The realization or revelation came about five miles outside of Yreka, California near a place called Jump-Off Joe Creek. Bob sat in the fourth row back from the front of a chartered tour bus packed with geriatric revelers bound for the "Biggest Little City in the West" -- Reno, Nevada. Once in that glittering oasis from reality, most of them would drink too much, sit in front of nickel slot machines staring glassy-eyed at spinning dials as drool trickled out of their mouths. This was considered better than sex to most of the people on the bus.

Bob had very little in common with his fellow travelers. He was a relatively young man and had been patted and pinched on the cheek by a good portion of the surrogate grand fathers and mothers on the bus.

Bob's reason for being on the bus wasn't quite as clear cut as his wrinkled bus mates either. Right now as he passed over Jump-off Joe Creek he didn't really care where the bus would end up.

The ex-steel-worker-buy-American-retired-union-shop steward in the next seat nudged Bob for the hundredth time and pointed a tobacco-stained finger out the window. "Jump-off Joe Creek," he said with stale breath squeezed between yellowed dentures. "Why do you suppose they call it Jump-off Joe Creek"?

Bob's head slowly turned and he stared morosely at the man whose chronic flatulence and endless tales of cancer operations had kept him unwillingly entertained throughout the trip.

"That's a good question," Bob pronounced. "In fact that's one of the most important questions I've ever heard." The man looked at Bob and shook his head sadly. That's when Bob decided he really didn't like the path or -- the tour for that matter -- his life seemed to be on. That's also when he decided he was going to do something about it.

He slid by the old man and worked his way down the aisle past clicking knitting needles and through clouds of smoke. He approached the driver and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Yeah," the driver said, glancing at Bob with irritated red-rimmed eyes.

"I want off," Bob replied calmly.

"What?"

"I want off the bus."

"Listen buddy, we aren't due for a rest stop until we reach Mount Shasta," the driver growled. "There's a john in the back so just use that."

"I don't need to use the toilet," Bob explained carefully. "I've decided I don't want to go any further."

"Well, Jesus man, you'll just have to wait until we reach the next town," the driver said threateningly. "I ain't stopping the bus out in the middle of nowhere just because you get some wild hair that you don't want to go to Reno...Hell I don't want to cart these old geeks any further myself but sometimes you got to do things you don't want...so why don't you jez go sit back down with the sunshine-set and let me drive."

Bob reached into his pocket. "I have a gun here and if you don't stop the bus I'm going to splatter your brain...small as it is...all over the windshield."

The driver slammed on the brakes sending balls of yarn and false teeth clicking around the cab of the bus. With a whoosh of air the driver opened the door. "Okay, asshole, you want out...go."

"Thank you," Bob said. Even in a crisis, Bob had always been taught to be polite. As he worked his way carefully down the steps, the driver -- who had been brought up with entirely different rules of etiquette -- helped Bob out the door with a kick. He tumbled rudely down the steps. The door whooshed closed behind him and the bus lurched away spitting gravel into his face.

Bob sat up and carefully picked fragments of the Interstate out of his face. The green Jump-off Joe Creek sign rose above him in the fading light. He pulled himself to his feet and looked over the guardrail at the dark water slithering below the bridge. Muddy clouds hovered overhead. With a sigh he lifted his leg over the guardrail, followed Joe's immortalized example, and jumped.

Bob squeezed his eyes together, hoping he wouldn't have to suffer the final indignity of having his miserable life pass before his eyes. An agonizingly long moment passed and instead of an icy impact he felt a painful jerk at his leg. Nausea swept over him as he looked up and dizzily saw and felt his leg wedged in the bridge guardrail.

"shit...Shit...SHIT," he screamed in pain and frustration. The dull water of Jump-off Joe Creek swirled tantalizingly close below. He struggled to get loose. His leg wedged a little tighter in the guardrail and he winced.

It's no damned fair, he thought. "HOW COME IT WORKED FOR JOE, HUH...?" His words bounced off the water and slapped him in the face. Then the rain began.

At least I'm under the bridge and out of the rain, he thought. A moment later, overflow from the highway drained off the edge of the bridge and down his pant leg. He crossed his arms and sullenly prayed that the creek would flood enough to reach his head.

Darkness fell...or rather; it crept over him in cowardly fashion like mold over day-old bread. Bob shivered. Maybe I'll freeze to death, he thought. Not quite as quick as an icy plunge into Jump-off Joe Creek but the end suits the means. They say you feel warm just before you die anyway. He wasn't sure how that fact was established, however. He tried to imagine frozen corpses holding a press conference. He could hear the first question now...the icebreaker, he thought with a macabre chuckle:

"How did it feel just before you...well...went over?"

"Warm, incredibly warm...just like I was bobsledding in hell!" The questions would really start heating up then. Bob began giggling softly, the laughter building in his chest until gravity forced it to a sputtering halt in his throat. The choked laughter burped out and drowned in the creek below. I could die laughing, Bob thought as he fought to catch his breath. That sent him into another fit of laughter. With that Bob shut his eyes and snickered himself into an awkward sleep.

* * *

Bob slept, fitfully dreaming of being a caterpillar diligently spinning a cocoon while hanging from an extremely large shrub. As he hung bundled in his cocoon, he felt something clawing at him and pulling him from the safety of his branch into a giant gaping mouth. He jerked awake with the realization that something was indeed tugging at his leg. From his dizzy point-of-view he made out a dark shape struggling to free his foot from the guardrail, presumably to plunge him into the salivating waters of Jump-off Joe Creek below.

Suddenly the prospect of drowning lost its appeal. Bob kicked out instinctively with his free foot and screamed at the top -- or considering his position, the bottom -- of his lungs. The dark thing gave out a distinctly human grunt followed by a thud. Bob stopped screaming and listened. For a moment all he could hear was the slurping water below. He detected a soft moaning followed by a rustling sound. Something leaned over the guardrail. The something was suddenly illuminated with the flickering glow of a Bic lighter. Bob gasped. It was the gaping mouth of his dreams. He began screaming again.

