NSS CONTEST

Dear Russell,

Thank you for sending "The Day" for the National Space Society's Return to Luna short story contest. This is your confirmation that we've received the story and you are entered into the contest.

Before I forward your story onto the jurors your name will be removed and the story will be assigned a number to remove any biases while evaluating it. (Your name will be reunited with the story, if chosen, of course.)

We expect to have results and a list of winners, including a Grand Prize winner, by late Summer 2008. The anthology, RETURN TO LUNA, should be out by Fall 2008.

Check back at www.hadleyrillebooks.com and www.nss.org for updates and for the announcement of winners.

Note: if your email address changes, please be sure to notify us.

Good luck!

Eric T. Reynolds
Hadley Rille Books

It hurts when you love

I wasn’t going to publish this at first. But I decided that since I wrote it, I might as well publish it. I’m not known for self-censorship… –rad

Have you ever had intense feelings for someone who didn’t return the feelings?

I have.

Could it have been love? I have not a clue. What is love? All I know is that something struck me like lightning one day. It was out of the blue; it caught me off guard as I was conducting my normal, everyday life. It wasn’t something I was actively searching for. It was a feeling I had never felt before - and no it wasn’t a heart attack. But similar perhaps?

It was a yearning; a higher purpose calling almost; a desire to do more for someone else than myself; to pursue; to learn all I could about her; to channel all efforts into that relationship, to proclaim and sing and shout and dance and leap. It was a connection beyond space and time; a strange epiphany that scrambled the brain, prevented coherent thought, heightened my alertness, produced sweating and shallow breathing. It was painful butterflies in the stomach. It was hours upon hours of trying to sleep with the mind reeling, constantly thinking and sizing up and evaluating and thinking; an unvarying image always on the mind. A waking dream. A vision with trumpets and chorus. A painful twinge just out of soothing reach.

All those feelings and emotions occurred in a breath. A heartbeat. In the tick of a nanosecond. It encompassed an eternity and continued with each passing moment.

Dream on Russ. A dream indeed.

Sure I’ve had little crushes on the ladies here and there in the past, but nothing like that. I’ve hardly dated anyone in my lifetime because I am so particular when it comes to whom I spend time with, whom I open up to and whom I show my true self. Time is precious. If you believe in something you make the time. You make time for your friends. You make time for your family. You endeavor to make time. There is no room for “second-rate” friendships or friendships of convenience in the modern world. The masks we all wear need to be taken off sometime. The masks should merge into one true face.

At what point does one come clean and say something, profess the truth and feelings, when one already knows the ultimate outcome, the inevitable answer, in their heart? Does one profess that truth when it is painfully obvious by demeanor and the words exchanged between? Should silence be the ultimate profession? Such revelations tend to complicate things more, often resulting in separation forever to prevent uncomfortable silences and the like. That.Is.Horrible. But a fact of life. It’s happened to me. It’s happened to many people.

I told a girl long ago that I liked her and she went silent and never talked to me again. If fact, most of the people I have asked out on dates in the past quit talking with me within a few days, maybe weeks. They moved on. Upon seeking advice about my pain, a girl friend of mine told me: “Sometimes girls drag guys on … so that you will still be friends with them. As soon as you tell a guy you just want to be friends they back off.” Hmmm. I can see how that happens. If you mention to a lady that you want to be more than friends they either:

1.) Are flattered and honored and want to be just friends.
2.) Say ‘no’ then break off all contact and/or distance themselves forever.
3.) Never answer the question.
4.) Accept

Can men be friends with women? Not all men are on the prowl for sex and sex and even more sex, with maybe a little bestial dirt coitus on the side. There is more to a relationship than just a physical relationship. So much more. Is sex going to keep the relationship going when one is pushing 80 or 90 years of age? Maybe. Maybe not. My grandparents Dale were married over 65 years! One of my guy acquaintances said that only gay men could truly be friends with women.

“Just friends…”

…you hear that term a lot nowadays. The relationship rejection factor makes one wonder many things: “What have I done?” “What can I do?” “Is it me?” “Is it my personality?” “My appearance?” “Do I not make enough money?” “Is my profession not very glamorous?” “My clothes?” “My skin color?” “My smile?” “My baldness?” “My success or lack-of success in life?” “My passions?” “Me?”

“There are plenty of fish in the sea” is a term I have heard and been pounded in the head with all my adult life. It is true. There are. I sometimes wonder if my life mate was alive 200 years ago, or has yet to be born.

What is vital to human interaction? Trust is important to relationships. Communication. Loyalty. Safety. Comfort. Love. Fun. Understanding. Respect. I could ramble on and on about my “perverse” sense of human relationships. Call me old fashioned if you want. Maybe that is my failing. I don’t shy away from courtly love and chivalry.

Ultimately, on the journey of life, one must muster up the courage to move forward and pick up the pieces of a heart shattered or disappointed. To move on. It is a stark human experience in a world that is more complicated now than it has ever been in the history of humankind. Men and women are so different. Women have ventured out of the “traditional” homemaker roles into roles of success and power and liberation and they create individual goals and dreams. I think this is great. I’m all for strong women. Many of the characters in my novel are strong women. They are enormous role models in society. The strongest woman I know, who busted her butt to provide for 4 children single-handedly, raised me.

I suppose we all look for guidance and acceptance by those around us. To make a connection or impact in life that is a true mark of friendship or love. Some turn to a higher power for help. Some turn to friends and family. Some turn to their peers. Some turn inside themselves. Some block out their pain altogether. Some turn to all of these.

But one should never deny love, even if it is a hopeless kind of love. It is, after all, what being human is all about. We think. We feel. We experience. We analyze. We live day-to-day, minute-to-minute and second-to-second…always moving forward to the unknown an exciting future.

We love.

If we deny love that is given to us or refuse to give love because we fear pain or loss, then our lives will be empty. And our loss greater.

Russ statement on final RADcast

Dear Everyone:

I am done. Done with internet radio. For now. Not forever. But I am done. I will retool and redesign the RADcast for re-launch in the future.

Done with so many things am I.

Starting tonight after the show, I will thrust myself whole-heartedly into bettering myself and finishing my novel. Every moment of my waking life will be used to work on it. I will not emerge from my solitude until I have a draft in hand, ready to be proofread and edited by those who care. This self-imposed hermit life must be achieved in order to have the distraction-free journey of a writing frenzy. I have been unfocused. Unbalanced. Distracted. Nothing will stop me from achieving my goal.

Give me encouragement. Sing me songs of life and love. Push me to fulfill my mission. Most important of all: support me. Please.

The next Russ Dale you meet will be a completely new man.

Until then, I remain,

rad

Biscuits and Gravy

Biscuits and gravy: the finest grub ever invented by modern man. I am the founder and President of The B&G Society, a vagabond group of people who search the world over for the holiest of holies: the bestest plate of biscuits and gravy ever! We elite at the B&G Society are ever searching, always seeking, the holy grail of biscuits and gravy.

My fascination with this wholesome breakfasty treat started in my teen years. I first made biscuits and gravy on Sunday, December 1, 1991. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was 16 at the time and whipped up a hefty batch with best friend MELT. The culinary delight had ground turkey white gravy and was GOOD!

Here at the radhole HQ, we have shared countless plates of biscuits and gravy together over the years.

The search still continues to this day.

I pride myself on taking the quest so very seriously. I know that the finest plate of biscuits and gravy is out there somewhere. Some say B&G is deadly and I laugh! I consider it like the Japanese delicacy, fugu! The hunt for B&G takes determination, foresight and leaves no room for bashfulness. It’s a rough road. Don’t be afraid to photograph your biscuits and gravy. You shall not be persecuted.

While on the travels, one never knows when one will hit a B&G jackpot. Truck stops, family owned restrents or street vendors usually sell the grub B&G. Undoubtedly, while on the road, there is a painful twinge in the back of your brain, a hankering for a mess of fluffy, mongo buttermilk biscuits slathered in peppery, white country sausage gravy. Few can fight the urge.

In the constant search for biscuity goodness, the quest has taken me to various locations upon this great American land: Kentucky, Alabama, Kansas, Iowa, Minnesota, Nevada, Ohio, California, Delaware, New York, Washington DC, Georgia, Tennessee, Illinois, Missouri, South Dakota, Texas, Florida, Utah and Colorado.

I’ve searched and searched for the ideal biscuity knowledge. The one true source! But nothing compares to the righteous and stout recipe by GrandPappie Bailey. I was weaned on his freshly split buttery enchantment. I used to watch him craft breakfast. He was a cook in the World War II. He taught me to cook. Them biscuits are legendary! Them breakfasts am hearty. I salivate.

Old GrandPappie Bailey perfected his blissful recipe when he was four years old back in Saratoga Township, Pratt County, Kansas in 1925! Forget Bisquick! GrandPappie make his exquisite biscuits from scratch and they’ll make you rise on up and proclaim with a hearty holler "GrandPappie Bailey’s biscuits make me sing in jubilee!" Add those goodly biscuits to perfecto gravy sunshine, luscious gravy or grubby gravy; all made from the drippings of the finest browned breakfast sausage, and you’ve got yourself a mess of breakfast delight!

Biscuits and gravy is a tradition in certain circles, a great ceremony. There are times when B&G is made just for the sake of making it. It’s a treat to sit down to a steaming plate of biscuits and gravy. Try it. They taste good any time of year.

Besides homemade, the current best biscuits and gravy (2008) reside at Bauer's Campus Café, 435 Poncha, Alamosa, CO 81101 (719) 589-4202. They are cheap and delectable.

Russ Dale
Biscuits and Gravy Society

a small B&G gallery

-
excerpt from CON 2001 by Matthew E. Twardy, Eric Kemper and Russell A. Dale (2001)

EXT. SPIDER HILL - MORNING

PAUL is awakened by PEPE shaking him and handing him a steaming plate of biscuits and gravy. She wears Spock ears and a CON 2001 T-shirt.

PEPE
Hey ... You want biscuits and gravy?

PAUL
Oh hell yeah. Thanks man!

