Psychic Friend or Foe

It's kind of scary how gullible most people are.

My good friend Rod was a smart kid, and graduated among the top of his class at Platteville High School.

Once he paid Mighty Mo and myself a visit when we lived in Madison, Wisconsin. When he arrived at our apartment, he took notice of my lovely polished swirl-obsidian sphere. His intrigue put me into a position which allowed me to pull his leg a bit... probably more than I should have.

I told him that the sphere was a magical scrying oracle, and that through it, I could see things. He was skeptical at first, but when I began to tell him things about himself that no one could have possible known, he became convinced that I was actually seeing into the dusty corners of his life. All I was really doing was observing his reaction to my suggestions, and coming to logical conclusions. By the time he left our apartment, he was convinced that I had some kind of gift to see into the magical sphere. Mighty Mo had witnessed the entire event, and after the door closed behind Rod, she said "That was amazing!" She thought the performance was legitimate as well, but when I told her that I faked the entire thing, she was angry with me, and made me apologize to Rod.

I called Rod later that day to let him know that the reading had in reality been a ruse, but he refused to believe that I had fooled him, reiterating, that I had told him things that no one could have possible known. I failed to convince him otherwise.

I am definitely not psychic, and I doubt that such a thing exists. Inflection and body language say much more than words alone, and can be easily interpreted by anyone paying attention to such details. It is my opinion that people who claim to be psychic, are in reality, opportunists (scam artists) who play on the physical and vocal responses of their paying clientele, telling them what they already know (to create the illusion of magick), then telling them what they want to hear to keep them coming back to buy more insight.

Dicky B - Artistique Magnifique

Santa Cruz Lighthouse by Richard M. Bennett

Santa Cruz is home to hundreds of talented artists. I've heard it said that a person can't swing a dead cat without hitting one here. While much of the Santa Cruz art community focuses on whimsically light-minded projects that often appear to me to be an unnecessary waste of materials, the work of Richard M. Bennett is beautiful and breathtaking... like real life.

An artist of exceptional talent... a real artist, "Dicky B" is comfortable working in many different mediums, such as water colour, oil, bronze, CAD and etc., and has accumulated hundreds, (maybe thousands), of pieces, some of which are stored at his home on the east side of Santa Cruz where he lives with his wife Ann. Mighty Mo and I had the opportunity to attend the Richard M. Bennett Mother's Day open studio earlier this month, and were able to chat with the artist and his wife.

The artist working on a new project.

A member of the Santa Cruz Art League, Mr. Bennett's work can be found all across America.. and beyond. Mr. Bennett is the only Santa Cruz artist who has drawings on file at the Santa Cruz Surveyor's Office.

Fight Club Training

You can't grow up in Tooele without learning a little something about fighting.

Xtra Files 4: Counting Sheep or Two Shakes of a Dead Lamb's Tail - Remembering the Infamous Sheep Incident at Dugway

Tooelean Twilight Phantom

In the early morning hours of March 14, 1968, I was fast asleep in my cozy little bed, seemingly safe from monsters and bogy-men, while outside a winter storm raged. Not too far away, somewhere in the stormy twilight sky, a Phantom F-4 fighter-jet fitted with a special canister containing the highly toxic VX chemical-nerve agent headed out across the Great Salt Lake Desert on what should have been a "routine" open-air, chemical-weapons test. Blinded by the snow storm, the pilot skillfully navigated his way over the snow-covered alkaline mud flats of Skull Valley as though he had done it a hundred times. The dense quiet of snow falling at Lone Rock was briefly interrupted by the thunderous sound of the Phantom's two powerful J79 engines as it passed over the unpopulated landmark. Visually stealthed by the storm, the warcraft continued on course southward towards its target.Nearby, at Dugway Proving Grounds, located about forty miles southwest of where I slumbered, the US Army was conducting a routine, open-air, chemical-weapons test. Except for the storm, everything seemed routine, but on this particular blustery morning, something went terribly wrong. The F-4 was scheduled to employ a 300-gallon TMU-28 spray-tank canister over a specified target, but unfortunately, it failed and began to vent from beneath the jet as it maintained its scheduled flight-path. The powdery aerosol nerve agent continued to spew from the faulty canister as the Phantom thundered over rangelands populated mostly by thousands of sheep. Particulates of the highly toxic VX chemical mingled with snow flakes that tumbled and danced their way to the ground, contaminating the snowy desert below.

XO Infamous Sheep Incident OX

The result was the death of more than 6,000 sheep,* and a host of other wild animals and birds. The toxic carcasses of the poisoned animals were sent to a central location in the desert where mass graves were dug, and the bodies which had become gelatinous (a gruesome side effect of VX) were buried and forgotten. The US Army denied any involvement, but agreed to pay the herdsmen for their financial losses... to $hut them up. They did a pretty good job of covering up the story, but people knew that something had happened, and assumed that some gas had drifted from the test site and poisoned the sheep. No one knew for sure... except the army, and they weren't talking.