"Jesus man, be cool," the mouth said calmly. "It ain't like I'm the Creature from the Black Lagoon." Bob stopped screaming. It seemed like a human voice.

"I'm going to swing my belt down to you," the voice continued. "Loop it around your shoulders and I'll hoist you up." The lighter went out and Bob squinted up into the night. The buckle end of a belt swung down and struck him in the forehead. His numb fingers fumbled to get the belt over his head and around his shoulders.

"Just holler when you've got it around your shoulders and I'll start pulling," the voice said.

Bob had the belt around his neck and was still concentrating on working it down to his shoulders.

"What?"

"Okay, here goes!"

"Wait a minute," Bob called back. "It's around my neckkkkk!" The words and his breath were cut off as he was jerked upward. Bob gasped and plucked at the belt as he felt himself rising rapidly towards the guardrail. Bright spots appeared before his eyes and he began to black out. The pressure released suddenly as he flopped rag-doll style over the edge of the guardrail.

"Whoa, you shouldn't have looped it around your neck that way," the voice said reproachfully. Bob managed a weak nod and tried to roll off the edge of the bridge but his leg was still wedged in between the rails. The source of the voice untangled Bob's foot and propped him up on the rail. The man grabbed his hand and pumped it enthusiastically several times.

"Pleased to meet you Bob, my names G.R. Charon but you can call me Finney -- everybody does."

Bob massaged his throat gingerly, "Uhh...how'd you know my name?"

"Says so right there on your nametag...HELLO MY NAME IS BOB...besides, if I hadn't fished you out from under the bridge you would have been bobbing around in Jump-off Joe Creek!" With that the stranger slapped Bob on the shoulder and let loose a laugh that made him wish he were still sleeping hanging peacefully under the bridge.

Bob looked down at his shirt and sheepishly ripped off the tag he'd been forced to wear while on the tour bus. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his rescuer closely for the first time. G.R. Charon -- Finney -- looked a little like Bob imagined a Southern California version of Dickens' Artful Dodger might look. He wore a battered top hat perched cavalierly atop unfashionably long black hair, curling up as it collided with his jacket collar. The vintage black overcoat with tails matched the formal hat. It looked as if it might have belonged to a proper English gentleman or a mortician. Bob noted that the formal jacket clashed rudely with a slightly dirty tank top. A dead carnation with a black ribbon was pinned to his lapel. A loosely knotted black tie hung around his neck, reaching almost to his faded Levi's. He wore a black high-top tennis shoe on one foot and a white one on the other.

Finney's attire was unique, but it was his face that fascinated Bob. Perhaps it was merely the odd glow from the highway lights but Finney's face seemed...well, crooked. It wasn't deformed. It just conveyed a peculiar paradox of expressions. One side appeared frozen in joy, the other in sadness. Even his eyes were mismatched, one pale blue and the other almost black.

The black eye winked at Bob. "So Bob, if you're through hanging around here, how 'bout we shove off?"

"What," Bob said, blinking dumbly.

"You know, take off, hit the trail, head on down the road, pull out, leave, depart..."

"Oh...I guess...but where are we going?"

"Well, Bob I'm headed to Reno," Finney said somberly. "You can come along or stay here." He pulled a tarnished pocket watch out of an inside pocket and popped it open.

"Shit it's almost midnight; I'm behind schedule. Are you coming?"

Bob looked over his shoulder at Jump-off Joe Creek. The black water rudely gurgled a raspberry at him. Bob looked back at Finney and nodded. "Sure, I was headed to Reno anyway."

A laugh ripped out of Finney's crooked mouth and he slapped Bob on the shoulder again. "Well good enough, I can use the company. Come on, the ol' black barge is waiting!" He pulled Bob to his feet and motioned him down the road where a large dark automobile idled patiently.

Bob wasn't sure how or why he hadn't noticed the car before. It wasn't the kind of car you could easily ignore. It was a hearse, a long, black Cadillac hearse. It wasn't a new hearse -- not one of those modern limo-jobs painted in soothing pastels that thumbed their noses at death and pussyfooted around the whole grim concept. No, this was a genuine, black "there's-a-body-in-the-back" hearse.

Finney grinned as if reading Bob's mind. "She's a beauty ain't she...a 1958 Cadillac hearse. They don't make 'em like this anymore." He ran his hand lovingly along the fender and flicked away an unfortunate bug that'd met his demise on the road.

"Say, Bob, I hate to ask you, but you got any cash?"

Bob looked at him suspiciously.

"Hey, I'm not trying to rob you," Finney said, a genuine look of hurt on his face. "The boss just gets real irritated when I take on cargo without cash. It doesn't have to be much...just kind of a token payment."

Bob sighed and reached for his wallet. It was gone, apparently bailing out when Bob jumped from the bridge. "Er...I seem to have lost my wallet." It was Finney's turn to look suspicious. Bob dug into his hip pocket looking for some money. His hand closed around the lucky silver dollar that he'd been given as part of the tour package when he'd boarded the bus in Portland.

"Wait a second, here's a dollar...it's all I have left." He dropped the coin into Finney's outstretched hand. Finney held the coin up to the light cast by the hearse headlights chuckled gleefully and put it into his pocket.

"That's perfect Bob! I never did like paper money." Finney jumped into the driver's seat and sat there looking comfortably ludicrous in his top hat and tails. "Come on Bob, hop in!"

Bob opened the door and read with a shudder a neat, tastefully lettered sign on the door -- WE PICK UP AND DELIVER! He climbed hesitantly into the passenger seat and gave another shudder.