PEPE
Coffee?
-

Biscuits and Gravy Rap Lyrics:

TELEPHONE CONVERSATION

Yo. We hit the B&G jackpot dawg. We be sittin' down to a heapin' plate of biscuits and gravy yo. Better dan da restrents. Come on over Shiz-Hole. It's homemade from the drippings of the finest browned breakfast sausage. Uh huh. Dats right. You's got a hankering for a mess of fluffy, mongo buttermilk biscuits covered in peppery, white country sausage gravy? I'll sees you in ten minutes dawg!

What up J-Hole? I's got a song fo you.
Forget your cereal. We got lardy goodness.
It's ethereal. Down right crudeness
Food stuffs. Release your cuffs.
No greasy bacon. Hey I ain't fakin' It's time to awaken!
No no no
No eggs neither
Take a breatha

We's gonna slather
or rather
tether, every otha, whilst enjoy this weather.
And together
Fill our bellies with anti jams and jellies. Inhale the smellies, no delis fellies, feelin' wellies. Feliz Navadad!
Knees on sod, pray to God, not Zod, just nod, join the B&G vice squad. It's odd.
It's peppery. We play. Don't stray!

It's biscuity goodness. Call the press.
I see you drool. Welcome to school.
You's got hunger? You ain't getting' any younger!
The pains be stabbin'. Yo stomach you grabbin'
Soooooooooooo

(Chorus)
Grab a plate yo. It's feast time.
You's be filled with glee
At my blissful recipe.
It's Biscuits. Biscuits and gravy. (HAY-VE)
freshly split
buttery enchantment (buttery)
hearty contentment
Don't be lazy. Taste my gravy

I used that buttermilk? Smoother than silk!
And da steamin' pepper white gravy. Sweeeeeeet so very savory.
Can't forget the peppah. Freshly ground black peppah.
Pass the butter yo. Ain't in no mood for olio.
Damn straight yo. We go wit da flow.
Got the Jimmy Dean sausage. Brown breakfast sausage.
Yo it's spicy pork. Don't need no goddamn fork.
I know I be a smarty. This food am mighty hearty.

Hear that bell that ring? Join me and sing.
It's breakfast time. Come here my rhyme.
(Chorus)
It's feast time.
You's be filled with glee
At my blissful recipe.
It's Biscuits. Biscuits and gravy.
freshly split
buttery enchantment
hearty contentment
Don't be lazy. Taste my gravy

Taste like shit? Damn foo. You don't like it?
Well fuck you!

I slather I don't skimp. I'm the B&G pimp.

words words words

Sometimes I think I am too wordy. I often say too much. I sometimes say too little.

Regardless of my word craft word speak, I like words. I was an English major in college. I use words to express my feelings. I use them in writing my novel. I use them to communicate with those around me. That is what they are supposed to be used for, wordy or no. I am a communicator.

I hardly ever use words in person, because I have a handful of friends that I don't really see that often. Most of my writing is composed for the "spoken word." I much prefer spoken words to written words. Maybe that is why I'm an eloquent mofo.

There are words in the English language that are not used enough. Some of my favorites include: festering, disturbing, dander, supple, mock, jeer, scum, thwart, filthy and the most evil of all: … Rubbermaid!

Someone wrote me an email: "Yesterday I read your blog and recognized the word dastardly, a word I have not heard since high school and only heard from your gob. Over the years, I thought about using it once or twice, but wasn't sure I could pull it off. Good word."

Dastardly is a great word, but not as good as 'GOB!' Anyone who uses the word 'gob' is okay by me. I use 'gob' all the time.

It's time now for homework. Grab a piece of paper and jot down a few words that you use frequently. Use them in a sentence. It's fun. Do it!

out of their league

This article is interesting. It's about how, in romance, looks matter most to the beautiful. No big surprise there. We are pounded in the head with that from day one.

The article also states "guys were more likely than ladies to request dates out of their league." What exactly is "out of their league?" If I asked out a super model, would she be out of my league? How does one determine their league? Are homely people destined to be in league with someone just as homely? Who the heck is society to determine what my league is? We're all in the same league: the league of humanity. I shake my fist at those who think that way. If someone told me they were out of my league, it would take all my stregnth and power not to spit in their face or hurl disfiguring acid their way.

It's a sad and true fact in this day and age. Hardly anyone nowadays focuses on intellect and personality and drive and determination and overall balance in life and relationships. It's all about looks now with our media-society and low attention spans. If me, a janitor, stands next to a lawyer in a photo line-up for the ladies, the lawyer will always win, even if he is a jerk abuser jerk unclassy jerk.

What is success? Money? Power? I think the most successful thing that can be done in life is if one pays their bills, learns daily, works hard and lives a good, happy life without succumbing to the petty bullshit we are constantly surrounded by.

Looks are overrated for sure. I have a very respectful appreciation of beauty; be it the trees, the clouds, the rocks, the road or the flashing neon signs at the corner drugstore. This includes the beauty of women, a truly a sacred thing. I tend to immediately get past the outer appearance of a woman to see her essential goodness, her essential humanity, her essential soul. I cannot be so bold as to say I have always been like that. Far from it.

According to the research, more attractive people placed more importance on physical attractiveness above other features in selecting their dates. Less attractive people placed more weight on other qualities, such as sense of humor.

"He's intelligent, hilarious, amazing, wonderful, nice, kind, awesome, has decent earning prospects, ambition and is trustworthy! Too bad he's unnattractive! Time to find a hottie date who is dumber than a bag of hammers!"

Valentine's Day horror

‘Tis time now to retell the classic elementary school Valentine’s Day horror show of my youth:

In elementary school, as my classmates were distributing their Valentines into the creatively festive and decorated shoe boxes with the little slot at the top, I was full of activity handing out my own Transformers Valentines crammed with candies and cookies and treats and trinkets abound. I took pride and meticulous care putting each Valentine into the appropriate students box. I made, with youngster pride, a special Optimus Prime Valentine, the Transformer leader of the Autobots, for little Sally, a classmate with whom I had a tiny elementary school crush. I wrote her pure poetry in grade school scrawl. She would scoff at my shy smiles. We spent countless hours playing MASH (Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House) during journal time.

Our special school-day party beginning, everyone sat proudly at their desks and we were instructed to open our shoeboxes and begin reading our Valentines. The paper was flying and there were squeals of delight all around me, candy wrappers buzzing. The clamoring in the room was deafening. I tore my lid open to find one Valentine. My blood froze and my under-developed mind could hardly process the smack down I had received.

"Only one," I questioned aloud, a defeated whisper really, tears welling in my eyes. But there were over thirty kids in my class! Could this hefty card be from wee Sally? I wonder what words of devotion she scrawled on the card? IMy hands trembled in anticipation as I slashed it open, tossing the envelope over my head, to reveal a Valentine from my teacher Mrs. H.

My peers had shafted me. I was the fat little nerd who didn't deserve any Valentines. I was the kid who had to wear the eye patch because of a lazy eye. I was the poor one who ate string cheese at snack-time. I can still hear their hateful snickering. At least nobody put boogers on the back of my shirt like they did with filthy Mandy what’s her name!

I was made fun of mercilessly because of the eye patch. Comments like, "Hee hee you're a pirate," as I was being kicked down the stairs and "It's Valentine's Day not Halloween, why are you wearing an eye patch fatty?" as I was being shoved to the pebbly ground in the play area and "Fat boy, you're such a geek for wearing an eye patch," asshole classmate Rudolph would say, "You don't need this burger," as he took the cheeseburger from my lunch tray and shoved it into his filthy gob. I remember more than one lunch consisting of just mustard and a spoon.

The pointing and laughter didn't help me adjust to the eye patch. It only made me withdraw even more into my fantasy world in which I was lord and ruler. My teachers would try to help me in my grief, but
they only made it worse with accidental comments, "Yes One-Eyed Russie, the answer to number 12 is 387. Good for you pirate Bloody Russell Rackham. You get a silver sticker star and a piece of Valentine's chocolate. Arg!"

It was mandatory that everyone got a Valentine but I didn't raise a ruckus when I got only one. Perhaps my name was unintentionally left off the list. I smiled through it all although inside I was brimming with suffering and torment. Disappointed and ready to nap away my pain, my little tears soaking my custom pillowcases, it was time to beat the piñata. I was looking forward to shoving and battling for candy. My right!

John Paul was the brute of our class, but I was chosen as the first to try my hand at the piñata. Blindfolded awkwardly, my to-tight hand-me-down t-shirt showing my belly embarrassingly, I used the baseball bat to swing aimlessly at the papier-mâché Pound Puppies monstrosity hanging from the asbestos ceiling tiles. "I will now get revenge for the insult brought upon me this day," said I as my 3rd-grade mind reeled and dreamt of sweet candy falling from the air. Taking my Valentine's Day feelings and frustrations out on the piñata, I spilt it open with a fury on the third swing. I was alive. Power surged through me. Cheers echoed in the hallways. I had gashed open the piñata like a true sportsman. Gone were the days when I struck out in Tee Ball. Now I could revel in the candy treats like I deserved.

I felt a rush of air. I heard a mob of gleeful youth dive. I felt them pushing me out of the way, my knees bending in unnatural ways, my pants splitting in the crotch. There is nothing more sickeningly grubby than a frisk of kids scrambling for candy.

By the time I removed the blindfold and looked at the ground, all that was left was an unwrapped Tootsie Roll, a rubber band and the mangled head of Cooler the Pound Puppy piñata. I still hear the lips of my filthy peers smacking as they shoved the candy into their greasy, ungrateful mouths, pushing me aside violently to get back to their desks. I was beaten, my child soul stripped away without a second thought.

Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, "Russie," screamed my twin sister, smiling uncontrollably as she entered the classroom. She was overburdened with her Valentine shoebox overflowing with goodies and presents and electronics from all of her little boyfriends and pals. Her hair was mussed and she had cupcake mess smeared all over her face and a separate basket filled with other lavish gifties and a new plasticy backpack crammed with stuffed animals and treasures and stickers and cookies.

I showed her my empty box and the rubber band in shame and she felt sorry for me. She shared her loot with me, handing me a cupcake with sweet pink frosting. We skipped home singing and laughing, which was a departure because usually bullies chased me home.

