29 June 2010

Arizona

Desert




Until the end of April this year, I had never been to Arizona. I spent some time in a couple deserts in the service (not combat), but it was cold. It was to be my first time in the hot desert, the type of climate every cracked-lip, sweaty thirsty cowboy I saw on TV or the movies suffered through. Two months ago I was very anxious to see if it was hype. Was it really that unforgiving? I’m going to use a bunch more words, but if I could only pick one, it would be “yes”. It is that hot and unforgiving here. But, it’s cool too.

I like to sit outside in the evening here at my hotel in Phoenix, and I’ve noticed something unique about this place. The birds chirp and sing all night. In fact, I hear them more at midnight than at noon. Yeah, I know, that’s because it’s probably too damn hot to chirp at noon, but it’s still something I’ve never heard before. The crickets sing here too, but they don’t look like Midwest crickets. They’re tan, almost invisible against the dirt, and they move much faster than crickets usually do. I have not gotten one mosquito bite since I got here. I saw some rattlesnakes in a pen at a desert museum near Tucson, and an amazing hummingbird display too, and was very impressed at how different the wildlife is here. But, before you think I’m going to sing the praises of the desert fauna, let me tell you about the flora.

Hell is a different thing for each person, and I don’t pretend to speak for everyone, but in my personal vision, even something as benign as a plant would be a horror. I thought I had a good imagination, but after seeing how many different kinds of cacti are out here, I realized that nature has a much better one, and her creations are far more sinister than anything I could dream up. Cacti of all kinds, with spines longer and thicker than your fingers wait in patiently in the heat, waiting for you to fall down. For whatever reason, falling down is the first thing I thought of, which was bad, but of course it had to progress to falling down on a hill, rolling ass-over-teakettle. It really was the stuff nightmares are made of. One cactus in particular struck me as unusually malevolent. It is the Ferocactus wislizeni, or “fishhook barrel cactus”. Here’s a picture of it. The spines on this plant feel like they’re made of the same stuff as fingernails…or claws. They are sharper than you think (yes, I touched them), and if you were unlucky enough to roll over one, I don’t believe it could be extracted without a bazillion stitches and pints of morphine. Never, never fall down a hill in the desert. But, if you get the chance, ride your hawg in the desert during a full moon. Words cannot describe it.

Scum of the Earth



I got out of my hotel in the (relative) cool of the evening this past weekend. It was about 8pm and the sun was going down; it was only 102 degrees, so riding my motorcycle wasn’t like flying through a blast furnace. I could breathe without my nostrils burning, and that’s a good thing. So I was tooling around a strange city, not knowing where I was going, but glad to be out in the saddle. I rode around until I found what I was looking for: a bar with a bunch of motorcycles parked outside. I pulled in, got off, and walked inside.

It never fails to amaze me that there are people who think that walking into a biker bar is akin to wearing a sign that says “stab me”. I remember working with a guy once in another traveling job, and we were looking for a place to eat. I saw a somewhat dilapidated place under a viaduct that had two neon signs, one of a burger and one of a Budweiser logo. I said, “Let’s try that place,” and he said, “Hell no! You’ll get stabbed in there.” I looked at him and said, “No. You’ll get stabbed in there. I won’t.” Because I wasn’t driving, we didn’t eat there, but the point is, if you walk into a blue-collar or biker bar, you won’t have any trouble if you don’t act like you’re better than everyone there.

So anyway, I walked into the bar. It was called the Maverick, on 19th Street in Phoenix. It was like the countless other biker bars I’ve been in. You had your drunks, your bar sluts, your grandma types who knew everyone there, and of course, bikers. Not yuppie dorks riding brand new bikes and wanting to talk ONLY about their chrome doo-dads, but guys (like me) who ride not because it’s the “in” thing, but because we love it. There were some club guys (“gang” members, for those of you who stuck in the 70’s), but no one was even near menacing. Again, if you’re not an asshole, you’ll be alright. Everyone was having a good time. Drinks were cheap, you could smoke, and there was a live band. I don’t know what else you could ask for.