Everything in the interior, including the dashboard, was covered with dark, purple crushed velvet.

"My boss and I customized this baby ourselves, you like it," Finney said as he caressed the dashboard lovingly.

"Like is hardly the word, Mr...er Finney."

Finney laughed, adjusted his rear view mirror which set a pair of purple, furry dice dancing. He shifted the car into gear and floored the accelerator. Bob fumbled for his seatbelt.

"If you're looking for a seatbelt, you're out of luck," Finney stated somberly. "The only people who ever got strapped down in this car were the ones who rode in the back!" He grinned and let loose a howl. Bob looked over his shoulder uncomfortably at the compartment behind them. A velvet current blocked it from view.

"Don't worry Bob, I've never had an accident." Bob eyed him dubiously. He looked so small perched in front of the steering wheel peering into the lighted corridor the headlights opened up in front of them.

Finney's serious black eyeball swept over and pinned Bob to the purple cushion. "You ever think much about death, Bob?" Bob squirmed slightly and tried vainly to find a pupil swimming somewhere in that vast black iris. He swallowed painfully.

"Well...er...I...uh suppose I do, why do you ask?"

"Bob, Bob...we've got a long way to go so let's just cut through the bullshit," Finney said, followed by a soft "tsk, tsk" and a sad shake of his head. "You don't look like the kind of guy that casually gets an urge to hang under a bridge by one leg and catch a few winks...granted I've known a few people that would do that, but come on...you were trying to kill yourself by taking a nose dive into good 'ol Jump-off Joe Creek weren't you."

Bob nodded feebly.

"A nod's as good as a wink to a blind man!" Finney laughed, grabbed Bob's head in a neck lock and ran the knuckles of his other hand over his skull. The hearse careened towards an oncoming pair of headlights and a horn blared out of the night. Bob screamed and Finney casually corrected course with his knee.

"See Bob, you don't really want to die...you're scared of death." He let go of Bob's head and grabbed the wheel again.

"More like scared to death," Bob said, shocked that he'd discovered his voice.

"Ooooooooh...pretty good one Bob ol' pal," Finney said, obviously impressed. "I'm glad to see you've got a sense of humor."

"I don't really seem to have any sense at all," Bob snapped back. "You know, this is really weird...I mean, sure I jumped off a bridge and ended up hanging over a creek named after some schmuck who jumped into it, but come on...it's not every day you get saved by a guy in a top hat and tails driving a hearse now is it?"

"Hey, let's not start attacking the way I dress or earn a living," Finney said in a feigned hurt voice. "If I weren't who I am and do what I do, you'd still be swinging there in the breeze freezing your heuvo's off."

"I suppose I never did say thanks, did I?"

Finney reached over and slapped Bob on the back. "Ahhh, lighten up...so why were you trying to snuff yourself?"

Bob sighed. "It's a long story."

Finney nodded. "It's a long drive."

* * *

"For the longest time I've been normal," Bob began. "I mean, I didn't have an unhappy childhood or anything. My parents never locked me in a closet or beat me. They treated me quite well...sent me to Sunday school and everything."

Finney shook his head sadly. Bob continued.

"I guess the problem was that everything was too normal. My father was boring. He was an orthopedic shoe salesman. My mother's sole claim to fame was that she was a member of the Cheese of the Month Club.

The entire household was a veritable den of dullness. I even had a boring pet -- a goldfish. Do you realize how dreary goldfish are? I even named it a dull name; do you know what it was?" Finney shook his lopsided head vigorously.

"Its name was Goldy for Christ's sake...GOLDY! I'd watch it swim round and round this stupid plastic palm tree, always clockwise, always at the same monotonous pace. It'd stare vacantly back at me; it's stupid boring mouth gaping all the time. I'd sit there and watch the damn thing and realize how simple and boring it really was. It reminded me of me. That was the way my life was, going round and round in circles. Well, I decided to change things a little, and put some excitement into both of our lackluster lives."

"Yeah, what'd you do," Finney asked, his black eyeball gleaming and his blue one blinking sympathetically.

"I saved money from my stupid boring paper route and sent away to a company that advertised in the back of Boy's Lifestyles -- a stupid, boring magazine -- for a piranha."

"Oooh...I'd never have thought of that," Finney said. "What happened next?"

"I slipped the piranha -- I called him Spike -- into the fishbowl and sat back for the show. Then..." Bob paused and shook his head.

"Then...yeah...come on, what happened."

"Spike looked at Goldy and Goldy looked at Spike. Then that stupid, boring piranha started swimming slowly round and round the plastic palm tree behind Goldy. Round and round and round and round..." Bob's voice faded away.

"Tough luck...defective piranha, huh? What'd you do then?"

"I flushed both of the stupid boring things down the toilet, plastic palm tree and all." Bob turned and stared glumly out the window. Lines of silent pine trees bowed mournfully as they passed down the serpentine road.

"Come on Bob...how about some music? That should cheer you up." Finney leaned over and began rummaging through a cluttered glove box. The hearse swerved uncomfortably close to the shoulder as he concentrated on tape titles. Each time the vehicle seemed ready to plunge into the crowds of trees, Finney unconsciously moved the wheel, skirting disaster. The spectator trees watched the spectacle, literally rooted to the spot. "Hmmm...Grateful Dead...naaaaa, maybe later...Rockin' Requiems...too cutesy...the Gregorian Chant Anthology...nice rhythm...anything special you'd like to hear Bob?"

Like the trees, Bob's attention was rooted to the hearse's erratic course. He managed to gasp out a reply. "Uh...I'd just soon pass on the music for now if you don't mind." Finney popped the glove compartment shut and sat up. The hearse snapped to attention and swerved back into the right lane.