Whiffs - Not a Gas

Unfortunately for the government, the sheep incident, as it has come to be known, didn't go entirely unnoticed, and stirred up a bit of media attention. In 1974 my small town of Tooele (pronounced too-ill-uhh), was all a-buzz when it was made known that a big-time Hollywood movie company was coming to town to make a film. Lots of Tooelians were cast as extras,** to appear on the big screen, in Whiffs starring Elliot Gould. This was Gould's first movie following the critically acclaimed box-office s*m*a*s*h, M*A*S*H. There were lots of other celebrities*** in the film too, but unfortunately, it wasn't very good. .

"We don't want to kill the enemy... we just want to make him a little sick."
Eddie Albert as Col. Lockyer in the 20th Century FOX film, WHIFFS 1975

Whiffs' title song was nominated for an Oscar in 1975, but other than that, the mis-managed movie didn't make much of an impact, and lingered about as long as a fart in a windstorm. Whiffs did have an interesting premise, with lots of promise. Based, very loosely on the incident at Dugway, Whiffs is a fictional dark comedy about a government human test guinea pig, (played by Gould), who's health and quality of life is permanently impacted by repeated exposure to chemical weapons. Since he's no longer of any use to the army, he's forced to take an early retirement. He gets back at the system by stealing from the chemical weapons stockpile at Duggum**** Proving Ground, then unleashes chemical warfare on my home town. This was accomplished in part by a yellow and blue, bi-plane that flew a grid over Tooele spraying us with gas... crop-duster style. When my small city of about ten-thousand people was completely incapacitated, the banks were robbed, and the hero made his climactic getaway.

Geofrey Cambridge as Dusty spraying Tooele with a chemical weapon
in the 20th Century FOX Film, WHIFFS 1975

During the filming of Whiffs, the bi-plane spewed Hollywood smoke***** as it flew all around town for what seemed like days. It was closely followed by a helicopter that filmed it canvasing our town with a grid of "gas." It was exciting to watch. My friend Albert Buck and I rode our bikes to the Tooele City Airport, a desolate landing strip beyond the westerly edge of town, to sneak a peek at the unusual aeroplane. I had never seen a bi-plane before, except on TV, so I was anxious to look at it up close. Soon it approached the runway from the south, landed and taxied to the fueling area where we were waiting to inspect it. Located a few hundred feet on the opposite side of the runway, and over an old barbed-wire fence to keep out cattle, the Tooele Army Depot, keeper of the majority of America's chemical weapons stockpile, loomed quietly, as if watching. Sprawling across the valley to the foothills on the other side, thousands of bunkers, warehousing the implements of war, spotted the landscape like nervous goose bumps on Mother earth. A grim reminder of the reality of chemical warfare... in my own back yard.

Forty Years Later

Today, forty years later, America's chemical weapons' stockpile has been destroyed at the Tooele Chemical Agent Disposal Facility located at the Deseret Chemical Depot about twenty miles south of Tooele.

Dugway Proving Grounds remains operational, and continues to produce America's latest and greatest biological weapons. DPG is sometimes called Area 52, or the new area 51, probably because of all the unmanned aircraft/drone research and development taking place there these days.

*Counting sheep+ means something quite unique to this Tooelean. Fortunately we can all rest well knowing that our government doesn't lie to us anymore. Sleep tight tonight my little sheep.


** Including Paula Argus, my high school English teacher who tot me too rite rill good.


*** Eddie Albert, Jennifer O'Neil, Harry Guardino, Alan Manson to name a few.

****Spoof on Dugway Proving Ground, and perhaps alluding to the mass-graves the government dug to hide their dastardly deed.

***** Or was it another governmental chemical or bio-test conducted under the guise of a Hollywood movie?

Begin counting sheep now. Below are 6,000...

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They might just as well have been people had conditions been different.

Electric Leaves

Pictured L to R - Art Emanuel, Mason Rosenberg, Jordan Topf and Luke David

Last night I ventured out into the rain, and drove to the Crepe Place to see one of Santa Cruz' finest new musical ensembles. This was only the second time Electric Leaves Collective* has performed live, even though they sounded as though they've been playing together for a long time. That is in part due to the fact that Bassist Mason Rosenberg and Guitarist Jordan Topf are cohorts in the locally famous, smart-rock band, The Vox Jaguars**. Electric Leaves are nothing like the Vox Jags, (or any of Mason's other bands*** for that matter). The music is written and directed by front man Luke David, who plays keyboards, guitar and vocals. The clever presentation of tones is held cohesively together by the brilliant percussion of Art Emanuel.