I bellied up to the bar and eventually struck up a conversation with the guy next to me. I had noticed an older bike in the parking lot (the one I parked next to), and it turned out it was his. We talked bikes for a bit, exchanging stories and having a couple beers and laughs. He called himself “Dirty”. I don’t have a cool biker name, but I know a lot who do. So after bike stories, he said his band was playing at the Maverick the next night, and I should check it out. Having absolutely nothing else to do, I readily agreed.

I’ve heard some unbelievably crappy bar bands in my day, and I fully expected Dirty’s band to be at least capable, but not stellar. Everyone who knows me knows my brother has been playing in bar bands since the 70’s, so it’s not like I haven’t been around that scene. To my surprise, I was wrong about Dirty’s band. They were extraordinarily good. They called themselves “Cactus Chainsaw”, and if I had to describe them, I’d say their sound was a very heavy blues rock. Think Pantera and old Black Sabbath, “Satan fingers” and head banging, but not too fast. I believe Robert Johnson himself would be proud. Dirty was the singer, and I’ll be damned if that guy and his band didn’t impress me. After a little internet poking about, I saw that they’ve played the Whiskey-A-Go-Go in Los Angeles, a bastion of 70’s and 80’s hard rock bars. Every hard rock hair band has played there. Very impressive! I told them I would write a plug, so there it is. If you’re ever in Phoenix and see “Cactus Chainsaw” on a flyer or marquis, check them out. They rock. They really do. They got You Tube. Google them and see for yourself.

I wrote that little review because I said I would (and I think they deserve it), but my bigger point is that many people do themselves a huge disservice by dismissing those who exist on the fringes of society (bikers) as the scum of the earth, almost less than human. Yes, they’re crude, and they don’t make tons of money. They (I) ride around on loud motorcycles, they drink and smoke and don’t really care what anyone else thinks about them. I know so many people like Dirty who spend their days struggling through life, yet fully enjoying every single minute of it at the same time. They do what they like. They drink and make music the way they want to make it; they are beholden to no one, and that, my friends, is what makes bikers (and biker bars) so appealing. They smile and cry like every person on the planet, but their smiles don’t belie a hidden agenda. Like everyone, they hope for good fortune, but they don’t crawl over their friends to get it. They know that life is too short to spend it worrying about things they can’t control. If you are looking down your nose at people like that, I feel sorry for you. To paraphrase a Harley bumper sticker, “If I have to explain it, you won’t understand.”

08 June 2010

Quickies

I saw a comedian on TV once, a long time ago when I was in high school. His name was Larry Mule Deer, and one of his many shticks was holding a manual typewriter next to his head and repeatedly tapping one of the keys as he related fake headlines/news teasers. Anyone who watched news in the 70’s knows that news was much more believable if there were clacking typewriters in the background. Imagine clacking typewriters as you read these. They are off the cuff, mostly unedited, and hopefully interesting.


Burger King has, if you believe their commercials, bone-in smoked ribs. No good can come of this. As a rib snob, I’m not sure anything else needs to be said.

Last Sunday, June 6, was the 66th anniversary of D-Day. Both the History Channel (HISTORY CHANNEL) and Discovery, two of the usually watchable channels, had marathons of either Ice Road Truckers or Pawn Stars. I guess it’s fitting, because with their heroic actions, both of those groups helped turn the tide against the axis powers which helped steer the world away from certain tyranny. History channel. For shame.

I can’t decide which satirical show I like better, South Park or Robot Chicken. Both are, to me, exceptionally funny.

I can’t imagine how this guy feels. He was on a walk with his woman with the express intent of proposing to her at the top of the hill. She was struck by lightning and died minutes before they reached the summit. Truth really is stranger than fiction, and far sadder.