"Suit yourself," Finney said. "Not much of the stuff I like anyway...the boss picks it. Says it's what the clientele expect."

"Eh, what kind of business did you say this was again?"

Finney smiled and winked. "Jes like the sign on the door says, 'We Pick Up and Deliver'."

"Pick up and deliver what," Bob asked warily.

"Whatever...but back to your story. You flushed ol' Goldy, Spike and the plastic palm tree down the crapper. Then what?"

Bob sighed and took a deep breath before answering. "I decided to follow them."

"Down the john?"

"Well, so to speak. I stuck my head in the toilet and tried to flush myself to death."

Finney grimace-grinned. "What a way to go."

"I was on the 13th flush before my dad pulled my head out. He didn't even ask me what I was doing. He just threw me a towel and lectured me about water being a precious commodity and that perhaps I would have to use my allowance to help with the next water bill. My father was boring but practical." Bob stopped talking suddenly.

Drops of rain joined the carcasses of kamikaze bugs on the windshield. Finney twisted a knob and twin wipers groaned into action. Bob stared at them mournfully.

Finney nodded knowingly. "So the running water of Jump-off Joe Creek triggered some psychological switch and you flushed back...I mean flashed back to the toilet trauma, eh?"

Bob sighed and continued to stare at the wipers.

"You take life too seriously Bob...or maybe death. I think I know just the thing to help. Why don't you crawl in the back and pop open that box back there." He pulled aside the curtains screening off the cargo space behind the front seat and motioned with his thumb for Bob to hop in the back.

"Box?" Bob froze, unable to look back where Finney was pointing.

"Yeah, behind you." Finney's voice had taken on a slightly commanding tone. "Just crawl back there and pop the top like I told you...trust me."

Bob had no choice. His body reacted mechanically. He turned and looked into the back of the hearse. He could barely make out a long oblong box with a rounded top in the gloom of the curtained compartment.

"Go ahead Bob."

He climbed over the back of the seat. His hand brushed the metal top of the box and he shuddered involuntarily. It was ice cold.

"Okay, I'm back here, now what?"

"Just open the box." Finney's voice seemed far away.

"It...it looks like a coffin," Bob stammered.

Finney chuckled sinisterly. "Just open it Bob. The latch is right there on the side."

Bob ran his hand along the side of the container. Trickles of icy sweat ran down his back. He found the catch.

"I'm not sure I want to do this."

"There's nothing to be afraid of Bob...OPEN THE BOX."

Bob closed his eyes. Flashes of his life began screening on the inside of his eyelids. Goldy and Spike waved at him from under the plastic palm tree. The waters of Jump-off Joe creek splashed in his face. He snapped his eyes open and lifted the edge of the box. An icy blast of air smacked his cheek and a dim light came on within the chest.

"Help yourself," Finney called back.

Bob began laughing. Softly at first and then crescendoing into a wave of hilarity mixed with gasping sobs of relief. There, illuminated in the dim light of the box, were several six-packs of beer.

"Grab a six-pack and climb on back," Finney instructed. Bob wiped the tears from his eyes and hooked his finger through one of the six-packs. He shut the lid and crawled back into the front seat. He held out the beer. Finney declined.

"It's all yours," he said. "I never drink and drive." Bob shrugged and popped open one of the beers. He didn't normally drink but this seemed like a good time to start.

"That's some cooler you've got there. I thought for a minute..." His voice trailed off.

"That there'd be a body in it," Finney said quizzically.

"Well...er...no, I mean...well this is a hearse." Finney grinned vacantly. Bob drained the first can and belched unrepentantly.

"This stuff isn't half bad." He crushed the can in a momentary rush of beer-induced macho.

"So," Finney said. "You were telling me about how you ended up as a human windsock under Jump-off Joe Creek Bridge."

The beer was lubricating Bob's tongue nicely. He smiled slightly and opened another before continuing.

* * *

"The trauma of the toilet broke my spirit for awhile. My parents never said anything else about it. They did start to get nervous if I spent more than five minutes in the bathroom, though.

I figured the die had been cast. I was determined not to make any more waves..."

"Or flushes," Finney offered.

Bob belched in disgust and continued. "Anyway, I sunk into the purgatory of numbing normalcy. Before I knew it the circle was complete -- I followed in my father's footsteps and landed a job in orthopedic shoe sales at the IF THE SHOE FITS shoe shop. Everything was routine, safe and simple. And despite my resolution to live within the mold that had been created for me I felt the pressure of knowing there had to be more.

"So why didn't you do something else," Phinney asked softly, staring intently at the road. Bob popped the top of his fifth beer and waiting for the foam to ooze back into the can. He took a long pull on the beer and continued.

"I did. One day I walked out of the 'IF THE SHOE FITS' shop and took all of my money out of the bank. I walked into a travel agency and booked the next tour bus out -- the Sunshine Singles tour to Reno. Within an hour I was sitting on a bus loaded with retirees headed for the Promised Land. I felt a certain exhilaration knowing I'd somehow cheated fate. I was breaking away from the circle I'd been swimming around in since childhood."

"So why'd you jump ship halfway to the Promised Land?"

Bob closed his eyes for a moment, recreating the scene in his mind. "I was just sitting there staring out the window when an old guy sitting next to me nudged me for the hundredth time and pointed out Jump-off Joe Creek. 'Why do you suppose they called it Jump-off Joe Creek,' he asked. It was as if someone had replaced the 60-watt bulb in my head with a 150-watt spotlight. It dawned on me what a completely useless and totally pointless question I'd been asked. It also made me realize how completely useless and totally pointless my life really was no matter where I went. I decided then and there to break the circle once and for all. I stopped the bus and got off. Simple as that. Then I jumped. The rest you know." Bob sank morosely in his seat and finished the beer.