Thankfully Valentine's Day was over for another year.

Space Seeds

Yes friends, the Droogs are powerful people. Kneel before us.

Cinnamon Basil seeds have been obtained for GX-1134, the urban garden mission for 2008. I’m not whispering of plain, regular, shabby basil seeds bought at any hole seed shack. Oh no. We run only the finest operation here in the Colorado, sparing no expense and leaving no stone unturned.

I have learned much of gardening these past two years. The battles have been harsh. Mold, mildew, mice, insect pests, squirrels, birds, wasps, hail, floods and City Fox. The very Mother Nature herself both blessed and damned the garden.

But Barnabas still stands true. It’s time to apply the knowledge gleaned to The Great eXperiment. And we will.

The seeds? The seeds! Our Cinnamon Basil seeds flew aboard the Space Shuttle Endeavour on STS-118 in August of 2007. They don’t take chances at NASA. They double up on everything. There are two packets.

City Living - Filter the Static

The snow falls silently. A train whistle. Stillness mixed with progress: the new soundtrack to our lives.

Living in the city provides a sort of fodder for the senses. From the din of traffic to birds singing to wolves and dogs howling nearby, the natural world and our place in it, is a complex mixture of all-kind beauty. We are ciphers to our sphere home. Nature and technology. The divine and the damned. We just live upon her.

The air sings fresh music on a breeze. Add a wind chime to complete the symphony. The bus travels its route. Afire truck blazes a trail with crew to help those in need. Voices in the distance. Pipes dripping. Heaters heating. A woodpecker pecks the peach tree. Leaves rustling. Breathing. The heart beats. Car alarm. Construction. Sonic boom. Helicopters.

The whiz of the highway traffic sounds like a rushing river. The wind blows through trees. A fly. It all becomes white noise. A static obscuring the silence of old, of rare places without technological stink or scars of human defiling, the wild of protected lands. Places untouched. Or not touched as much.

Those places still exist. To be human is to seek them out and experience them for yourself. Just like your ancestors and those 100 generations before you. They still saw the moon as it sailed overhead. They looked at the same stars.

Filter the static.

phone writing

I wrote this on my phone in November 2004:

$11.25 to bring small joys to people.

It's amazing what diversity you see at the bus stop. I road the bus into downtown today. There's good people watching on the # 6 East and West bus.

Each person has a story. Each individual has a different lifestyle and circumstances that find him or her on the bus today. I feel comfortable here, as though I'm connected to these people. We're all connected on this Earth.

It's a beautiful Fall Colorado day. The sky is a brilliant blue. A stiff breeze blows the gold, red and orange leaves form the trees. The leaves cover everything and mini cyclones swirl them around sidewalks, lawns and streets, announcing the soon arrival of a weather front from the east. Could the first snow of the season be on its way?

I meet Sug'z on the bus. He's hitting on the gal sitting next to him. He carries a ragged cardboard sign and a canvas bag full of CDs. He looks tired, as though he's seen and experienced a lot in life. SUG'z is a Denver rapper trying to make ends meet by selling his album: "They Call Me SUG'z (shoog'z)". I buy one for 10 bucks and he is gracious and happy. "You just made my day," he said to me, "I haven't sold very many. Thanks for the support." It's funky, edgy and unique.

I like it. It's made entirely in Denver, from production to packaging. There is a din of conversations around me. A woman sings a song to her daughter in Spanish. I think I hear two people speaking in Russian. An unruly child screams and cries for twenty minutes, saying the same word in Spanish between wails the entire time. Another woman finally quiets him by giving him a butterscotch candy. "Gracious," he says, wiping the tears from his eyes.

I pull out my MP3 player and load the U2 play list. I look out the filthy window at city life, each person quickly moving by, not taking time to see what's in front of them. They have a purpose. A destination.

The bus speedily turns the corner; everyone inside is violently thrust to the right. I see an elderly man running, his arms flailing as he hails the bus that's about to pass him by. The driver stops abruptly, again jolting people in the bus. He gets on, panting, and thanks the driver for stopping. He sits next to me with a groan, favoring his back and fishing in his tattered pants pockets for the fare. His silver hair was mussed by the wind and his blue flannel had definitely seen better days. His face was grizzled and he smiled a toothless grin. His smile faded as he pulled a packet of mints and a few coins from his pocket. I was watching him from behind the protection of my sunglasses when he turned to me and spoke, "Son," he said still short of breath, "I'm a little bit short on bus fare. Do you have 50 cents?"

I replied that indeed I did have the spare change. "I'll pay for you," I said, immediately pulling out my wallet and placing the dollar twenty-five in the fare collector at the front of the bus. I asked the bus driver for a transfer just in case the man needed one.

"Thank you and God bless you," he said happily when I returned to my seat. "I've had one hell of a day."

I offered him the transfer but he said he did not need it.

I arrived at my final destination and stepped off the bus. I'm fortunate to have all that I have. Spending $11.25 can bring a little hope and joy into the lives of complete strangers. I felt great. I skipped down the street, the leaves crunching under my feet, listening to U2, absorbing the glory of all creation.

Randomness

1.) I love shanties and this fulfills my shanty fix.

2.) Please pass the wall rubbings...

Whitney J. Bailey

My great grandfather on my mom's side was Whitney J. Bailey, Birth: 5 Jun 1872 in Jefferson Township, Knox County, Ohio.

Whitney was a wheat farmer in Pratt, Kansas where the family lived. In 1900, they were living in McPherson Township and in the 1920's, in Saratoga Township, Pratt County, where Whitney was a farmer.

Death: 11 January 1947 in Pratt, Kansas. Burial: Greenlawn Cemetery, Pratt Co., Kansas

“Mrs. Rolin Mcguire recalls that one of the big social events of the year was the time of butchering when several families helped each other as they worked first at one farm and then at another. Pioneer settlers had a way of making play out of hard work. In the coldest part of the winter, neighbors came and several hogs were butchered, enough to supply the year’s meat. Many were specialist in some phase of the work but she says that Whit Bailey was one of the best butchers in these parts and much in demand.” PRATT PAPER

Charles Bailey, son of Whit, who was born in 1911, told the following story to the Pratt Paper on November 23, 1990:

“The name ‘combine’ was derived from the combining of the cutting and the threshing machine into one machine, the combine, which soon replaced all headers, header barges, binders and threshing machines.

Combines had only been out a few years when Whit Bailey bought an International Harvester from Burt Dodson in 1924. Charles Bailey says that the combine was assembled on a vacant lot just west of the Courthouse and that his dad, Whit, had Dodson to deliver it to him on the east side of town because he didn’t want to drive his tractor with lugs down the brick streets of Pratt. Whit Bailey rented a farm 2 miles east and 1 ¾ miles north of Pratt. Charles remembers going to town from the farm northeast of Pratt with his dad on a little 1921 Fordson tractor to pick up their new combine. Mr. Dodson delivered it to them on a hill east of town about where Don’s Servateria is located and they hooked it on to it and headed back down the Cannon ball towards the east to home. The Cannon Ball, now Highway 54, was just a dirt and gravel road. Whit Bailey drove the tractor and Charles rode on the combine seat to handle the brake when going down hills.

This combine came from the factory as a horse drawn machine, equipped with two small pony wheels in front and a tongue. It also had a brake on the bull wheel to hold it back when going down a hill. The first year in the harvest fields, Whit hitched 2 head of horses on the combine and put the Fordson tractor ahead of the horses. A log chain ran from the tractor back between the horses and hooked to the combine to catch the wheat. These wagons would hold about 60 bushels of wheat and it took 4 or 5 wagon loads to keep the grain hailed away.

The two horses hitched to the combine with the tractor ahead didn’t work too well. When the tractor turned a corner, the log chain rubbed the horse’s legs and also the horses had to breathe the fumes from the exhaust of the tractor. The two horses that pulled the grain wagon along side the combine didn’t like the noise of the machinery so close to them. The inside horse next to the combine was pretty spooked.

Changes were made before the 1925 harvest in the horse power hook up. The tongue was removed from the combine and a tractor hitch was installed where the tongue had been. The tractor was then hooked directly to the combine and the horses were put in the lead. The combine pulled the grain wagon along side with a special hook up for that purpose which required 6 horses then to help pull the tractor. This worked better but sill the horses were a little spooked with all that noise behind them.

Horses, tractors and this early combine were quite a colorful combination, but not the best operation in getting the wheat cut and threshed so more changes were needed to make this operation better. One of the changes made was a bin that was installed on the top of this combine to hold the grain. This did away with the grain wagon that was pulled alongside. Then a big change was made in 1927 before harvest when Whit bought a new John Deere tractor that completely took over the job of pulling the combine, and also semi-retired the little Fordson and put 6 head of horses out to grass.”

PRATT UNION PAPER, about October of 1907
“Whit Bailey killed a large rattlesnake near his home northeast of Pratt Monday. It had six rattles and a button. Mr. Bailey was lucky to discover his snakeship before he struck.” They were not uncommon during this country’s early existence but in 1907, were becoming rare enough that an encounter with one rated mention in the county papers.

PRATT UNION PAPER, September 1933
“There were 200 persons in attendance at the Pratt County Old Settlers picnic at the Fish Hatchery. Some who attended and the year that they arrived:
1884 Mrs. A.W. Bailey
1887 Whit Bailey
1887 Wal C. Banbury
1894 Mrs. C.G. Bergner
1892 Samuel Bloxom

Whitney John Bailey Obituary, January 1947, Pratt, Kansas

Whitney John Bailey, son of Wm. R. and Lucy E. Bailey, was born June 5th, 1872 near Danville, Ohio, and departed this life January 10th, 1947 in Pratt, Kansas. On Mat 5th, 1897 he was married to Miss Dora Culbertson. To this union nine children were born, four sons, Charles and Howard of Pratt, and Orace and Leroy of Wichita. Five daughters, Mrs. Lester (Elsie) Bloxom, Mrs. Wythe (Edna) Martin, Mrs. Billie (Bessie) Munch, all of Pratt, Mrs. George (Nellie) Martin of Byers, and Helen of the home. Fourteen grandchildren and one great grandchild also survive. He was a devoted husband, a loving father and grandfather and a sincere friend and neighbor. He will be greatly missed by his family and by the community in which he lived.