As the band played before a large portrait of Robert Zimmerman, the audience consisting mostly of twenty-somethings was captivated by the engaging music. Even the servers took time out of their patron-to-patron marathon to watch the expertise of the musicians. The warm colors inside the Crepe Place nicely offset the cold visible rain falling outside.

I'd see them again.

*Electric Leaves Collective

Jordan at Crepe Place

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=12271866

**The Vox Jaguars

Live at Brookdale Lodge January 2008

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=99384041

*** Including his Harbor High School Band where he plays stand up bass, Mason is in five very different bands.

A duo with Mr.Laser-Smith, Couteau is an Elektronique extravaganza of sounds somewhat reminiscent of Daft Punk.

Live at Metamusic January 2008

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=209030117

Then there's the band formerly known as Pterodactobot http://www.myspace.com/wetrenchgalaxies

I've Always Wanted to Fly

My friend Ronaldo recently asked, "If you could be any animal, what would it be?"

"Well," I said, "I've always wanted to fly, but I couldn't live without my fingers... therefore I would have to be one of those Flying Monkeys from the Wizard of Oz."

#9 or John Lennon Killed 27 Years Ago Today

I can't believe its been twenty-seven* years. When my best friend Jon called, I was standing in the kitchen. The first words out of his mouth were, "Hey, did you hear that John Lennon is dead?" I was shocked and stunned... surprised how hard the news hit me. I mean, I didn't even know John Lennon... not personally anyway. On the other hand, I did know him, probably better than anyone else I didn't really know. I had all of his records, except for the Wedding Album, and could even sing along to parts of Unfinished Music #2... a true die hard fan.

Not for the literalist

John Lennon was a clever and witty lyricist. His words have appeal on many levels, and seem to speak to everyone personally. The world knows his music well, and ranks it among the classics, yet his books are almost unknown. I love to read John's books. His comedic masterful use of word play is taken far beyond most peoples' ability to comprehend and understand. I larfed historically.

Everyone loves you when you're dead

You know, it is kind of funny, (funny is a funny word for it), how right before John was murdered, he wasn't well liked by the masses. In my sphere, he was considered to be a has-been who had been out of the biz for a long time, and wasn't really interesting anymore. When he died, suddenly everyone was his biggest fan.

*Numerologically, 27, is 2+7

"Turn me on dead man" (Revolution #9 backwards) John Lennon

Goodby Uncle Bill

I was at the flea market* thumbing through a stack of old dusty records when I heard my cell phone ring. "Mom... why would she be calling right now?" I wondered. "Hi mom, what's up?" I said. There was a loud electronic speaker playing sappy fifties music positioned about four feet in front of me which made it impossible to hear my mother. I quickly moved to an area where I could hear what she had to say. I stepped behind a blue van where it was quiet, and my mom informed me that my Uncle Bill had passed away this morning. The news was painful and took me completely by surprise. When I got off of the phone, forcing back the tears, I stepped back into the crowd and felt as though I was moving in slow motion as the hoards of people swarmed chaotically around me. Drowning on suppressed emotion, I floated along down the river of market-place shoppers. I needed to explode with emotion, but somehow tediously managed to contain the seemingly imminent eruption. As I reflected on the weight of the moment, a rebellious pair of tears escaped and attempted to get away. I found them hiding under my chin and quickly captured them with the sleeve of my jacket.

When I got home, I stood on my deck to be alone and think about Uncle Bill. Chairman Meow sensed my sorrow and got up from his sunny spot to walk over and nudge his head affectionately against my ankle. Vines reached down to me from above and I remembered the thick vines covering the front side of Uncle Bill's home in Rose Park. As a small child I had been fascinated by their mysterious ability to climb and cover the wall. Inside his house, through the living room, down a long hallway and in the last room on the left, I sat with Uncle Bill and watched men walking on the moon... on TV. I watched fuzzy black and white images from a cozy bean bag chair, the first one I had ever seen. On the shelves were books, jars full of pennies a Geiger Counter and other curiosities. He always had something interesting to show me.

Uncle Bill was an avid listener to Salt Lake's local talk programs, and became a regular caller. He turned me on to talk radio when I was pretty young, and I heard him call KTKK and KALL on numerous occasions. He was especially fond of listening to Bob Lesch and Golden Delicious (Donald Packard) when I was living in Salt Lake in the early nineties.

Uncle Bill was afflicted with diabetes, but even when he lost his eyesight, he didn't allow that to thwart his activities. Although completely blind, he built a room onto his home and rebuilt a classic automobile completely by sense of touch. He even taught himself to play piano. I remember him playing Scott Joplin's Entertainer with absolute precision. I was impressed.

The cruel disease of Alzheimer's eventually stole his brilliant mind, and the last time I saw Uncle Bill, he didn't remember very much, but he could still whistle familiar tunes. We shared a special moment as we whistled a song together in harmony. It was so good to be able to connect with him.