"You know what I think Bob," Finney asked solemnly. Bob shook his head slightly. His brain felt thick and fuzzy. "I think you should have replaced that 60-watt bulb with a bug light cause you're one buggy dude."

"Thanks a lot," Bob said, sinking lower in his seat.

"That just seems like a pretty lame excuse to try and off yourself."

"Hey, if I hadn't of taken that opportunity to dive off the bridge, I wouldn't be sitting here getting drunk and keeping you entertained while you deliver whatever it is that you're delivering to whoever it is you're delivering it to."

Finney's black eye swept over and looked at Bob carefully. "You'd have been here sooner or later anyway Bob."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Finney swerved the car to the shoulder of the road suddenly and stopped the hearse. His black and the blue eye compromised and Finney leaned over and looked into Bob's eyes. Bob blinked his beer-blurred eyes and tried to focus.

Finney sighed loudly. "I mean it wouldn't have mattered whether you'd jumped off Jump-off Joe Creek on the way to Reno or leaped off Suicide Ridge on the way to Boise. You'd still be riding with me. We almost met that time you tried flushing yourself into oblivion."

"I don't understand," Bob said, blinking dumbly.

"What's Bob spelled backwards?"

"What's Bob spelled backwards," Bob echoed. Finney nodded his head vigorously.

"I mean, Bob old boy that you've finally succeeded at breaking the endless monotone of your life that you've grown so obsessed with. You've joined our infamous friend Jump-off Joe in the murky waters of Jump-off Joe creek."

Thousands of bubbles of beer began bursting in Bob's brain. "You mean I'm dead?"

Finney whacked Bob's shoulder and chuckled gleefully. He put the hearse into gear and squealed away from the shoulder. "As a doornail."

Bob pressed his hand against his temples, trying desperately to massage Finney's words into his brain. His head was spinning.

"But...where are you taking me...heaven or hell?"

"Relative terms Bob ol' pal." Finney hit the accelerator and the hearse lurched forward. Bob's stomach lurched at the same time and the beer and the excitement combined forces. He leaned over and spilled his guts on the purple carpeted floor of the hearse. Bob moaned weakly and tried sitting up. It was too much for him. The hearse hit a bump and he mercifully blacked out.

* * *

A blast of gray light and cold air nudged Bob awake. He tried to swallow and gagged slightly at the sour taste in his mouth. He sat up stiffly. Finney grinned at him from the driver's seat.

"Not much of a drinker, eh," Finney said with a wink.

"I guess I was overwhelmed by all of the excitement."

"I just wish you'd have warned me before you got overwhelmed in my car."

Bob croaked out a weak apology. "Where are we," he asked, noting the trees lining the road had been replaced with billboards.

"About three miles out of the little city of fortune -- Reno!"

"I never thought I'd see it," Bob said, perking up a bit. "I had this dream that you told me I was dead and on my way to...well...er...never mind."

Finney looked at Bob somberly. "I'm going to drop you off at the Palms Casino." Bob nodded absently. His eyes soaked in the neon and flashing signs as the hearse rolled into downtown Reno. Even in the dull morning light there were people bustling about on the streets.

The hearse pulled into a long circular entryway in front of the casino and stopped at the curb. Bob's eyes gleamed at row after row of neon palm trees swaying electronically on the side of the pink building.

Finney looked at him with his sad blue eye. Bob thought he detected a little precipitation forming on the lower lid. He climbed out of the hearse. "Thanks Finney, I owe you..." Bob began.

"No thanks needed; it's all part of the job. I hope Reno's what you expect. It's one hell of a town."

"But what do I do now, where do I go." Bob asked.

Finney sniffed slightly, wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve and pointed to the pink casino. Then without a word he shifted the hearse into gear and disappeared in a cloud of exhaust.

Bob turned slowly and wiped away the sweat beading up on his forehead. Hotter than I expected, he thought. He started walking toward the building. Glass doors slid noiselessly open as he approached. The casino was a huge round room with a giant palm tree in the center. Gaming tables and slot machines surrounded the giant palm tree like spokes of a giant wheel. Cocktail waitresses dressed in hot pink uniforms mechanically served the feverish faces that paced around the tables or clung to sweaty slot machine handles. Many people just milled about, walking round and round the room.

Bob stood for a moment and blinked at the giant palm tree. Finally he fell in step and began walking around the room. Round and round and round...

###

I Buried Paul

A Day in the Life

"I read the news today oh boy
About a lucky man who made the grade
And though the news was rather sad
Well I just had to laugh
I saw the photograph
He blew his mind out in a car
He didn't notice that the lights had changed
A crowd of people stood and stared
They'd seen his face before
Nobody was really sure
If he was from the House of Lords"

--Lennon/McCartney (though if Paul was dead, he couldn't have help write the lyrics)
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

Lights in the Wake helped fire a synapse path in my brain regarding rumors that began spreading in 1969 that Paul McCartney of the Beatles had died and been replaced by a lookalike. I found a Web site -- I Buried Paul - Turn Me On, Dead Man -- that provides you everything you every wanted to know about the rumor.

I've always been a Beatles fan. Check out my Sept. 2004 blog entry (All I am saying) if you don't believe me.

Anyway, I do remember scrutinizing all of my Beatles albums with my 5th grade buddies when the rumors about Paul started. The conspiracy theory was that the Beatles had planted these clues on their albums after their agent covered up Paul's death.

I must have played the little bit at the end of Strawberry Fields a hundred times (seems like Forever...ha, ha) to listen to John saying what we thought was, "I buried Paul." Later, in an interview, I heard him explain that he was actually saying, "Cranberry sauce."

Not as intriguing but equally unexplainable.

On the Magical Mystery Tour album cover, it was reported that Paul was the one in the walrus costume. A walrus was supposedly a symbol of death. However, it was actually John wearing the walrus costume, goo, goo, ga choo. Eerie, though, that years later he would be assassinated.