Funeral services were conducted by the Reverend E.M. Fly of the Pratt Methodist church assisted by the Reverend Robert Yeagy of Glendale. He was laid to rest in the Greenlawn Cemetery on January 13.

Elias's dream

He dreamt of times long past, when he was young. Early spring, 1872.

It was a reoccurring dream, taking place well before he knew Wiggins when he was a stubborn 16-year-old boy who dreamt of doing it all and seeing it all. At this particular moment in time, it was surviving, alone, in the wild. With reluctant permission from his father, he made plans to travel southeast of Denver to set up a temporary homestead.

Most of the mountain men and trappers he had seen were grizzled men. Elias could barley grow a beard but he had read the stories and to him such a lifestyle didn’t seem difficult. It was frontier adventure to his young eyes. His father let him do pretty much anything he wanted. His dad was proud of him and his many interests. Too many interests to count. Elias never stood still and never quit learning.

To prepare, Elias and his father visited the dusty streets of the Denver business district for supplies. The two and three-story brick, stone and frame buildings, some with wood false fronts, were filled with people doing business. Horse-drawn covered delivery wagons, buggies and carriages were parked along the boardwalk. Business signs read from the simple to the bizarre: "Market," "Hats, Caps, Furnishing Goods & More,” "Proper Groceries & Tourist Supplies," "His Boots & Shoes," "Bathe Water House," "American Warehouse & Native Jewelry," "Candy Lodge" and “Cigars, Bathtub Gins & Kentucky Whiskies: Come!” Elias loved Denver.

His father purchased all the provisions Elias would need from Dobson’s General Store and Post Office on the corner of Fifteenth and Blake Streets. Fully supplied, Elias walked through the streets of Denver wearing a particularly non-handsome new deerskin coat, which was lavishly ornamented with semi-quilted brown, tan and red floral motifs and extensive fringing. The wool-lined hunting coat had flapped pockets and two rows of cartridge or shotshell holders over each breast. What caught his fancy most about the coat was its hideousness and striking elk-tooth buttons. It was a damn fine coat that cost much more than a typical 16-year-old could afford. It was one of a kind. His father hated it.

Elias needn’t worry about money. The Calhoun family struck it rich during the Gold Rush when he was a boy and his dad invested in Denver’s 5280 Water Works, a very profitable venture. His dad didn’t run the company, but he was a shrewd water baron nonetheless and made many major business decisions.

Elias walked with a youthful swagger whilst wearing the ugly coat, feeling free and powerful. Clive, his new pack mule, seemed to swagger along with each step. The new coat looked as though it repelled the dirt and dust from the hectic streets.

In his new saddlebags Elias had a sturdy supply of flour, meal, cracked corn, bacon, beans, salt and raisins. He would hunt and trap for the rest of his food. There was an abundant amount of fur-bearing game where he planned on going. He could sell the pelts from a season of trapping back in Denver to earn his keep. He enjoyed working for what he had and wanted to survive on his own, without help from the caches of money in the vaults of the prestigious banks in the city. Elias would make do without money. Who needed money when you had a repulsive coat to keep you warm?

He would make do with what nature provided him and what he learned from his father, the Indians and books.

He had several guns for hunting. He purchased two .44 caliber plum-colored Remington handguns with matching leather holsters, a sturdy stag-handled Bowie knife with 8 1/2-inch spear-point blade and a “Yellow Boy” Winchester rifle. The rifle fired 13, .44 caliber rimfire rounds from the tubular magazine underneath the barrel. He had ample ammunition.

He was excited to get moving. He was even more excited to get his hunt on. There would be plenty to hunt: antelope, bison, deer, bear, bobcat, mountain lion, wolf, coyote, raccoon, skunk, badger, muskrat, mink and weasel. The game, plus his provisions, would let him survive comfortably well into winter. If he decided to stay that long. Elias’ varied interests meant he wanted to experience everything life had to offer, which destined him getting tired of things rather quickly. With quail, prairie chicken, turkey, dove, swan and geese, there was plenty to eat if he could catch it. And catch it he would, with his bare hands if he had too. He had no misgivings about strangling a prairie chicken to death if it provided a good meal.

Wierdo dream

The road.
Small broadcasts on white speakers.
Middle of nowhere.
Local folk talking.
Road ends abruptly into water. Abandoned bridge pylons. A round, arched bridge.
Abandoned truck on adjacent road.
3 guys in an outdoor “house” telling the story just heard on the radio waves.
Me, an observer.

The Blizzard

The Blizzard
by RAD

Denver, Colorado – January 12, 1888

It was shortly after 6pm and it was dark! The January wind howled through Denver like a group of ravenous dogs in search of their next meal, the freezing air filled with ice and snow dust. Elias Calhoun stood in a snowdrift on the porch of his friend Walthrope Wiggins’ one-room house at 12th and Holladay Streets. He pushed some of the snow off the porch with his foot.

The short, full bearded, black-haired man tightly clutched Wiggins’ spare coat around him. The bitter cold wind penetrated the coat and chilled Elias down to his bones. It had been snowing for over 6 hours. The frigid temperatures and the blustery wind made for impossible travel conditions. The blizzard was so furious that Elias couldn’t even see the faint lights from the homes across the street. Hell, he couldn’t see 20 feet in front of him the snowstorm was so bad!

One couldn’t exactly call it a whiteout, as it was night, but it appeared menacingly darker than usual because of the roaring wind and stifling snow. By Elias’ learned estimates, men's voices wouldn’t be audible at a distance of five or six feet in this weather. Everywhere was deserted; the tree-lined dirt streets, the empty lots and the fenced lots. Not a soul was on Holladay Street.

Holladay Street is how Elias referred to it. It was now called Market Street. It was a notorious street with flophouses, gambling establishments, saloons and other diversions of the night. A mere six blocks away, on Holladay between 19th and 23rd, was “Blue Row,” the most infamous red-light district in the Rockies. Last year, at the request of stagecoach master Ben Holladay’s appalled family, for which the street was named, the street’s name was changed to Market because of the many produce markets in the neighborhood. Nobody wanted a whoring street as a namesake. Locals referred to it as Holladay Street. Old, old timers still called the street by an even older name: McGaa Street.

Regardless of the street name, not even horses were out this wintry night.

Elias had paid Wiggins a long-overdue visit mid-morning when the storm hit without warning, heralded by darkened skies and a sinister onslaught of snow and ice that sounded like an explosion, or a mineshaft collapse. At first Elias didn’t pay it any notice. Weather in Colorado was unpredictable at best, especially in the winter months. Soon enough, big white flakes were falling rapidly and the winds picked up even more. The snowstorm became a ferocious blizzard in no time at all and he decided to stay on at Wiggins’ until the storm subsided.

He laughed out loud as he went back inside, quickly pushing the door closed. He forced the door to latch because of the might of the wailing wind. Elias survived much worse than a little blizzard in his life. Still, he had to admit to himself that with this harsh cold, everyone in town was in danger not just he and Wiggins, who sat covered with mountains of warm animal skins and blankets, shivering on the bed with his eyes closed.

The freezing wind blew out the candles on the stout wooden table in the center of the room. Wringing his cold hands, Elias relit them with a stick he set ablaze using the wood burning stove in the corner. Despite the stove’s warming, it was very cold inside the small wooden house. The stove hardly provided enough warmth for survival. Just a few feet away, a bucket of water stood frozen. Wiggins would be upset because the 25-year-old kept his face cleanly shaved at all times. If he was that desperate for a shave, he could melt snow and use the water. It was too cold for any activity except sitting idle and waiting for the storm to blow over. It would be a long night.

Elias couldn’t remember another time in his 32 years that it had been this cold and snowy. It was mostly the cold that bothered him. He loved the snow. Just yesterday the temperature was a balmy 74 degrees. Animals were let out of barns and men, women and children walked the streets without warm clothing.

But this was Colorado. In 24 hours the temperature dropped to negative 28 and the blizzard had set in. Elias had also not dressed warmly. This could be the worst storm in the recollection of man. Inhabitants knew the weather in Colorado sometimes changed without warning. If only he had his old hunting coat that kept him warm years ago. He loved that damn unsightly coat.

“I can’t sleep Elias it’s so damn cold,” said Wiggins, his voice slightly drowned by the whistling wind. The two took turns, one sleeping under the warm blankets while the other would tend to the fire. The sleeper had the best of the deal.

“The storm’s not letting up,” said Elias, “and I don’t want to gamble with going out although I want some tobacco,” his breath misted in front of him, “I figure Dobson’s is open and he’s angry as hell nobody is buying his wife’s fresh baked bread.”

“MMMmm, warm bread sounds wonderful,” Wiggins said longingly, his teeth chattering. After a long pause, he looked at Elias, who shook the ice and show from his coat and boots, his mustache and beard blanketed by ice, “Why don’t you get some sleep? You’ve hardly slept old friend,” he asked.

“Good idea. It’s my turn.”

Wiggins emerged from the bed; the massive hulk of blankets covering his slight frame, “I’m glad you decided to visit today. I would have gone mad if I were here alone,” he said. Elias was seven years his senior. They had been friends since Wiggins was an 11-year-old orphan child who relied on thieving and begging to stay alive, “I’m pleased I have someone to talk with for a change.” Wiggins handed the mass of warm blankets to Elias. Wiggins wore a hefty brown coat to keep some semblance of warmth.

Elias joked, “I would much rather have a lady to keep me warm. But, instead of Miss Missy, I’m stuck here with you.”

“Even Missy is cold this night,” Wiggins said almost in disgust.

“Indeed she is old friend.”

Missy Miles

Elias first met Missy Miles two years ago while frequenting her large sporting house, the House of Statues and Palace Theater, positioned ideally at busy 14th and Blake Streets. Missy owned it, ran it and turned quite a profit doing it. That’s because the House of Statues had all the comforts of home and more. It was a gathering spot with parlors, poolroom, stage, gambling area and ballroom. Missy also made the services of a few whores available to her very special guests, the most clean and classy ladies in all of Denver.