Condolences to my sweet Aunt Mae who loved Uncle Bill with all her heart, and to their three children and their kids.

*On another sad note, this weekend marks the end of a Santa Cruz tradition. The flea market and drive-in are closing permanently to make way for more hospital expansion.

William Charles 1925-2007
Santa Cruz Drive In 1947-2007

SKI ALTA

I learned to ski at Alta. That says so much.... but I'll say a little more about this resort located at the top of Little Cottonwood Canyon, a handful of miles South East of Salt Lake City.

I wasn't allowed to ski until I was capable of doing it without any parental assistance. My dad was adamantly opposed to skiing, and has always said that, "There are two kinds of skiers... those who have broken their leg, and those who will break their leg." and there was no way he would be party to that, but he did allow me the freedom to go skiing, as long as he had nothing to do with it. So, when I turned sixteen, I could drive myself to the ski areas, but I didn't own any ski equipment. Fortunately, I had a friend who could help me with that. Merlin had been skiing for several years already. He rented his equipment from Tooele Army Depot. Since both his parents worked there, he could rent all his gear for five bucks. Neither of my parents worked at the Depot, but not to worry... Merlin's mother decided to adopt me... so to speak. She claimed me as her son, and I was issued a photo ID with my new claimed surname. Perfect! Now I could ski cheap. There was a large assortment of the newest and best skis to choose from, which afforded an opportunity to rent a different brand every week, and test a variety of equipment. We even obtained coupons for half-off lift tickets there. Good old government excess.

My first time

It was twilight as I began loading my skis, poles, and boots into the back of my dad's red and white Chevy pickup, still surprised that he had allowed me to drive his truck to a ski resort. I was glad. I started the engine and allowed it to warm up as I brushed off about an inch of light fluffy snow. The powdery whiteness easily brushed away like feathers. I brushed off a bit of the feathery substance from the red and black Indian-rug style seat cover, and scooted my rear end into driving position. I picked up Merlin and Trujillo, and we were on our way. Looking westerly acrossTooele valley, I could see Deseret Peak illuminated by the first rays of the sun.

There were already gaggles of vehicles in the parking lot when we arrived. Alta! The majestic mountains towered over me. Somewhat intimidated by the spectacle, I put on my boots, which I had rehearsed at home. Then, fumbling with the awkward skis, I did my best to carry them like Merlin who made it look so easy. I could barely control my skis, and they weren't even on my feet yet. We made our way to the ticket booth, and presented the cashier with coupons and cash. In return, she gave us our passes, a bell shaped wire, and a sticker. I watched Merlin thread his wire through a zipper loop on his coat, then peel and fold the sticker in half over the wire. He made it look easy, like he had done it a thousand times. I did my best to emulate his performance, but mine didn't look nearly as neat . My fold didn't match up perfectly, therefore sticky portions of my pass were exposed around the edges, and had to be folded over in an visually untidy manner. But that was the least of my worries. Now it was time to strap on the skis.

I had grown up embracing winter and was no stranger to snow dynamics. I had plunged down steep hillsides on inner-tubes, sleds, and Snerfers. I had hooky-bobbed behind automobiles, bikes, motorcycles, snowmobiles, etc. Nothing prepared me for the experience of strapping boards to my feet and flying down a mountain. When I finally locked in, (which was no easy task), it was worse than learning how to walk all over again. I knew how to walk, but those rules no longer applied. I pushed myself along with my poles, my arms doing 99.97% of the work, (there was a slight breeze), and grabbed hold of the tow rope. I grappled with the cumbersome contraption, and steadily maintained balance as it pulled me across the base of the resort. Ahead, I could see that people were skating away from the tow, and then ascending what seemed like a steep grade which led to a lift. I still hadn't fallen down, and barely maintained balance as I slowly made my way up the grade. It was cold, but I was hot, sweaty and out of breath by the time I made it to the top. As we stood in the long line, I watched closely how the chair was being boarded. I stood sandwiched between Trujillo and Merlin and it was our turn to slide into position. As the chair ahead of us quickly hoisted two passengers away, we made our way to the red line where we were to wait for the chair to come around. It was there before I knew it and scooped us up into the air. As I peered about the canyon from my perch high above the slope, I beheld a beautifully sculpted snowy landscape. Branches of fir trees were weighted by snow as skiers made their way proficiently down the mountain. They made it look so easy. I figured that if all these people could do it, surely I could. After all, I was a natural born athlete capable of incredible things.

Ahead I could see the top of the lift. Merlin instructed me to keep the tips of the skis pointed up as we approached the exit station. I hadn't been afforded the opportunity to observe others exiting, so I was basically on my own to figure it out as the snowy ground met the slick undersides of my skis. Merlin turned away to the left, and Trujillo to the right as I continued straight ahead and came to a stop without falling.