I interpreted all of the clues in the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band album. Paul was wearing a band uniform that had a patch with the initials: OPD. The Paul is dead theorists said it stood for "Officially Pronounced Dead." Paul later said it stood for "Ontario Police Department."

That sucks.

If you look closely at the album cover, you'll see a hand raised over Paul's head in a salute to a fallen comrade. The flowers spelling out "BEATLES" in the foreground are supposed to be funeral bouquets.

And, most of the images in the background of the album were famous dead people. But the most intiguing thing about that cover after my revelation to the world that I am Edgar Allan Poe reincarnated is the face almost "dead" center of the top of the album, straight up from Ringo...go ahead look. Yes, it's Edgar Allan Poe. Is the hair standing up on the back of your neck, too?

Thanks, Lights in the Wake, for adding yet more evidence to my growing believe that I was Edgar Allan Poe.

Seam between realties

One of my favorite parts about being at sea is catching the sunrise. I rarely see the sunrise in the city. It's not that I don't rise early. I'm not a sound sleeper. I don't even use an alarm clock. I simply wake up when I am supposed to.

But rising early doesn't necessarily mean you get to experience the dawn. In the city it is masked by realities of life. Blinds are drawn. Minds are shut. We are focused on the mundane.

But on the ocean, it is almost impossible to hide from the dawn.

I think it was my old crazy friend Carlos Casteneda who talked about the dawn (or was it sunset) being the seam between realities. It's easy to believe as you watch the sun rise out of the blackness. It's like a tear has been made in the cosmos. Or it's like a giant eye is opening and peeking in on this crazy experiment. Wouldn't it be ironic if our world is a cosmic ant farm and god is some kid shining a flashlight on our world to see what we're up to?

"Reality is merely an illusion, although a very persistent one."
--Albert Einstein

Ain't it the truth?

Quoth the Raven...

Me (as a young man)

Edgar Allan Poe

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by Edgar Allan Poe (I was always a morbid little cuss). I read all of his short stories and many of his poems. I particularly liked The Raven:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Maybe it's because my mother used to tell me a story about her older sister trying to memorize the poem for school. My aunt was trying to rehearse the poem in private (no small feat in a family of 13 kids). Every time she came to the part about "rapping" and "tapping," my mother and one of her siblings would rap on the window outside the room my aunt was rehearsing in. Then they'd run away before my aunt, chasing after them reciting words that would have made Mr. Poe blush, could catch them. When she gave up and went back to memorizing the poem, my mom and her sibling would scurry back to rap on the window again.

Not much of a story, but it stuck with me all of these years.

And so has the lyrical stanzas of the Raven.

But what really made me think of Edgar Allan Poe was this strong belief I had growing up that I was Edgar Allan Poe (I told you I was a morbid little cuss). I'd check out books about his life and sit and stare at his portrait and I convinced myself I'd been him in a past life.

"The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends and where the other begins?" (from The Premature Burial, 1844)

And once you hear of all the evidence, I'm sure you'll agree.

For example, Edgar Allan Poe was born on Thursday, January 19, 1809 in Boston, Massachusetts and died on October 7, 1849 in a gutter in Baltimore, Maryland. I was born on Tuesday, March 18, 19** in Boise, Idaho and I haven't died yet and I don't plan to die in a gutter (you learn a few things from your past lives).

So, we were both born in cities that begin with a "B" and I've been to Boston once. Uncanny, huh?

My name is Tim E**** H****. His name was Edgar Allan Poe. There are 13 letters total in my name. There are 13 letters total in his name. His first name begins with an "E." My middle name begins with an "E." There are three letters in his last name and five letters in his middle and last name. There are three letters in my first name and five letters in my middle and last name. Plus my greatgrandfather on my mother's side was named Edgar. See where I'm going here?

Edgar Allan Poe had a mustache. I had a mustache (of sorts) as a younger man. Then I realized that it made me look either like a cop, a porn star or gay so I shaved it off (after experimenting with beards and goatees to hide my double chin). Edgar Allan Poe used a scarf to hide his double chin.

Edgar Allan Poe had a big head. I have a big head. It's almost impossible for me to find a hat that fits. Ever see a photo of EAP with a hat on?

Edgar Allan Poe married his cousin. I grew up in Idaho where many cousins married. All of my cousins pretty much looked like the south end of a northbound horse, so I never thought of them romantically. Besides, as I pointed out about dying in a gutter, when you are reincarnated, you hopefully learn from mistakes made in a former life.

Edgar Allan Poe was a literary journalist that never really made any money writing or achieved fame in his lifetime. I have a degree in journalism and literally have never really made any money writing or achieved fame in my lifetime.

Edgar Allan Poe was the master of the horror story and a great poet. I've written some pretty horrible stories. And as you can tell from the lyrics of Take the "T" out of Trust and all you're left with is rust I have the heart of a poet.

So, by sharing this concrete evidence that I am EAP reborn, I hope that I have shaken the very foundations of whatever belief systems you've pitched your tent on. And in closing, I'll leave you with the final verse of the famous poem I wrote as Edgar Allan Poe:

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Couldn't have said it any better myself (even though I did)...well, maybe if I wrote it today, I'd change the bust of Pallas to one of those little lawn jockys to give it more of a homey touch. You can't be reborn with evolving a little.

Drinking Stuff -> Apparel -> Hats -> Coors Original...

Drinking Stuff -> Apparel -> Hats -> Coors Original...

Okay, I'm googling along as I am wont to do at any given time of the day when the urge hits me. I've finished looking up Frida Kahlo to find her self-portrait with the monkeys (the Monkey Playing Cymbals put me up to it...it was a bet if you have to know). Anyway I find the image and then just to show you how random things happen, I typed in "Whack Job." This led me to urbandictionary.com where they indeed had several definitions for the term "whack job."

