Tracks

Strange One

I snuck off to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when I should have been finishing something creative of my own, but it turned out to be a good thing. No, I don't think it's better than the original, but I adored it for Tim Burton's sake, because he's my hero even though he loves being a terrible filmmaker. Every Burton film I watch peels away a little more of the humble and sophisticated veneer I've carefully laid over the wretched, extreme eccentric that lies within; I wish I could thank him for that, because it's going to be my salvation. I'm afraid of the fact that Burton-Elfman-Depp is something of a holy trinity to me. Sometimes it just feels good to give in.

The World is Reading

I was going to wait until Harry Potter VI came out in paperback to read it, because hardback books annoy me. (They're heavy and ungainly, and loose-flapping dustcovers piss me off. Plus I'm cheap. There are times when I appreciate an elegant hardback, sure, but not when I'm trying to read the book.) My brother-in-law got it Saturday morning though, and since they only have time to read in the car and weren't going anywhere anytime soon, I spent the last two nights not sleeping. It's good, of course. And shocking. But the person who dies isn't the person everbody was predicting would, and I was just as upset as the next guy will be until I got to really pondering it, and decided she's set the seventh and final book up nicely. It's what had to happen.

I took two precious hours off to sneak in Wedding Crashers, and I want to know something. Why is it that even when Vince Vaughn is pudgy, scruffy, painfully tasteless, and stuffing his face obscenely with cake, he's still hot? I laughed so hard I nearly dislocated the left side of my problem jaw. There wasn't enough menace to Secretary Cleary (my beloved Christopher Walken), but otherwise it's a good couple of hours.

I also read Janet Evanovich's tenth Stephanie Plum installment, Ten Big Ones, in a few hours last Friday. Number ten and they're still funny. I read somewhere that she used to be a romance novelist. When asked why she gave it up, she replied, "because I ran out of positions." What wit.

Girls Love Trucks

I spent all day yesterday getting to know this bad boy. (View Enlarged Photo! Isn't that sexy?) Talk about fun to drive. Automatic, A/C, cushy sliding hydraulic seat, air brakes and a cute airhorn. I wanted to take him home. I had no idea getting my CDL would be this much fun. And I had no idea so many guys get off on a hot chick driving heavy equipment. It worries me. Good thing I'll hardly ever have to do it. Thank you, Neil, for letting me borrow it.

NYC Skyline

Snake Pee

Okay so, the snake pee. We were walking down the steps to the UV (Ultraviolet Disinfection, a worthless 1,500 gallon stainless steel tank full of UV bulbs that hasn't worked right since it was installed) to see if kicking it would help, and Travis said, "oh look." A central loop of rather smallish garter snake was sticking out of a seam in the concrete, sunning itself in the early light before it got too hot. "Grab it." So I hooked the loop with my finger, and sure enough, out came a very pretty little 22-inch brown garter snake. But when I went to grab her head with my other hand, she PEED ON ME. I let go quicker than if she had bitten me. I don't mind bites but pee is another thing. I have no idea where it came from. I didn't ever think about snakes having holes, but I guess they have to. I had to Google 'snake anatomy' when I got home. "You scared the piss out of her!" said Travis. Next time he's picking up the snake.

Play Ball

Serenity

Moose Got Big

New Chevy 4500

Cave

Turrets

K & Carrie Rest

Castle Rock

Dead Aspens

Fossil Butte

Lily

Chicken Creek

Apens and Sage

Peony

Hill (SW Wyoming)

You Know You Want One

Just When

You started to think that your life is more interesting than mine: I got peed on by a snake today.

Simple Pleasures

Today town smelled like something that comes out of a jar at Bath and Body Works, all herbs and peonies withering in the smoldering noon and empty lots full of honeysuckle. I hate stinging insects.

I was driving up Bear River Drive today between Pilot and what used to be Welling Ford, my elbow out the window of my truck. The wind caught the frayed sleeve of my oldest blue Old Navy t-shirt and swirled in and puffed the back up and whipped my hair, and I got catapulted into an August memory of Dad on I-15 in the long blue-gray Cadillac he had before the gold one before his last one, which I've brought home to stay. I was in the back seat doing Mad Libs, drinking plain tonic water out of the plastic bottle. Somewhere in Nevada he turned the A/C off to spare the engine added stress during a climb and rolled down the window, laying his long arm with its soft frizz of gold hair on the sill, and the desert wind caught his shirt just so, like mine today. And this afternoon I slipped a single tear and prayed again that they have Cadillacs and desert highways in Heaven.

Enough

This may sound grumpy, but I have a People Tolerance Quota, and the last two weeks have more than filled it.

Music to the Ear

My life without Britan Marie and her golden curls, after an intense two days of trying to reason with her, subdue her, and sneak off to the bathroom without her, is beautifully silent. We had the alcohol discussion again. In the black-and-white world of a six-year-old, drinking is bad. That's what they tell her at church. She was scolding me for the shot of Crown Royal I downed at a get-together two weekends ago (a bash for her grandfather and great-grandmother, no less, who both died last year, and I wasn't the only one who participated in the memorial toast).

I said, "Bit, I drink beer and wine, and whiskey and tequila sometimes. Am I a bad person? Do you not like me? Do you think I hurt people when I drink?"

She fidgeted and hedged, "Jesus doesn't like it."

"But Jesus turned the water into wine at the Last Supper, didn't he?"

"Well he didn't know better back then!"

I gave up.

Also Brad is gone, the boarder overhead. He bought a little house over on Sage. Who's going to push me out of snowdrifts now? And what will I do without his constant guitar playing? I can do without the singing. Don't tell him I said so. Plus I get his second parking spot for my Cadillac, and that's a bonus.

Speaking of things that sound good, that GM 4.9 Liter V8 with port fuel injection sure has a nice ring to it. It's a kind of silent roar, all that subtle power. Don't get me wrong, I love my Raider and its four little buzzing cylinders, and it's tons of fun to drive, but a Cadillac- any year, but especially '91 on- is pure automotive joy.