"OK, what do I do now?" I asked, hoping for some expert instruction. "You just ski" Merlin proclaimed. Then he turned and began skiing down the mountain, swooshing back and forth and finally fading into the plethora of proficient skiers. Trujillo was soon gone in like manner, and I was on my own to learn how to ski. I stood motionless pondering the techniques of the others around me. Small children scooted past me skiing away effortlessly. Before me was an incredibly steep slippery slope, and an excessive amount of gravity. It looked so easy, and I hadn't fallen yet, but that was about to change. Down the mountain I plunged with barely any knowledge of how to turn the planks attached to my feet. Knowing I would die, or worse, break my leg, I fell over and tumbled to a stop. One ski had detached from the boot in the fall, so after getting back on my feet, I struggled for a few minutes to click the boot into the binding. Then I was off again, this time, out of control, I lost balance and began to fall over onto my left side. Naturally, I attempted to catch myself with my right leg, but the attached ski prevented the move and I tripped and fell spectacularly. My knee hurt terribly, and in my head I could her my Dad saying, "There are two kinds of skiers... those who have broken their leg, and those who will break their leg." Fortunately, it wasn't broken, but had been twisted unnaturally, and hurt quite badly. But it didn't stop me from trying again. I spent most of the rest of the morning learning how to fall and get back up again. We met up at the truck for lunch. Merlin had a peanut-butter-pickle-banana-tuna sandwich, and Gatorade. After washing down my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a bag of Lay's potato chips with an ice cold Coca Cola, we returned to the slopes, and by the end of the day, battered and bruised, I could ski.

GI-Joe is NOT a Doll

According to Hasbro (and I agree) - GI-Joe is NOT a doll! He is an action figure. Action, being the definitive term to describe my GI's-Joe. I'm sure that other kids had fun with their nearly 12" plastique friends, but I took my action figures to levels achieved by no other kid.

What Colour is Joe's Parachute?

Joe wasn't afraid of heights. One day he and I had been hiking in Zion National Park... one of his favorite places... and mine. When I got to the top of a particularly high cliff, I began to prepare Joe's parachute, which I had fashioned from a model rocket recovery system. The chute had functioned perfectly in trial jumps. Joe had been practice jumping from the top of my house, the tower at school, and other high places for some time now, and he was ready for the BIG jump. With his parachute prepared, I drew back, and thrust him outward away from the cliff as far as possible. I certainly didn't want him to get tangled and trapped on the face of the cliff on his way down. The chute unfurled, filled with air, and I watched Joe float thousands of vertical feet, swinging back and forth, as he slowly spiraled his way to valley floor. I got on my tummy and peered over the edge of the cliff, sticking my head out as far as possible. I continued to watch until the orange and white striped parachute disappeared from sight. I descended as quickly as possible and searched along the Virgin River in the area I suspected he may have landed, but I never saw my friend again. I hope he found a good home.

Fly Naked Rocket Man

Using Estes Model Rocket Engines, I had had lots of success with an experimental rocket sled I had built for Joe, and now it was time for the next step. To protect Joe's head, I had acquired a white helicopter helmet from another action figure of the same size. The white helmet was smooth and somewhat aerodynamically shaped. Perfect for our experiment. Joe was about to test fly a rocket pack. To prevent his clothes from being burnt by the mighty D 12-3 rocket engine, Joe flew naked on the maiden flight. The engine was secured to his back, with black electrical tape wrapped around his waist. Wearing only black boots and a white helmet, Joe's stance would hopefully send him soaring skyward once the engine ignited. The countdown began: "10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1, ignition!" I pushed the button, and the engine ignited, sending Joe tumbling across the backyard. He finally lodged into the base of a large and foreboding rose bush. Eventually the engine ran out of fuel, and three seconds later the recovery charge blew, leaving the back side of the helmet somewhat melted and charred. Further inspection revealed that Joe's boots were a bit melted and burned, and he had a scar on his right cheek, no doubt from the rose bush.

The Undersea World of GI-Joe

Joe was the deep-sea diver. He wore a brass coloured old-style diving helmet, with a full body suit. Lead weighted boots and belt allowed him to sink, and a tube could be blown into to provide Joe with enough buoyancy to rise from the deep and resurface. He was prepared for the deepest depths. Joe had been down for quite a long time. He was attached to a long hundred foot kite string busily exploring the bottom of Puffer Lake as my friends and I rowed about the surface in a yellow rubber raft. The long tether was secured to the raft for Joe's safety. I wouldn't want him to get lost at the bottom of a deep volcanic lake. When it came time to paddle ashore, I reeled in the long string, only to find that Joe had come untied, and was somewhere at the bottom of the lake. There was no hundred-foot-long tube to inflate his suit, and I never saw Joe again. Later, as the last light of the day faded, we listened to a live radio broadcast as President Richard Milhouse Nixon resigned from office. I was the only kid in my entire fourth grade class who hadn't voted for Nixon when we held our classroom elections. I received ridicule and scorn, but I got the last laugh. I felt vindicated by the news, yet still saddened at the loss of my friend Joe.