So, on the same page is a random link to a place called drinkingstuff.com where their motto is "everything but the booze." And from there I discover a variety of cowboy hats fashioned from actual beer cases. I'm not kidding. The ad reads:

Our Beer Hats are made from actual beer cases! They are machine stitched,durable, water resistant, adjustable to fit any size head and best of all, a great conversation piece!! Our Beer Hats are great for any cowboy or cowgirl who loves their drinking or for someone who just needs a great party hat. So come check out the latest craze!

I'm sorry, but my definition of someone wearing a beer case on their head takes us back to the original definition of "whack job" I was looking up on urbandictionary.com. Seeing someone wearing a Coors beer case on their head would just fill me with the uncontrollable urge to approach them and say, "Your name must be Richard, because when I saw you I immediately thought you looked like a Dick."

Of course this would like lead to much spewing of beer and gnashing of teeth, but I've never been good at suppressing my opinions.

But what did I expect from a Web site called "drinkingstuff.com." And right under the beer case hat you can find an ad for your very own "removeable stripper pole." Yes, you too can gyrate and spin in the privacy of your own home for $299 plus $100 shipping.

And then there is their extensive selection of beer bongs along with a "Bad news about beer bongs" disclaimer that:

Due to uncontrollable and extensive problems with our supplier, we’ll probably be out of most beer bongs for a while. We know this is disappointing, especially to those of you who have contacted us and have been waiting for a while. The good news is, there’s always hard alcohol.

Hey kiddos, you don't need a beer bong to have fun. Learn to shotgun those puppies like everyone else.

I for one am proud to be an American.

Bless you Google for opening up a whole new world to me.

I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay!

I doubt if anyone remembers my series of log blogs last year about the saga of having a couple of trees cut down in my backyard. If you are dying to read them, go to my August archive and scroll down until you see Log Blog. Then scroll back up until you see Log Blog II.

If you are too lazy to do so and just want me to cut to the chase, the bottomline is that I had two trees cut down by the tree service from hell. They were conifer trees. The tree service from hell cut them down and left about 25 18-inch rounds of wood strewn about my backyard. The wood has sat there since August because I am an idiot and didn't pay the tree service whatever extra it would take to just haul it away. I am an ultra idiot because a) I don't have a wood burning fireplace and b) No one will haul the wood away in its present state for less than $1000.

And yes, I tried listing it on Craig's List. Craig's List is a free Web site where you can sell or give things away. It's kind of a socialist's eBay without fees. Tons of people responded to my Craig's List ad and said they'd take it, but no one followed through. People are flakes.

So this weekend, after staring at the wood for months, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went to Home Depot and pushed my way through the throngs of shorthaired women with toolbelts and bought myself a sledgehammer and two wedges for splitting wood. I also bought myself a manly pair of workgloves and some mirrorlensed safety goggles, because it is important to look good when you split wood.

I am no novice when it comes to splitting and chopping wood. When I was a kid, I used to love to grab a hatchet out of my dad's work shed (the one that was originally a chicken coop) and spend some quality time chopping on this log we had in the backyard. One time I convinced the neighbor kid (his name was Wendell) to take a hatchet and whack away at the log, too. Pretty soon my brother Dan had joined in. Wendell unfortunately put his hand down on the log at one point to steady himself. I was in mid stroke with my hatchet at that same point and hit Wendell a pretty decent blow on the hand (luckily he didn't lose any fingers, but he did get rushed to the emergency room). I was know as the Axeman of Colorado Avenue for quite some time.

Anyway, I brought my newly purchase wood splitting equipment home and faced the wood with great enthusiasm. I already own a axe-maul, so I was loaded for bear as I faced off with the cursed logs.

I rolled out the first round and whacked it with the maul to make a dent for the wedge. Then I placed the wedge and whacked it with the sledge. After about three hits with the sledge hammer, the wood began to split nicely and the round broke into two pieces. Then with superhuman strength, I split those pieces into nice chunks of manageable wood that finely resembled firewood. I stacked those neatly next to my tool shed.

Piece of cake. At this rate I figured I'd have all of the wood split and stacked in no time and then I'd sell it on Craig's List rather than give it away.

Then I rolled out the second round. Now in a perfect world, felled trees would have no branches and therefore no knots to impede the splitting process. I have never lived in a perfect world. The second round of wood not only had more branch stubs than you could shake a stick at (no pun intended), it was soft in the center. When I drove the wedge in, it disappeared into the log. Not a problem, I told myself. That's why I bought two wedges. An experienced woodsman knows he will sometimes have to drive a second wedge to release the first one. I rolled the round over and placed this wedge away from the center to avoid sinking and losing it. But try as I might, I couldn't get the thing to split. I must have delivered forty whacks with that sledge hammer and it barely cracked the wood.

So, I did the only logically thing considering the circumstances. I put away my tools and went back into the house to watch television.

But I'm not through with you yet, wood.

Jukebox of the Gods

Take the "T" out of "Trust,"
And all you're left with is rust.

That's the first line of a country song my old friend Michael and I tried to write one time on a trip to Reno. We were sitting in a bar in Fitzgerald's drinking shots of tequila with a cheap beer back while listening to a country band. The band was asking for requests and I kept shouting, "Friends in Low Places." They tried to ignore me, but they eventually gave in and played a weak rendition of the song. They didn't seem too enthusiastic about it, though.

That's when we decided to write our own country song. Michael came up with that first line. "Hey," he said. "Did you know if you take the "T" out of trust, all you are left with is rust?'"

It may have been the tequila, but I thought it was pure "f-in" genius. So I finished the first verse:

Take the "T" out of Trust,
And all you're left with is rust.
Like this old pick-up truck,
Broken down, out of luck.