04 June 2010

Dreams I Hope You'll See

I think it would be more than a little strange if someone asked me to watch them exercise. I can think of a couple situations where such a thing could prove to be extraordinarily interesting. This isn’t one of those times. Still, I want to ask you to watch me.


As an exercise to write without smoking cigarettes, I wanted to try and concentrate enough to describe a dream. Anything can happen in a dream, and that’s why I love the picture for this one. We all know that there is SO much going on in dreams that it would take years to fully describe them with words, if such a thing were possible. And so I thought it would be a good thing to try to condense a dream into the snapshot that it was, because I have a lot of patience without that pesky nicotine. Harrumph.

For me, the hallmark of good writing is the ability for the words printed on a page to become more than what they are. That is, even though I look at a white page of letters, “little bugs”, as Tarzan saw them, I am transported, vividly, to the scene that the author describes. It’s not the same one the author saw, exactly, but I am able to see the one that really matters, and that’s just all kinds of awesome. When you forget you’re in a chair because you’ve been taken away to another world, well that’s good writing.

I had this dream the other day. It really stuck with me.

I’m standing outside. It’s crisp and cold. The sky is ice blue, a stark contrast to the light white and tan of the terrain. It’s so cold. Fence poles don’t move. Shadows do, but they’re slow. There are a few horses standing on the slope above a ditch in front of me. Some are brown and some spotted, and they’re slow too. There is both ice and water in the ditch. Light brown foam splotches a surface that isn’t liquid but isn’t solid, like a giant dirty root beer float. The horses’ breaths waft lazily, puffs of white smoke against a blue sky. I am squinting in the cold and bright, and there seems time to relax and gather thoughts.

Things started to happen, and I was caught, not frozen, but REALLY SLOW.

The person standing next to me (whom I did not know was there) shot one of the brown horses in the ass. I don’t mean in the cheek, like a cartoon, but right up the ass with a large caliber projectile. The report was deafening. The horse’s tail fluffed and for just a second, everything looked normal. It seemed like it took ten minutes for me to snap my head around to see the shooter, and then look back to the horse.

It shuddered, then stood still. The blues and tans of the scene gave way to bright red. Blood came pouring out from beneath the horse’s tail, soaking its legs. It shuddered again, spraying blood on each of its hindquarters. Its head moved left and right, not panicking, but definitely aware that something was very wrong. It shifted weight from one hind leg to the other, and as each gave out, its entire backside went down. It looked absurdly like it was doing a push up. The ground was hard and frozen and sloped toward the watery ditch. Its front legs tried to hold, but the hooves couldn’t find purchase and it slid down.

The horse took what seemed like forever to slide into the ditch. The farther it went, the wider its eyes became. It made no sound, save for the rushing of its breathing. The panic was palpable. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t look away. At the point where it should have gone completely under, it shifted onto its back, having nudged something beneath it. The carcass of another horse floated up next to the struggling one, bobbed a couple times in the dirty foam, then sank again. The water in the ditch was covering a lot of dead horses.

I turned to the person next to me to speak, but no one was there. I turned back to the horse and saw that only its nostrils and mouth were above water, flaring and chomping at the air. The other person, a man, the man who shot the horse in the first place was standing by the ditch. He was watching it drown, watching it edge closer. It bobbed among the other dead horses, and then he just stepped in to the freezing water and sank up to his waist. He pushed his arms in up to his elbows, causing the rigid legs of one of the bobbing dead horses to knock the dying one’s nose beneath the surface. Bubbles popped as the horse went under, disturbing the slushy foam. The sound froze in the cold. I was powerless to do anything. I watched the man grimace, then pull his arms out of the water, revealing hands that were very recently intact, but now had several fingers missing. I knew that having your fingers snapped off had to hurt, especially when it was that cold. I watched his expression. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened, and I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say…and then I woke up.

And that’s the real bitch about dreams, huh? I don’t know what it means. I just want to know if you can see it. If you can, I’m doing my job. Thanks for watching.