Joe of the Jungle

Joe was no stranger to the jungle, or extreme danger. My mother's flower garden in the back yard was the perfect jungle environment for a mine field. For the mines, my brother and I used blasting caps which were wired to a large and heavy plunger located about twenty feet away, around the corner of the house. When Joe stepped on a mine, I pushed down with all my body mass, as the gears in the plunger moved with resistance, and generated enough electricity to detonate the blasting cap under Joe's foot. Joe immediately fell over with a tumble. His hard plastique foot was barely damaged by the blast. Just for fun, we pulled one of his arms out of socket and placed a blasting cap inside his chest cavity. Again, I pushed down the plunger with all the force my small frame could muster. After a loud bang, we inspected Joe to find that jagged edged metal chards protruded out of his body, and his inner rubber band assembly which held his arms in place, had been severed. War is so ugly. 

Astro - NOT!

The Astronaut was probably the coolest GI-Joe of all. He even had a space vehicle fashioned after the Mercury capsule. It came with a little floppy-plastic 45 RPM record of John Glen's historic orbital flight which I played a thousand times. I can still remember Glen's scratchy voice saying, "Roger, the clock is operating, we're under way... a little bumpy along about here." I always dreamed of releasing Joe in his capsule from an orbiting position, ever to fly over the Earth, with a possibility of outlasting all the inhabitants below. I never achieved this dream, but who knows? It may someday be a reality.

Friends/Fiends #1 - The Ice and Fire Man

Everyone called him Boob. It was short for 4B (BBBB) which was short for his longer nickname, Booby Baby Bobby Bryan. He had received the notorious name sometime in grade school, or possibly even earlier... I don't know exactly when, but it was a well established monicor by the time I met Boob sometime in my early teens. His younger brother Jim (6B1J or Booby Baby Boby Bryan's Baby Brother Jimmy) was one of my best friends, and lived only a block away. Apparently, Boob hadn't changed much since those early days of Boobery, and was still viewed as an arrogant know-it-all by most of his peers. Boob was smart, but never learned how to socialize, therefore he came off as a bit of a snob. He was actually a pretty nice guy once you got to know him, but he certainly was opinionated... about everything, which made him a bit difficult to be around. One thing Boob had going for himself, at least as far as Jim and I were concerned, was that he had access to his parent's automobiles, and could take us to Salt Lake.* On one such occasion, 4B, 6B1J and myself had gone to the big city to catch a movie, and hang out. We were in Boob's father's blue and white Ford pickup truck, and had been through the drive-through at Arby's to get some cool drinks. We quickly consumed the cool liquid, and were left with large wax cups still nearly half full of ice. Jim and I (not Gemini) began using our straws to shoot small chunks of ice out the window at drive by targets such as cars, signs, and even pedestrians. We were having a ball, and began throwing the remaining larger chunks of ice that wouldn't fit through the straws. We had thrown numerous chunks of ice when Boob, in his usual manner said authoritatively, "Let me show you how to do it." He grabbed a small chunk of ice from Jim's cup and threw it from his window at the next oncoming car. Direct hit! Unfortunately the car turned around and gave chase. We could see that it was a man with short hair and a moustache driving an early 70's model Pontiac sedan. He followed us for several blocks, when Boob decided to get on the freeway in hopes of losing his potentially hostile pursuer. Unfortunately the sedan stayed in hot pursuit, so Boob took the next exit, and turned down one of the streets. We hadn't gone very far when suddenly there was a roadblock, and before we knew it, a bunch of men in uniform had surrounded us. They quickly removed us from the truck, separated us, and began to interrogate us. They were firemen, and Boob had unwittingly taken us directly past a fire station... and not just any fire station.

As it turns out, the person Boob hit with ice was an off duty fire chief, and had used his two way radio to stay in contact with his buddies at the station who set up the blockade. He claimed that he had been hit in the face by a chunk of ice, and pointed to an old scab as evidence. At that point I began to wonder if he had been hit at all... maybe his car, but no chunk of ice that Boob threw caused the injury the moustached man claimed.

A policeman issued Boob a citation, which meant that soon he'd have to appear before a judge in Salt Lake... and would need to borrow the truck again. He certainly didn't want his parents to know about the ice and fireman incident, so he used the excuse that he needed the car to get to work. Boob was a cook at the truck stop in Lakepoint, and frequently used the family vehicles to drive the ten or so miles to and from work. A seemingly perfect plan. No one would ever know... except that on this particular occasion, an unprecedented event occurred... Boob's parents decided they'd have dinner at the truck stop that evening.