He visited The House of Statues by chance two years ago. 30-year-old Elias had finished standing regally for a portrait in a photography studio, a birthday portrait session. He was wearing full evening dress: a black dress suit, 'swallow tail' coat, the vest cut low with a white, heavily starched shirt and white cravat. On his hands he wore gloves of the palest hue and on his head a black silk top hat. The picture, him with elegant dress and large brown mustache, would forever be captured in time. Amazing. He ordered 20 copies of the portrait. They would make fine gifts. The photographer was delighted by his business.

Impatient for fun and eager to see what Denver had in store for him that particular evening, he looked to the local red book, “A True Directory of Pleasure Resorts of the Denver. No lie.” This shirt pocket-sized, 10-page booklet was the perfect comrade for an adventurer such as he. The book wasn’t even red. It was blue. Opening the book randomly, he pointed to a page and read the entry aloud, “The House of Statues,” he said with a smile, and off he went towards 14th and Blake.

Elias strut through the double doors into a loud reception for politicians and business dignitaries that took over a majority of the establishment. Thankfully he was dressed for the occasion. As if by magical means, he immediately made eye contact with Missy Miles from across the room. She was dressed regally in an overdress of chartreuse green satin. The gown was low necked and sleeveless over a silk skirt that had a lace tablier on the front and lace flounces on the sides. The polonaise was trimmed with vines of pearl bead embroidery. There were pearl beads on the shoulders. She glowed radiantly.

He raised his hand to acknowledge her, tipping his hat, the simple cuff buttons on his coat sparkling almost supernaturally. He wasn’t an unknown in town. Elias had a reputation. She acknowledged his presence and set about making sure everyone was having a good time.

That evening he did what he did best: entertain. He drank only whiskey, threw money about, bought people drinks and made everyone laugh. He was a pleasant, well-spoken fellow, the life of the party. He told stories of his adventures growing up the son of a gold miner, his countless journeys on the frontier; like in ’72 when Mountain Daily News interviewed him after being besieged in a cave by 10 bandits near Parker, making special mention of his favorite dog-ugly coat.

He energetically performed tales of his shady barber days, his boxing days, his blacksmith days and as a rare treat, he presented the monologue about how he caused the earthquake of 1882 by triggering an avalanche while fighting a grizzly bear with just his bare hands! The earthquake of ‘82 toppled generators in Denver, knocking out the city's new electric system and was felt throughout most of Colorado, in Wyoming, well into Utah, Idaho, Kansas and Nebraska.

The people inside the House of Statues were in awe of him. It was typical Elias Calhoun. Toward the end of the evening, he had Missy, the important people, their wives and even the kitchen staff enchanted by him.

“You’re quite the merrymaker,” Missy said to Elias as he downed another shot of whiskey.

“I’m not through yet,” he said slyly, looking into her green eyes. There was a connection between the two. To top off his first night at the House of Statues, just as he finished telling the enthralled crowd about the hidden village near the Alamosa sand dunes “inhabited by an ancient clan of miniature people not more than fifteen inches high,” he was rudely interrupted by gunplay. Three masked men stood in the entryway. It was a robbery attempt.

Elias Calhoun, being the brash Elias, felt obligated to do something spectacular to finish his evening out on the town. Without any help and blithering, stumbling drunk, he fought off the three robbers, killing two and capturing one, holding the unconscious man by the collar of his jacket. As the sheriff was in the receptions attendance, Elias followed him and a small group out to watch the criminal’s hanging. The crook’s last breath and writhing death complete, Elias threw up and passed out at the base of the makeshift gallows. Miss Missy took him in, cleaned him up and bed him down for the night.

After this unforgettable incident, he was always welcome at House of Statues. He and Miss Missy became good friends and occasional lovers. It was more stories to be added to his book.

The Brief of Me

"I am lard, hear my gristle!" -- Russ Dale

I enjoy playing the harmonica, listening to music, gardening, following manned space flight, fishing, hanging out with friends, cooking, BBQing, spending time with family, writing and many other neat things. Things like what? Oh space, Mars, Moon, NASA, Apollo, Mercury, Gemini, Orion, ESA, comics, books, movies, scanning, reading, skipping, dancing, star gazing, astronomy, regression, lard, lubby, writing, comedy, youtube, video, acting, improv, geology, lunar geology, history, archaeoastronomy, writing, adventure, strolling, sitting in silence, telling jokes, smiling, sharing, leaping and being. Yes I said archaeoastronomy. Fear me.

I wouldn't mind becoming a space tourist one day. If I had a spare 20 million cash, I would go to the International Space Station to perform scientific experiments of my own design. RADhole is a showcase for my talent. Go Broncos. I also like photojournalism, telescopes, carbon nanotube composites, time travel, Guinness, Scotch, chick flicks, comedy, Jello, biscuits and gravy, sundresses, picnics, fishing, wine, garlic and grilled cheese.

I live in the Denver. I am alive. I roam. I am nice. I try to live life to the fullest, learning and experiencing new things almost daily. I am an adventurer. I want to go tubing. I am simple, in a sophisticated sorta way. Unfortunately I am a genius and most people do not understand hat and/or shun me. It makes me weep. Yes I weep. I admit it. Look away! I am boring. My powers are beyond most people's comprehensions. I am a Denver historian and space buff amateur rocket scientist. I am a gardener, a farmer in the city with an urban pumpkin patch. I'm quirky. I have opinions. I'm a laid back warrior. I'm a word crafter. I like mystery. I like 'Fantasia.' I like butter. I like rambling. I like burnt popcorn. I like the symphony. I like culture. I like glasses. I like taupe. I am a loner but not really. I speak German. I have a twin sister. I have a wicked crazy sense of humor in a dry sorta funny way. My ethnicity, for those who care: German, Swiss, English, Scottish, American.

I do like to travel, although I have never been out of the USA. I have seen the world's largest ball of twine roadside attraction and let me tell you, it is breathtaking.

Oh there is blessed musik! I have a ear for sound: U2, Derek and the Dominos, U2, Billy Gibson, Junkyardmen, Tori Amos, Tool, Sam Cooke, Johnny Cash, classical, Tuvan throat chants, The Ramayana Monkey Chant, U2, Genesis, Peter Gabriel, The Freddy Jones Band, Tenacious D, Toad the Wet Sproket, The Velvet Underground, TV on the Radio, Rhonda Vincent, Kenny Rogers, Julia Othmer, Skapegoat, Frankie Valli & the Four Seasons, Etta James, Better than Ezra, Jimmy Scott, Bluesbreakers with Eric Clapton, Angelo Badalamenti, Deep Forest, Talib Kweli, Native American, jazz, blues, blues rock, LaTour, Fiona Apple, Radiohead, Tarantella, Bad Luck City, The Duhks, The Clicks, Railbenders, Björk, Sting, The Police, Luciano Pavarotti, Meatloaf, U2, Moby, No Doubt, Catchers, Atmosphere, Immortal Technique, Hank Williams, Enigma, Delerium, Felix Mendelssohn, Brenda Lee. Miles Davis. Bessie Smith. Thelonious Monk, pop, blue grass, swing, Techno/Trance, Rockabilly, Colorado Symphony and Grunting with Russ Master, my new band.

Television is the idiot box. I hate it. But, if forced too, I have spied a few shows in my day: Seinfeld, NASA TV, Mr. Wizard's World, Twin Peaks, MST3k, Police Squad, Rescue Me, The Sopranos, From the Earth to the Moon, Band of Brothers, Scrubs, The Simple Life, Arrested Development, Cavemen, Reaper and NASA TV.

Movies? Oh yes. There is Back to the Future, Bubba Hotep, Zapped!, Crumb, Ghost World, The Seventh Seal, Seven Samarui, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai, Dune, foreign films, some B-Movies, Apollo 13, October Sky and so many more.

I like directors David Lynch, Stanley Kubrick, Akira Kurosawa, Martin Scorsese, Jean-Pierre Jeunet, Oliver Stone, Richard Donner, Steven Spielberg and Kevin Smith.

The written word. Yes, yes! Classics. English lit, American lit, books, words, Native American Studies. I read a lot. Some of my favorite books are: The Case for Mars by Robert Zubrin, Failure Is Not an Option: Mission Control from Mercury to Apollo 13 and Beyond by Gene Kranz, The Unbroken Chain (Apogee Books Space Series) by pad leader Guenter Wendt, Flight: My Life in Mission Control by Christopher C. Kraft, Yeager : An Autobiography by Chuck Yeager, The Monuments of Mars: A City on the Edge of Forever (5th Edition) by Richard C. Hoagland, Mere Christianity by CS Lewis, space/astronomy books, My Life by Bill Clinton, The Quickening: Today's Trends, Tomorrow's World by Art Bell, Jennifer L. Osborne, Twixt Will and Will Not: The Dilemma of Measure for Measure by Carolyn Harper

Confessions of a Former Glostiksai

Glowsticking is the art of dancing with glowsticks. I wouldn’t call it an artform. I admit it looks cool from a distance and even cooler when one looks on as a casual observer in a drug-enduced stupor state of altered mind while techno music makes the ears bleed in the background.

I am a former glowsticker, a certified master Glostiksai (pronounced glow-stick-say), one who twirled the glowsticks at raves and electronica dance clubs in the early 1990s, some of the parties raging all night long! For fun. Yes I had fun doing it. I can destroy the dance floor. I can spin those glowsticks. Call me Russ Glostiksai and bow to me.

I was the best light-oriented dancer of my time, with fans from all over the club scene getting moist upon seeing my moves. Both freehand glowsticking and glowsticking with strings was what I had mastered. I prefer freehand glowsticking yo. I never used the primitive figure-eight move followed by circle using both strong and slow lights. Hell no! I had more ellaborate moves; a swagger, a strut. My stage name was PappieMasterGlowStickster and that blessed name should strike fear and admiration in your mind if you are a true Raver because scores of young men and women of the 90’s would encircle me to watch in hazy delight as I did my thing.

I am quailfied to speak out against glowsticking. Now is the time for me to break my silence.