Take the you out of we,
And all I'm left with is me.
Sitting here all alone,
Staring hard at the phone.

At that point the muse left both Michael and I (I am pretty sure this did have something to do with the tequila) and we never finished the song.

I kind of view that song as a symbol of all of the unfinished things in my life. I've encountered many of those unfinished things I as we purge my house of clutter in preparation to sell it. For example, there's the wooden ship model of the Coast Guard training ship, the Eagle. I started building it in 1983. It will never see the wind beneath its sails.

Then there was the antigue Camelback trunk I was going to restore (I bought it at an auction in 1978...it was pretty much falling apart, rusty and ready for the dump). I spray painted it black and gold, tried replacing the rusted metal parts with copper and was in the process of relining the trunk with cedar. That unfinished process began in 1989. The trunk sold at a garage sale for $5.

Installing my own alarm system in 1992 seemed like a prudent thing to do. I drilled holes, ran wire and installed sensors. I crawled on my belly in the attic to mount the alarm horn and almost crawled over a dead roof rat that had been messing with me for weeks until I resorted to Decon. Even that didn't slow me down in completing that project. Finally I attached the last wire to the control box and plugged it in. The alarm immediately sounded and wouldn't shut off until I unplugged the control box. I walked away from the alarm and never plugged it in again. I eventually put a sticker on my door saying I had an alarm system. It seems to have worked just fine (unlike the alarm).

And there was the photo I found at a flea market back in 1976 that shows a Victorian couple riding on a camel next to the great Pyramids in Egypt. That inspired me to plan to have my photo taken riding a camel through the Valley of the Kings by the time I was 40. Then someone pointed out to me you can't rent camels in the Valley of the Kings. You can only rent camels near the Great Pyramids. Regardless, I've never been to Egypt.

When I was 16 years old, I got a job at the Boise Public Library shelving books. I liked to read and I figured that would be a cush job and keep me from busing tables. Let me tell you that it basically sucked (though I do know the Dewey Decimal System pretty well to this day... the early 300 section used to be pretty racy). But as I wandered through the stacks randomly shoving books on shelves when the librarians weren't watching, I vowed that someday, some poor pimply teenager would be shelfing a book that I wrote.

I started writing a novel in 1990. It's working title was Jukebox of the Gods. I was going to be the next Tom Robbins. I wrote about 150 pages. The plot was pretty simple. It involved the "many-worlds" interpretation of Quantum Physics (including Shrodinger's cat), Elvis (yes, Lights in the Wake...Elvis and Quantum Physics in the same sentence again), an exotic dancer, a conspiracy theory, twins and a jukebox.

Okay, the premise of the "many-worlds" interpretation of Quantum Physics is that "the universal state is a quantum superposition of an infinite number of states of identical non-communicating 'parallel universes.'" In other words, there are an infinite number of parallel universes or "multiverses" that make up "the" universe. None of them overlap, but collectively they contain an infinite number of potentiality. So, that means that in each parallel universe there exists a parallel one of everything, including me. When I turn right in this universe, there is another one of me turning left, one going straight, one stopping, one walking backwards and one hopping around on one leg (and likely one doing the Macarena). Get the point?

In my never completed novel, the main character (a mild-mannered, non-assertive and gentle man recently jilted by his girlfriend) goes to a local dive tavern to lubricate his broken heart. The tavern contains a jukebox with an eclectic collection of songs including the Rodeo Song, How Much for that Doggie in the Window, Freebird, lots of AC/DC and most importantly, Don't Be Cruel by...you guessed it...Elvis. Our jilted friend pops a quarter in the juke box, and punches in the number for Don't Be Cruel. At the exact same nanosecond, a carbon copy of our main character punches the exact same number for the exact same song in a parallel universe. This is a cosmic no-no. It is never supposed to happen. There is a hiccup in the quantum scheme of things and a tear is created in the seam between the two universes. The main character's twin is sucked into our world (remember that Elvis was a twin and his brother died at birth). But, although they look alike, they are mirror opposites in personality.

Now since it was an Elvis song that was the catalyst for this anomaly, there also erupts this frenzy of Elvis sightings in this world. But Elvis is appearing in all of his many parallel universe forms, including as a lazer printer, a St. Bernard and an ATM machine. This triggers activation of secret organization similar to the Freemasons that have just been waiting for signs of the King's second coming.

In the meantime, the twins are struggling to figure out what happened and how they can get the bad twin back into his own world. They meet an exotic dancer at a local strip club who is working her way towards a degree in Quantum Physics. With her help, the twins can separate and in the process, absorb some of the best qualities of each other.

That's it in a nutshell. I like the plot, but it was just all that filling in the gaps that got exhausting. When I started the book, I was writing fulltime in my day job. There is nothing like writing all day and then coming home and sitting in front of the computer to pound out a novel. The 150 or so pages I managed to write are somewhere on a Mac disk. I now work on a PC. Some day I'm going to try an recover those pages.

Before you try and encourage me to "finish what I started," I want to go on record stating that there is a certain Zen-like peace that comes from unfinished projects and dreams. Because, what if I finished the novel? What then? The pressure would then be on to publish it. And if I didn't publish the novel, wouldn't that be more of a failure than not finishing it? Or if I did publish it and the critics raked it over the coals, I would be discouraged and not want to write again because I would have confirmed that I didn't have what it takes to be a writer. Or what if the critics did like it, but the public didn't. Then I still would have failed. And even if the book did sell, there would be all of this pressure to write another one and I'd wonder if it would ever be as good as the first.

Finishing things just doesn't seem worth the anxiety.

But I did write another verse for the country song:

Take the "W" out of "Will,"
And what you're left with is "ill."
That's what this song's making me,
So, I think I'll just let it be.