When Boob's parents arrived at the truck stop, they saw a stranger in the kitchen. The waitress soon arrived at their table to take their order and they introduced themselves as Boob's parents, and requested to speak with their son. They were told that she hadn't seen him, and that Boob wasn't scheduled to work that day.

When Boob finally got home, he had a lot of explaining to do.

* Tooele was a good thirty + miles from Salt Lake, and riding freight trains was always a bit sketchy... It was easy to get to Salt Lake, but getting back to Tooele was a bit more challenging. Sometimes the train wouldn't stop where we needed it to, and we'd have to backtrack on foot, or catch another freight train that may or may not stop at Warner Station outside Tooele. The best place to ride is on top of freight cars, but some of them don't have ladders to the top, so we'd position ourselves between two cars, put our feet on one car and our hands on the other, arching our backs, and extending our bodies from one car to another, we'd inch our way up the ribbed exterior of the box cars. That was the easy part. When we got to the top, our bodies extended horizontally across the chasm nearly fifteen feet in the air, we'd have to make one hard lunge, and pull ourselves on to the top. Failure was not an option. It was an easier task to perform before the train was in motion. One night, we boarded one of the empty engines, and I stepped on what felt like a body. I didn't stick around to find out if it was... or who it was.

Checkmate

I have a couple of friends who are serious practical jokers, unfortunately, there's nothing practical about their jokes which usually cause more harm than smiles. I suspected that they were up to something, so I devised a plan to beat them to the punch. I was staying at my brother-in-law's home in Salt Lake, and invited them to pay me a visit. When they arrived, I had them sit down while I went outside for a moment. When I returned, I was wearing latex gloves, and holding two white business size envelopes. I handed the envelopes to each of them, and they immediately opened them, and removed the contents, a blank white piece of paper in each. They looked closely to see if there was something they were missing. I asked, "How are you at reading between the lines?" With confused expressions, they each held their blank white paper up to the light hoping to reveal the mystery. After sufficient handling, I gathered their papers, returned them to their respective envelopes, took them back outside, and secured them in the trunk of my car. When I returned, I removed the latex gloves, and said, "Checkmate." They looked at each other wondering, had they been had, and what was I was up to? "I want to thank you guys for putting your fingerprints all over those envelopes and papers." I said. Suddenly they looked concerned... they knew they'd been had. "And if you guys ever play one of your little jokes on me, you never know who might receive a threat letter addressed from you with your grubby little fingerprints are all over it." I said. They looked at each other rather sheepishly, and I could tell that they had been planning something.

Dynamite & I Don't Mean Maybe

None of the other kids in the neighborhood had crates of dynamite and blasting caps in their garage... For some reason it didn't seem that strange to me. After all, my older brother of eleven years was a successful mineral collector, and explosives were simply part of his procurement of semiprecious stones. His mineral collection was as good as any I have seen both in or out of a museum. When I was about seven years old (just a tot), he taught my friend Albert and I how to make gun powder. We spent hours grinding and combining the ingredients, and when we were all done, we had a medium size peanut butter jar full of good old fashioned homemade gunpowder... just in time for the 24th of July festivities. Our family spent a lot of time vacationing in Panguitch during the summer, and found ourselves there on the 24th rather regularly. I was thrilled, and had great expectations about lighting off my jar of gunpowder. I assumed that there would be bright flash accompanied by a big boom, and the anticipation to find out grew as the evening approached. As it was getting dark, I took my jar of wonder, and placed it in the middle of the concrete walkway in front of grandma's house. I had made a hole in the top of the lid, and put a waterproof fuse through it, pushing it deep into the powdery filament. I lit the fuse, and ran back to my family who were watching from about fifty feet away. Finally, the fuse burned down, and ignited the contents, but there was no explosion, and no bright flash. Rather, the contents burned slowly, like a sparkler, and after a couple of minutes, it completely burned up, and melted the glass jar. In the morning, I picked up the melted jar and examined it. Pretty cool experiment I thought. Too bad Albert missed it.

Greggery Peccary's Infamous Skunk House

He hated it when we called him Greggery Peccary, but the name stuck, and was later shortened to simply Peck. He had been working full time at a machine shop at nights, while attending the University of Utah during the day... getting very little sleep. He almost had his degree in architecture secured, and all that remained for him to do was the final project which was unfortunately due the following day. Peck had been so busy with work and school that he hadn't taken time to work on it at all. It wasn't a simple project either. He had to design some kind of dwelling, and build a scale model of it. All of the projects would be displayed in the courtyard of the ZCMI Center, and each auctioned off to the highest bidder. I couldn't wait to see Peck's project. Next day, I went to the mall to see the display. Impressive! Some of these guys obviously spent hundreds of hours, and a considerable amount of cash constructing their scale models of buildings, houses, and other dwellings. Finally, there it was, an old hollow stump painted black and labeled simply, "Skunk House." When I asked Greg about it, he said that when he got off work, he drove to the mountains where he found a partially hollow stump. He threw it into the back of his little Mazda pickup truck and took it home. There he hollowed it out a bit more, and painted it black, allowed it to dry overnight and woulah, le projekt komplete. Someone even purchased it, and took it home with them. I wonder where it is today. I wonder where Peck is today. I haven't seen him since before the war.