I helped write the Ravers Manifesto. That’s right, I helped write the smutty laughable Ravers Manifesto while I was in a peyote-educed haze in 1991. Ravers across the globe love it and worship it and wonder who wrote it. They are perplexed by the wordage, tear off their club clothes and speculate what anonymous person penned it. I finally come clean. Finally Ravers can rejoice! 1st round of ecstasy, LSD and ketamine on me!

The Manifesto was once a reciting requirement for Ravers. When at the map point deciphering when and where the DJ will be spinning at the shanty warehouse and upon confrontation, if one shouted: “Tell me the Raver’s Manifesto,” the Raver is supposed to stop dancing and twirling their glowsticks, turn down the technoy bass, silence the group fornication, drop their baggy pants and be bound to recite it in a passionless monologue as if they were blowing mentholated vapours into the nose, mouth and eyes of an unsuspecting recipient! Extra bonus kudos were given if they burbled bile simultaneously due to the copious drugs they were on.

“Our politics of choice is NONE!” I snort with laughter and embarrassment that I had a hand in writing that crap. “We are the MASSIVE!” Please. I take it all back.

I have veiled myself in trenches and in dirty underbrush hiding from the authorities for years, and now I have resurfaced to speak out. I’m now against the filthy glowsticking. I have seen so many horror shows in my raving days, mixing with urchins of the night and their grubby ways. I know DJs. I know vinyl-spinners. I know dancers and glowstickers and drug dealers and filthy filth. Raves are rife with gang activity, rape, robbery and drug-related offenses!

Now I mock it all. I now choose to glowstick with the real dangerous shit, like fire and flame.

I Poach to RADcast

I get a whole lot of wacky emails. This is one of the best:

TO: R.A. Dale (flight0001@hotmail.com)
FROM: MARLEY P. JACOBS (poachy_stew1959@XXXXXX.org)
SUBJECT: I Poach to RADcast

Dear Mr. Dale:

I’m a poacher ya see, one who poaches. It’s my trade and I’m not talkin’ poachin’ eggs. It's wildlife or plants that I poach and I make a pretty hefty living off it. Which is why I am writing you this email. I know you and your RADcast co-host Matt fish and enjoy the out-of-doors, but have you ever thought of joining the poaching ranks?

I have no hunting or fishing license. “The Essence of The Poach” is my manual, a hand woven tale, a code, my code; I don’t cater to fish and game rules! I don’t find shame in using a 15 million candlepower spotlight to stunparalyze a mule deer buck walking across a light-industrial lot before I draw my sights down and smite it’s life away in horrific and booming glory.

Many hours do I spend poaching in almost silence, surrounded by nature and the elements, The Great Spirit with me. I carry a ritual blade and an MP3 player. Your RADcast keeps me company. I download it every week.

I wanted to praise your show unlike the praise I receive for the artful poach in which I partake day in and day out. Praise in my circle sounds like:

“Damn buster you just poached that bad boy!” McFarley shouts.

My only everytime reply, “Shit son I love poaching.”

Inspirational is the RADcast. Keep up the good work.

Poaaching for coin in Iowa,

Marley P. Jacobs
Mt. Pleasant, Iowa

Pig Fucker

Because there is a Hollywood writer's strike, maybe now my "Feasting with Weenis" script will get made!

--
ACT THREE
SCENE B

INT. WEENIS HOUSE – EARLY EVENING
(BO, TODD)

BO AND TODD PREPARE TO WATCH THE EVENING NEWS.

BO
I'm ruined. I've been an anonymous food critic all these years and now my cover's been blown. Everybody in town will see me in that news report.

TODD
Why did you sign the image release?

BO
I didn't. Evidently I'm a public figure so I have no control.
(Pointing to the television)
It's on!

They watch the news report. All the people in the background are wearing Scurvies.

KATHY LIEBERPOOL
In an amazingly bizarre story from the People's Festival today, local food critic Bo Weenis was assaulted during our interview for owning a pet pig named Dinner. The assailant, from a Boulder Colorado vegetarian animal rights group, cursed Weenis seconds before tossing a raw egg in his face. Our News 3 cameraman captured it all on video.

BO (ON TV)
I'm also an inventor Miss Lieberpool.
(looks directly into the camera)
And my Scurvies are for everyman and everywoman to wear with blissful pride.

An egg smashes BO in the face.

OS VOICE
PIG FUCKER!

BO (ON TV)
That’s slander! Someone threw an egg in my face! Did you see it? An egg. In my face! No pictures please. This interview is over.

BO shields himself from the camera.

KATHY LIEBERPOOL
Weenis, President of Weenis Unlimited, did not file charges against the assaulter. I even picked up a pair of his comfortable Scurvies myself. Scurvies aside, it looks like Weenis' critic anonymity has ended. The story is just beginning. This is Kathy Lieberpool, Channel 3 news at the People's Festival, back to you in the studio.

The story freeze-frames on the angry image of BO, raw egg dripping from his face. BO turns off the television.

BO
I'll be forever known as the critic who got hit in the face with an egg. That's unacceptable.

TODD
You're a recognized celebrity now. At least your Scurvies were a big hit!

BO
What kind of an animal rights activist throws an egg at an innocent? It's an unborn chicken!
(shaking his fist)
Chicken killer!

A Weekend Trip to Florida

The Arrival

The weekend adventure to the Florida was a rip-roaring good time. The trip was perfect and everything went in our favor except for the plane ride home. More about that later.

We left warm Denver early on Friday morning, passing through Security at Denver International Airport with smiles on our faces and no problems, unlike the last time where I was almost stripped searched before leaving for Las Vegas. The flight was uneventful, as most flights are. Upon landing in overcast Orlando, the real fun began.

A smiley old woman awaited us at the airport with a huge sign that said “DALE” surrounded by Mountain Dew logos and shiny bling. Since we packed light and did not have any bags checked she immediately ushered us outside to where a massive black van was waiting to take us to the hotel. It was humid outside and the sweats began to pour.

During the ride from Orlando International Airport to the downtown Marriott, the driver, Archie, filled us in on local hotspots and where not to go in Orlando. Archie was genuinely concerned about our safety. My sister and I have some charisma. He got us to the hotel safely. We walked into the lobby and saw the Mountain Dew Playstation Pro booth, signed in, received $200 cash, picked up our grounds passes and checked into the hotel.

We were on the 14th floor, the same floor as the Presidential Suite.

Our first quest was to get dinner and we wanted seafood, as there is no good seafood in landlocked Colorado. Daniel, the deskman at the Marriott, suggested we try a local place, Straub’s Seafood, where they are serious about seafood, on Colonial Drive. Daniel called us a taxi and we were off.

And we feasted like royalty on king crab legs, citrus marinated salmon, blackened dolphin, sesame seared ahi, lobster tail, Maryland style crab cakes, mesquite grilled shrimp, baked potato, rice pilaf, creamed spinach with mushrooms, breads, Caesar salads and stuffed tomatoes.

After dinner, Daniel upgraded our hotel to the Rewards Elite membership, meaning we got accesses to the secret special lounge on the 14th floor with beverages, foods, desserts, honor bar and internet; all for free. Plus he hooked us up for the breakfast buffet both Saturday and Sunday morning!

We walked around the Playstation Pro festivities then went to sleep. We were to awaken early for a trip to the Happiest Place on Earth, the Disney theme parks…

Walt Loves Us

It was pouring rain in Orlando on Saturday morning. After a breakfast of homemade waffles, omelets, coffee, juice, plates of crispy bacon and grits, we purchased umbrellas and walked to the Lynx Central Station downtown bus terminal. Instead of paying 40+ dollars for a cab ride, we decided to take public transportation. It cost $1.50. The bus driver knew we were tourists and gave us false information at simple question I asked. We wanted EPCOT Center but we got Downtown Disney instead. Everything was closed because it was so early in the morning. Evidently people in Orlando do not wake up before 9am.

The rain stopped and yet it was still very moist outside. The humidity was unbearable and I had a slick of sweat on my bodyself the entire time I was out of doors. It’s a Dale genetic curse.

There are no direct park-to-park shuttles, so we had to catch a resort bus to the freaky Pop Century Resort, where the bus magically became the EPCOT shuttle with a bit of fairy dust and diesel fuel. We didn’t have to wait in line and hordes of yapping, screaming, unruly, spoiled brat kids and their bewildered parents packed the bus to capacity. Children were spitting up, spilling bile and breakfast on their Pirates of the Caribbean shirts and their Disney knock-off Crocs, the partially digested pieces of Cap'n Crunch filling the mouse-shaped holes. Parents threatened wailing children with “We’ll get off this bus right now if you don’t behave!” and “Billy quit standing up!” and “Little Sarah, please quit saying ‘Why?! WHY!? WHY!!??!!’ or else Mickey will turn you away at the gates and your behavior will have single-handedly ruined our expensive vacation.”

Hottie, braless, scantily clad mommies in their Daisy Dukes and moist t-shirts, their pointy, tenty nipples poking out like beacons from heaven whilst sporting sandals and “It’s a Small World” pedicures, were everywhere. The din of children squealing with Disney delight was overwhelming.

We arrived at EPCOT and got in for free. Yes, free. We saved $240 bucks due to networking and the ‘it pays to know people’ principle. A quick appearance by Lowell the Little Green Alien and it was off to Mars on Mission: Space. Then it was time for the reveling in the World Showcase to begin. We feasted on pierogi in Poland, drank margaritas in Mexico, Cream Stout in the United States, talked German to the Deutschland beauties in Germany, laughed at the smarmy filth in the United Kingdom, sprinted through Morocco and Canada, indulged in photo ops in China and Japan, totally missed Norway and ended up back in Mexico for more margaritas. We shopped and stumbled about, letting the humidity guide us in delirium.

EPCOT Center was a really, really good time. I sweat the whole time. But the day wasn’t over yet…

Disney World in the key of Fall

It was now time to ride the monorail to the Magic Kingdom of DisneyWorld. The park was all decorated for Fall, with pumpkins and yellows and oranges. And Mickey Mouse. And hordes of people. And sweating in the humidity. And Jack Sparrow.

