Old Reliable

The nice thing about running is, for me, the fact that I can lace up my shoes and head out the door: kazam, I'm running. It does mean that I see a lot of the same sights as I head out into the neighborhood. I have become familiar with most of the local businesses, at least from the street. I'm always interested to find that this merchant or that shop owner has changed their window display, or when some of them have gone out of business. They become blank spots on my path through the 'hood.
There was a whole group of offices that remained vacant for several months. I ran past without much more than a glance through the glass, revealing a cardboard box here, a broken light fixture there. There was little to distract me as I chuffed along purposefully. No distractions. Until the day I came around the corner and spied the new gold paint on the front door of the center office: "Reliable Cremations." Inside there was a desk, a large black chair behind it, and two smaller armchairs in front of it. Immediately my mind began to imagine the interactions that would take place in this room. The calm voice of wisdom coming from the big chair, the confused and grieving concerns from the ones facing the wall. It only occurred to me later how odd it would be to carry on this sort of business with one quarter of the office exposed to the world. I know the sign suggested reliability, but this was nearly Cremations Al Fresco.
There was another odd feature to this place. No matter when I chose to run past it, morning, noon or night, it was empty. I suppose it makes sense that I have never seen a living soul in Reliable Cremations, but it made me wonder when and how these transactions took place. Right up until this weekend, when the ceiling to floor blinds showed up. This came as something of a relief, since for the past few weeks there has been a white coffin parked just to the right of the desk. It made me consider, once again, the nature of this business. Was that a display model? Did they really need more than one coffin? Was that a sign of business getting better, or worse?
So much to consider as the blocks fade into miles, until I am home again, happy to be considering mortality from this side of the window.

Growing Like Some Weed

Once again, I can't help but feel a little cheated. Be honest, didn't you imagine that when marijuana was legalized, it would be California that would be leading the charge? Not that a lot of charging would get done, what with all that hanging around watching Star Trek reruns to do. Sure, I'm fine with the idea that we will be treated to at least a couple hundred thousand more jokes trading heavily on the phrase "Rocky Mountain High," but Colorado?
I suppose it makes some sense that the adopted home of Doctor Hunter S. Thompson would eventually became a haven for the drug-addled masses, but it's not Humboldt County, after all. It feels a little like when all those states hopped on the rainbow wagon for gay marriage after California had done such a nice job getting ready for it. Sixty-five percent of Californians support the legalization of recreational cannabis, and the other thirty-five percent were probably too stoned to take the survey. What's taking so long?
In 1973, when even future presidents were getting baked, Oregon blazed the trail by decriminalizing the possession of less than an ounce of marijuana. You could still get fined and they really wanted you to stay away from schools when you were holding, but you weren't going to get tossed in prison for bringing a little splif . That lasted until 1997, when some real uptight guys decided to harsh on the collective party-heads of the Beaver State. Please don't try to convince me that the founders of this state weren't just a little stoned when they came up with that: Beaver State.
Down Interstate 5, where it was the Governator who knocked the penalty for possession of less than an ounce down from a misdemeanor to an infraction. That was in 2010. It seems that only now are we Californians waking up to the possibilities presented to us by our friends in the Centennial State. Or maybe it's simply that like any good stoner, we don't want to jump up and make a fuss if it's not going to be worth the effort. We'll just hang over here by the beach for a while and groove to some tunes while we wait and see if things stay cool over there across the Continental Divide. In the meantime, we're chill, right?