CONGRADUATIONS!

I know a handful of really good kids who recently graduated.

Kirsten, my daughter, finished eighth grade at B-40 and is going on to high school next year, (that means I'll have two kids in high school at the same time... no wonder my hair is so gray).

Michelle, my very special and only niece, graduated from WX High School.

Dylan, mine eldest Mueller, has completed his requirements at Park City High School.

Stephen (Laser-Smith from my son Mason's band, Pterodactobot), finished Harbor High School.

Trevor, (from Mason's band Vox Jaguars), graduated from Santa Cruz High School.

GONGRATS and good luck to all of the graduates of 2007.

Guineapig Man - Son of Guineapig Man

The sterile corridor of the hospital echoed with a cold feeling of emptiness as we walked and talked, en route to visit my friend Joey. He wasn't sick, or hurt... rather, he was selling his body to science by taking part in a double blind study for a "new" medicine for "sour stomach." I don't like hospitals, doctors* or medicine, and I thought it strange that Joey was so willing to take part in something like this, but at the same time I respected his quest for unusual experiences. He loved that kind of thing. At the end of the long hallway, we came to a set of double locked doors. There was an intercom on the wall which we used and gained entrance after we were cleared by security. It looked like any regular hospital, only not as hospitable. The only notable difference were the bunk beds. Four people shared one small room. Joey had one of the lower bunks. He sat there in his hospital gown grinning as we entered his room. I said, "How's my little Guineapig Man?" We weren't allowed to stay long because visiting hours were nearly over, and we soon exited the same way we had arrived.

Joey's father had had cancer for many years, and had endured all kinds of medical tests and experimentation. Joey wanted me to help him write a song about his father's** experiences, and call it, "Guineapig Man." He played the guitar, demonstrating the three chord progression, while humming the melody, and singing the chorus which he had already written. He asked me to write the remainder of the lyrics*** for the song. I accepted, and here is the end result.


They poke him
And prod him
And check him for worms

They slice him
And dice him
And smile as he squirms

They bleed him
And sample his urine
and stools

He's taunted by gadgets
and specialized tools

He's a Guineapig Man
He's a Guineapig Man

They're keeping him happy
Laughing and blind
In the name of Science
In the name of Mankind

They mold him
And fold him
Into their constitution

Corrupting his soul
with lies
And pollution

He's a Guineapig Man
He's the Guineapig Man

They're shaping his mind
To do what he's told
Rejection!
He doesn't fit the mold

They gave him his rights
They gave him what's left
They gave him his life
And they'll give him his death

He's the Guineapig Man
He's the Guineapig Man

They teach us
They train us
They brainwash us too

We're all here together
In this crazy zoo

They shake us
And break us
And there's nothing you can do

By now you know
The Guineapig Man is you

You're the Guineapig Man
You're the Guineapig Man


* According to Reuters, in the United States, doctors are directly responsible for nearly 300,000 unnecessary deaths annually. Just think how many they permanently maim. Where's the outcry?

** Joey's father eventually succumbed to the cancer and passed away.

*** There are actually two versions of Guineapig Man. Joey wrote a version which we recorded and released on the Something New? Ipso Facto release back in 1987. The beginning of the song features the sound of his father snoring. Joey had sneaked into his dad's room in the middle of the night and recorded him snoring on his little four track recorder.

Erin and Aaron - Their BIG Day

A very special congratulations to my good friends Erin and Aaron on this, their wedding day. I suggested that they change their last name to Aaronson, but I don't think they'll take me up on it.

Circumdecision

My friend and associate, Ronaldo, claims that he is angry that he was circumcised as an infant without his permission. He told me that if he ever has a son, there is no way in hell he would have him circumcised. I asked him, "If your son is born a conjoined twin, joined at the foreskin, what will you do?"
Several years ago I was working as a pharmacy tech in Salt Lake City. Two of my colleagues were expecting their first child. They knew from the ultrasound that they were having a son, so one day, while speaking with the mother to be, I inquired concerning their decision on circumcision. I was told that they were planning to circumcise the little guy. After a lengthy discussion on the pros and cons, the best reason she gave was "Dad is circumcised, and we want him to look like dad." I asked, "If dad loses his arm in the war, do you cut off the kid's arm so that he'll look like dad?"

"Snip snip, slice slice, just me and my little knife. Can you believe it?"