We had the buffet at The Crystal Palace situated between the Adventureland entrance and Casey's Corner on the West side of the main street plaza. The Crystal Palace is modeled after a similar building in Regent's Park in London built in the late 1880s. DisneyWorld is crowded.

Our aching, oil-slicked bodies rode the bus back to the hotel and it was off to relax while watching “Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith” and sipping Coke from bottles. We drifted off to sleep with dreams of the PlaystationPro on Sunday and the journey back home.

Shaun White was skating and it was fun to see some professional skateboarding action.

Overall, the weekend was a super awesome time, an adventure worthy of many more words. We accomplished a lot, saw a lot and did a lot. The plane ride home was delayed by hours due to weather. The first snow of the season had hit Denver and screwed with air travel. I got home around midnight.

My garden is dead and dying now.

10-19-07

Since I will be in Florida tomorrow, here is Jeff's birthday rap!

--
J. Charles Birthday Rap 2007

Yo. Check it. Step it.
Have a fit. Lay sit. Tasty grit.
Swampy word lit.

He downloadin’ the hi-rez
Sportin’ Yoda Jedi Mastah head Pezâ

I see the J. Charles flappin back and forth
Up inside dat great white north

Shabby with gravy on his chin
Drinkin’ bathtub jin
Grayin’ and baldin all seamy chagrin
Stand backs coz he’s kin!

Back ache when awake!?
The cotton candy was a mistake!
New Underroos you forsake!
And quake! Don’t forget the emergency brake!

He’s ancient.

Clothes be torn and tattered.
Focaccia batter all a splattered!
Them comics double bagged and scattered!
Finest china broke and shattered.

Craggy membrane surround dat body
Bearded and hairless is so oddly
But wise and wizardly you embody

I see you craftin’ wit dat twine
A technique dat you refine
It’s all good and you’re doin’ fine
Coz yowza my man, you be 29!

Hobo Life

Sometimes I crave the wayward hobo life and I would cheerfully be one who drunkenly flips on freight trains to travel the world whilst shabbily dressed in my best glad rags. That's right I know the hobo lingo. My hobo name would be Sir Railcar McRumdum.

Railcar do scoff at using shopping carts to carry my belongings and they are impractical when leaping aboard moving trains. My bindle would be proudly slung over my shoulder, made from the finest gaudy blanket and tied around the end of a lavish mahogany stick etched with symbols of my creation and unknown origin. In it I would carry the essentials: iPod, extra changes of underwear, soaps, biscuits, a smallish cask of bathtub gin and a picture of my family.

In Britain I would be called a "rough sleeper." I prefer "hobo" thank you. Or please call me "My Sovereign Hobo." Thanks. Don't look me in the eyes!

I am the best mulligan mixer ever because I have the finest recipe for Mulligan Stew consisting of beef broth, potatoes, carrots, celery, onions, cat meat, spices and herbs. Hobos chuck a dummy at my stew. I share my stew with the "Brotherhood of the Hobo" only and none other. So don't even ask for a bit of my stew unless you know the secret hobo handshake and can interpret the wall signals scrawled in crayon or charcoal.

My road stake would be 75 US dollars, for emergencies. I hide that cash in a special place.

I would spread misinformation of the hobo code so that nobody could horde my safe zones around the nation. I'd be a sinister hobo, an infamous hobo and a hobo who doesn't play by those wacky hobo rules. I create my own hobo code! You wish you knew my hobo code. Why don't you hobo yourself away from me wretch! I like the word hobo. Maybe I will name my firstborn Howard Hobo Dale if it's a boy and Glenda Hobo Dale if it's a girl. The possibilities are endless. I could name them Hobo only, like Bono, Madonna and Cher.

Sir Railcar McRumdum, me, will be the most famous hobo of all time. I foresee it. I know it will be true. Perhaps I could star in a hobo reality show like "Dancing with the Hobos" or "Survivor: Hobo Town" or "Hobo Factor" or " Hannah Mont-Hobo" or "CSI: Special Hobo Unit" or MTV's "Pimp My Hobo" or science fiction classics "The Bionic Hobo" or "Flash Hobo" or "Babylon Hobo."

This fat kid needs your help

This grossly obese boy needs your help. Fill his gape with candies, bread, meat, Twinkies, cakes, pies, grease and chocolate delight. As you can see, he is unmanageable without the junk food in his presence.

For as little as $1.06 a day, you can fill this fatty’s stomach with hefty foodstuff. Without it, surely there is no way he can survive all of the cruel taunts at school and in public. To keep him quite, it is best his grimace be filled with foods. Along with payment, you get a full color photo of the portly child, a parchment list of his or her favorite snacks and a grease stained, crumb-filled thank you note written in their own hand.

Watch him or her progress through the years as they get larger and larger, knowing that your dollars help make this portly child’s dream come true. Witness the little large ones become so stout that they actually split their clothes at the seams and are forced to sit, naked at the dinner table, shoving pork roasts into their mouths and washing it down with glasses of chocolate buttermilk. God Bless.

cease

radhole productions
Denver, CO USA

Dear Mr. Twardy:

I am Russell Dale, the attorney of Pumpkin Lord James, a Denver resident. I am writing this letter on behalf of PLJ and it is of a most urgent matter.

Attorney and PLJ

As we all want to be pumpkin minions in this time of war and wont, I must be adamant that you cease and desist with your wannna-be patented “Pumpkin Lord James” look. As the whole world undoubtedly knows, PLJ has been strutting around in the camouflage gear for a lengthy time and it is unacceptable that you do so as well. There can only be one PLJ. You are not Pumpkin Lord James so take your camo jacket and hurl it into the lake Mr. Twardy. ¿Comprende? There are plenty of opportunities for you to create your own style around you. Seize them.

PLJ takes his Scarecrow Transportation System missions seriously. STS-666, STS-13L and the upcoming STS-7734 are missions worthy of poetry, song and campfire stories. We cannot have them soiled by your lack of respect. Imitation is indeed a form of flattery, but imitate someone else, myself perhaps, or those people that you work for. Or you can individualize yourself, setting yourself apart from the pack by going shirtless or dressed all in white or whatever. You decide.

PLJ

Be afraid Mr. Twardy. Be very afraid. PLJ, in an episode of drunken rage, said boldly, “I want to take him for all we can!" I had to give him Twizzlers to calm his frazzled nerves. We do not want to resort to letting the shady law decide, but we will if we must. We do not want to bring the dastardly courts into this fray, this scrum, this camouflage skirmish! You must bow to our wishes or else. Or else! I will not be held in contempt due to such a petty, filthy issue.

Don't push PLJ to don his uniform and stalk you dangerously, walking deftly on broken twigs and ground verge, like a ninja, making no sound; where he will sneak up behind you without your knowledge and end your life. Obey our request or this stark future awaits your gloom. Just think how horrific it would be for you to gaze at PLJ's hulking, salivating, grimace lording over you as life's last breath slips from your severed head and violated corpse.

A comparison

Just do it. Just remove your jacket. Take off your jacket. Take it off. Come on now, take off your jacket. Why don't you take off the jacket? PLJ wants you to remove your jacket. I wish you would remove that jacket. Please, remove it.

I get paid an exorbitant amount of cashie monies for my attorney services. I don't skimp because I'm the L-A-W Pimp!

Please comply with our wishes or we will smatter upon you legal battles so grotesque and unnatural that you will be forced into poverty trying to fight them. Thank you for your time.

Russell Dale,
Attorney at Law

Animals in clothes

People who put clothes on their animals bother me. “It makes them look cute!” they say. Whatever. Are not animals inherently cute? Does one really need to enhance an animal’s cuteness by putting clothing on them? If you put a little hat on a piece of shit, the turd may look cuter, but it’s still feces in a hat! Is it necessary to give human qualities to a dog? If you clothe your animals, why not take it a step further by having sex with them? Come on; insert your penis into the dog or finger bang the dog or put peanut butter and jelly on your vagina and have the dog lick you clean. Don’t forget to sensuously take the animals clothes off first.

A hat or sweater or booties on a dog looks unnatural and freakish. It’s abnormal. It’s wrong. It’s stupid. It’s a fucking dog in a hat! I wish animals could talk so they could say: “take that shit off of me!” If animals wanted to wear clothes they would put them on themselves, not have you put them on for them. If anything, the animals should be uncomfortable because you are doubling up on the layers. If animal clothes lead to premature pet death then I’m all for it. So please, keep your dog clothed so it dies quicker of heat exhaustion so I don’t have to see Sparky in a tuxedo vest and bow tie anymore. Also, you figure an animal in clothes would be a double fire hazard. How many dogs in sweaters have died because they caught on fire by the candle burning on the coffee table?

Animals were not meant to wear clothes. Period. That is why they have body hair and fur. Dur! That’s called natural Mother Nature clothes. Shouldn’t you spend money on more important things than a sweater for Fido? Shouldn’t you be channeling your funds to charity instead of buying shoes for your pet? If animals need clothes to survive in the cold or whatnot, then they should be put down and killed because they are not fit enough to live. Survival of the fittest yo.

Next thing you know dogs will be wearing tap shoes or be forced to carry around a mini accordion. This practice is out of control.

Elvis and Mommie Dearest

The King of Rock and Roll died 30 years ago. Elvis Presley. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was almost two years of age.

My mom was devastated and incapacitated at the news that 42 year old Presley died on the shitter of heart disease worsened by drug use.

She was unable to function as a mother, let alone a human being. She pawned us off on our unsuspecting dad, who was unprepared for the epic scope of grief blackness that descended upon the Dale household. He fled faster than one could sing “In The Ghetto.” He was the lucky one.

It was August 16, 1977 when mom became Mommie Dearest.

“Love Me Tender” and “(Marie's the Name) His Latest Flame” and “Crawfish” spun on the record player, the turntable aching from the constant playing of Elvis tunes as “Suspicious Minds” and “Do You Know Who I Am” seared from the vinyl discs into the orange walls of Tartan Lane in Pueblo, Colorado.

We found ourselves in a closet, (was it by choice?) hiding in fear. “Mom?! You love Elvis more than you love us!”