Out On A Limb

I was up in the tree for the expressed purpose of taking the lights, that I had so carefully placed in those branches a month ago, back down. It is the part of the dance that gives me the satisfaction of a job being complete, but also pains me a bit because I know that I won't be looking out the front window at dusk to see Holiday Magic coming alive. All that magic has been unplugged, rolled up and stuck back in the plastic tubs where it will stay for another eleven months. It is also the second time in a month that I find myself up in a tree.
Before I strung the lights, I took the time to prune away many of the extraneous branches that had popped up over the summer and were creating a challenge for my decorating process. I would like to tell you that my respect for all living things extends to the plum tree in our front yard, but that may not be completely true. Of all the trees on our property, and we have a few, it is the least photogenic. It is also the heartiest, and seems to grow with a will that embarrasses the rest of our shrubbery. That's why I have to give it props, as they say. All that gusto is, however, what makes it necessary for me to hack at it in my voluminous spare time. It continually threatens the phone and cable TV wires coming into our house from the pole outside.
That's why I did what I did. After I had taken the last strand of lights from the branches and lowered them to the ground, I found myself faced with at least a dozen suckers that were sticking straight up into the sky, threatening our communications system once again. I hesitated for a few moments, imagining that I would find myself out there again when the spring came, whittling away at the offending twigs and leaves. When I awoke from this reverie, I climbed back down, went to the garage and came back with the saw.
Don't panic. I didn't cut the whole thing down. That wouldn't have been humane, and it would have taken considerably more time and machinery than I had at my disposal. Instead, I climbed back up to my perch and found the base of the offending branch, a good foot in circumference. The reciprocating saw made short work of this chunk of wood, and soon it was a six-foot long log at on the ground. the overhead wires were safe once again, perhaps this time for good. As I sat there, in that lofty spot, I had a sudden urge to build a tree fort. It has been a while since the last time I had a place where I could sit and watch the world go by, maybe as I ate a snack or read a book. Up with the birds and the low-hanging clouds. I thought of the treehouses I have built in my life. I thought about the feelings of the trees. I appreciated the tenacity of our plum tree once again, and climbed back down to the earth where I belong. 

Longview

It bothers me just a little that my sports heroes are now more than ten years younger than I am. For a long time, I was quite content to hitch my football wagon to a feller names John Elway. He was just a couple years older than I was, and as the golden boy of the Denver Broncos for sixteen years. John was the quarterback that had all kinds of great statistics and undeniable talent who could never quite win the big game. When he finally won a Super Bowl in 1997, I had a lump in my throat when Broncos' owner Pat Bowlen raised the Lombardi Trophy and announced, "This one's for John!" The next year came and he did it again, at age thirty-eight. He was also names Most Valuable Player. He was no fluke or one-hit wonder.
Then he retired. He went on to sell cars, own arena football teams, get divorced and marry a former Oakland Raiders cheerleader. I tried not to pay too much attention. Just like I tried not to pay attention to John's politics. There were plenty of people who supported Mitt Romney. I wouldn't have expected John Elway to be one of them. I was relieved when I could refocus my attention to the football portion of Mister Elway's life as he became executive vice president of football operations of his old team. It was easy for me to imagine him talking Peyton Manning into playing out his career at Mile High Stadium. If you're going to win a Super Bowl at thirty-eight, Denver's the place to do it.
This meant that I had to adjust my feelings toward Mister Manning, who I had always held in high regard for his abilities, but loathed for his ability to pick apart Bronco teams that didn't have a John Elway to run their offense. A pair of thirteen win seasons helped to seal the deal, and I felt comfortable assigning all my fan rays to the man they call "The Sheriff."
Now I await this next round of playoff games, with all those Super Bowl hopes attached to a new guy, one who is thirteen years my junior. I know the clock is ticking, and I try hard not to pay attention to Peyton's business dealings. I don't see red states or blue states. Just a whole lot of Orange.

We Lost Our Tails Evolving Up From Little Snails

One third of Americans reject evolution. That is to say the idea, not the process, exactly. The inquisitive folks at Pew Research Center conducted a survey to take the pulse of our nation's views on just how we all came to be. Thirty-three percent of those who were asked said, “humans and other living things have existed in their present form since the beginning of time.” I suppose the good news is that those who believe “humans and other living things have evolved over time" outnumber those folks two to one, it does give one pause. This one in particular. I live in a house with three people in it, and we all seem to be pretty comfortable with the idea that humans and other living things haven't always looked, acted and experienced life the way we do currently. That's probably because we have been to museums and read as a family. Museums and books that are no doubt full of lies and evil magic, but that means that somewhere there is a family of three where two people don't believe in evolution and one clings to his or her crazy "scientific" beliefs in the face of overwhelming odds.
I would not want to be that person. "Dad, can I go out and play?"
"Do you reject the vile and seditious beliefs?"
"No. We came from apes."
"Don't let your mother hear you say that."
"Why not?"
"Because it would break her heart."
"You mean the one that has recently been found to be genetically linked to a lizard's?"
"That's it! Go to your room!"
"And I'll make sure to close the door with my opposable thumb."
Later that night they will have a dinner of nuts and berries, gathered over the course of the day in their cave lit by what Dad likes to call God Stuff.

How Things Slip Through

Hey guys, I just thought I should point out that there's a hole in the Internet. Actually, there are lots of them. That's why the call it a "Net." It's also the reason why nobody should be surprised when things go missing or appear out of nowhere. All those bits and bytes find it pretty easy to squeeze between the cracks and crevices left unguarded by our ever-vigilant bots and systems.
Costco isn't really trying to get in touch with me to let me know that the sixty-inch plasma TV someone ordered for me got stuck somewhere in transit. That was spam, the potted meat of communication. It's also a drag that the funny hand creme that I ordered for my niece never made it to me in time to send it to her for Christmas. In spite of a number of automated responses that told me my item had been shipped and I tracked it from upstate New York to somewhere in the Midwest, when that magical day came when I would no longer be able to receive, wrap and resend that particular item came and went, I went looking for it. The obsequious folks at BikeworldUSA.com wrote back to assure me that they had sent a prior e-mail letting me know that all their hand creme was sold out until January. I found this odd on two levels: I had received notification that the item had been shipped, along with a tracking number, and since I am obsessive about checking my e-mail including those items that get caught in my mostly diligent spam filter I know that I never received the out of stock notification.
Holes. If I had been interested in making sure that this transaction took place to my satisfaction, I would have found a local establishment willing to sell me this item for cash money. Then I would have driven home, wrapped it, and headed for the airport. At this point, I would have purchased a ticket to Colorado, where I would have been able to deliver this gift by hand. Instead, I chose to deal with the situation in the way I have become accustomed: remote control. I sent a message to the retailer, insisting they credit my account, to which they promptly sent back an automated reply letting me know that they had received my message. A day later I got the personalized apology that detailed the refund process and was there anything else they could help me with?
Not just now, thank you. I'm going to be busy trying to fill in some of those holes.

With A Little Help From My Friends

In the coming year I will resolve to try a little tenderness.
In the coming year I will resolve to let it be.
In the coming year I will resolve to surrender, but not give myself away.
In the coming year I will resolve to never be your beast of burden.
In the coming year I will resolve to hear the secrets that you keep when you're talking in your sleep.
In the coming year I will resolve to never work on Maggie's farm no more.
In the coming year I will resolve to be a bustle in your hedgerow.
In the coming year I will resolve to check out any time you like, but I can never leave.
In the coming year I will resolve to become comfortably numb.
In the coming year I will resolve to imagine there's no heaven.
In the coming year I will resolve to carry on, as if nothing really matters.
In the coming year I will resolve to be a hero, just for one day.
In the coming year I will resolve to taste the bright lights but I won't get there for free.
In the coming year I will resolve to hear them knocked-out jailbirds sing.
In the coming year I will resolve to see a million faces and rock them all. 
In the coming year I will resolve to play the guitar just like ringing a bell.

In the coming year I will resolve to get my motor runnin'.
In the coming year I will resolve to ride through the mansions of glory in suicide machines.

In the coming year I will resolve to rock and roll all night and party every day.