She fed us only when the music briefly stopped, the closet door ripped open to let in blessed sunlight. The food showers so wonderful to us kids, the salty tomato goulash covering us dirtily, the meatloaf chunks hurtful projectiles, pancakes and pork chops with Soppy flying every which way. I remember green beans. Those tasty green beans cooked in bacon grease... and Eric and I fighting over the last scraps of macaroni and cheese. He beat me; he was 7… and Jen hoarding tiny morsels of chicken. Dark hazes.

The phone would ring off the hook and Mommie Dearest wouldn’t answer it. Her friends and family were trying to make contact, teachers wondered where we were, lawyers and bosses flooded the house with calls. Grandpa Bailey attempted to ram the Service Master van through the reinforced walls of our white house. And the authorities, oh those poor men in blue, refused to come on the property due “Devil In Disguise” playing so loud and the shotgun cocks echoing on the other side of the door.

“Elvis! Elvis!!!” Mommie Dearest screamed and sobbed during the funeral events, her boss giving her special bereavement leave from work. The King was dead.

When the reality of the event had finally set in, life returned to normal. We heralded dad’s bearded return from the mountains; clothes tattered, his fishing poles broken out of fear, grief or worse. “The owls are not what they seem.” He was a Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons man. I am sure he shed a tear for Elvis.

Mom made popcorn, pork roast and cherry cobbler. She shared with us her Pepsi. We never spoke of the horrors again. From then on the kids always let mom have her ETT: Elvis Tunes Time.

Babysitting Blues

I hated babysitters when I was growing up. They always seemed to abuse my siblings and I, but not with physical beating. It was more like mental abuse and backbreaking work in shoddy, sweatshop-like conditions. We treaded softly and quietly, not wanting to anger our babysitting oppressors, lest the dogs be sent down upon us.

In kindergarten, at the tender age of six, my sister and I had to walk to school alone from the babysitter’s house, jaywalking across busy streets during morning rush hour traffic, skipping carefree through the ghettos and shanties of Aurora, Colorado, all without adult supervision. My only comfort was holding my sister’s hand as we dodged speeding traffic and stood on the tiny median awaiting clearance to sprint to the other side of Hampden Ave.

It was at this place where we only were only able to play in a little room with a white line barrier at the door that we were never allowed to cross. We’d enter through a back yard entrance and were stuffed with other kids into the festering tiny room all day long. We were not allowed into the kitchen or living room. There was a TV in the distance but were not allowed to go into that room because it was forbidden.

The most horrific babysitting experience was in the dark mid-1980s, probably around 1983, when MTV was on the air. MTV, in the golden days when they played music videos and not crap, was new. I recall seeing Sting with his huge-ass standing bass/cello and The Police’s “Every Breath You Take” video playing nonstop, Sting surrounded by candles. MTV played a lot of Rick Springfield back then. I hate 80s music. I really, really hate 80s music.

We were babysat in a neighborhood within relative walking distance of our house. My sister, younger brother and I were the ones being babysat, because my older brother had sports and such and was busy joyriding in the family van “Christine” before he got his driver’s license.

That horrible babysitter. That horrible house.

We would be locked in the basement or in the backyard, the babysitter’s own kids being hateful to us and laughing at us behind the closed screen door, “Total Eclipse Of The Heart” by Bonnie Tyler drowning out their evil cackles, “Come On Eileen” by Dexy's Midnight Runners blaring so loud our muffled cries were heard by no one, not even ourselves. They would snack on candies and treats and lunch without offering us anything, the lack of shade and summer heat beating down upon our wee heads, “Down Under” by Men At Work making things worse by mocking us in an Australian way with each bite the spiteful jerk kids made darkening my sister and my souls. We went to high school with those vile kids and I used to tell the youngest daughter the tales of how horrible her family was to us. She brushed it off because she knew it was true.

I have vague, disturbing, hazy memories of the whole experience; like my sister and I being imprisoned in the dim basement and forced to scrape the varnish off of coffee tables with razorblades as a vicious pit bull dog tied to a pole barked at us the whole time, the faintest sounds of “Billie Jean” by Michael Jackson heard through the floor from the fun and freedom upstairs. It was surreal and very Lynchian, something from a David Lynch film.

My sister and I always wanted to escape the horror by leaping over the fence and walking to the safety of our home. But little J. Charles would be asleep upstairs, napping in perfect peace, unaware of our dilemma, and we did not want him to be left behind where he would be scarred for life. We couldn’t leave him behind. No Dale gets left behind! No Dale! “Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)” by the Eurythmics gave us hope that we would survive those darkest of babysitting days.

If we had the good fortune to go outside in the front yard to play on a fake “day pass,” neighborhood bullies would push us around and chase us and throw grasshoppers on us, filling our little minds with terror and fear, making us anxious to go outside and play childhood games like Spider and Kickball and Jailbreak and Hide-and-Go-Seek.

Years later it turns out that the neighborhood bully, the fucker who threw grasshoppers on us and pushed us around, was non-other than my best friend MELT. We all know how superior I am to MELT in the present and it’s a pity he had to lord his childhood frustrations out on the unsuspecting and innocent Dale kids.

At home in the evenings, we pleaded with mom and dad, telling them the horrors of the babysitter, begging for them to make the madness stop. They did not listen. We eventually became latchkey kids, most probably due to the ever-rising cost of babysitters and the fact that my family was poor after pappie died.

I spit bile whenever I hear “Electric Avenue” by Eddy Grant. I want to yell whenever I hear “True” by Spandau Ballet. Whenever I take notice of “Hungry Like The Wolf” by Duran Duran I am flooded with reminiscences of the deeply disturbing days of my youth.

Fuck the 1980s.

Techmeister 101 – Slaves to Elders

I don’t claim to be the greatest techie alive. I was a BBS goon. I can make my way around computers. I have a little audio and visual knowledge. I get buy with the tech that I have.

Unlike a lot of people.

I can jury-rig with the best of them. I once performed internet tech support with a friend in Denver via cellular phone while taking a shit in a McDonalds bathroom in Raton, New Mexico. Believe that yo! That’s right, I’m capable.

And word gets around.

I am always one to offer a glad hand, to friends or family. With my mom, I am obligated to help with all sorts of technology woes. That's blood, kin. But mom's friends and work acquaintances?

All of a sudden I am getting requests from her, second-hand, as if she is the ‘tech drug dealer’ offering out my services, to go over to a friend of a friends house to show her how to record a television show on VHS or program the VCR or play a DVD or watch a show on one channel while recording on another, all while transcribing step-by-step instructions for the woman to refer to in the future, a cheat-sheet for idiot-box operation.

All of a sudden I am getting emails from her friends requesting me make house calls to remedy computer problems and install printers. It is as if my mom is pimping me out.

And if I don’t do it my mom will find someone who will. Why is she in charge of these people’s lives?

Are we slaves to the Baby Boomer generation now? Am I obligated to help her friends with their problems? Am I a bastard if I don’t dish up some community service? Will I be on call forever, building a customer base of epic proportions, ending up delivering meals on wheels to them in the far future; mowing lawns and performing car maintenance and heavy lifting, my soul captured in a limbo between my generation and the ones previous?

Inhale

He sat under the shade tree in silence. Silence. His inhale. His exhale. Heartbeats.

Then noise. Louder. His senses were heightened. He could pick out the cacophony, the din. Earth. Turning. Cosmic. The world became clearer to him. He heard the buzz of insects, of bees flying from flower to flower. It was an odd traverse, nature痴 dance. Dead leaves fell from the trees. They crash softly to the ground. A thunder.

There is traffic on the streets beyond. He heard the bus. Squeaking breaks. Coughing.

A breeze rushed through the area. The plants push towards the sun. They sing when they grow. A plane overhead. A squirrel eats a peach from the tree. He scurries. He痴 eating the peaches. Vague hope City Fox gets him. Hazy hope that squirrel gets eaten dead.

The chair creaks. A barking dog. Two dogs. So many dogs. Engine 16 rolls from the station, sirens blaring. Barking. Howling. Mosquitoes. Sunset. Breeze. Heartbeats. Inhale.

Biscuits and Gravy Society

Biscuits and gravy: the finest grub ever invented by modern man. I am the founder and President of The B&G Society, a vagabond group of people who search the world over for the holiest of holies: the bestest plate of biscuits and gravy ever! We elite at the B&G Society are ever searching, always seeking, the holy grail of biscuits and gravy.

My fascination with this wholesome treat started in my teen years. I first made biscuits and gravy on Sunday, December 1, 1991. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was 16 at the time and whipped up a hefty batch with best friend MELT. The culinary delight had ground turkey white gravy and was GOOD!

Here at the radhole HQ, we have shared countless plates of biscuits and gravy together over the years.

The search still continues to this day.

I pride myself on taking the quest so very seriously. I know that the finest plate of biscuits and gravy is out there somewhere. Some say B&G is deadly and I laugh! I consider it like the Japanese delicacy, fugu! The hunt for B&G takes determination, foresight and leaves no room for bashfulness. It’s a rough road. Don’t be afraid to photograph your biscuits and gravy. You shall not be persecuted.

While on the travels, one never knows when one will hit a B&G jackpot. Truck stops, family owned restrents or street vendors usually sell the grub B&G. Undoubtedly, while on the road, there is a painful twinge in the back of your brain, a hankering for a mess of fluffy, mongo buttermilk biscuits slathered in peppery, white country sausage gravy. Few can fight the urge.

In the constant search for biscuity goodness, the quest has taken me to various locations upon this great American land: Kentucky, Alabama, Kansas, Iowa, Minnesota, California, Delaware, New York, Washington DC, Georgia, Tennessee, Illinois, Missouri, South Dakota, Texas, Florida, Utah and Colorado.

I’ve searched and searched for the ideal biscuity knowledge. The one true source! But nothing compares to the righteous and stout recipe by GrandPappie Bailey. I was weaned on his freshly split buttery enchantment. I used to watch him craft breakfast. He was a cook in the World War II. He taught me to cook. Them biscuits are legendary! Them breakfasts am hearty. I salivate.

Old GrandPappie Bailey perfected his blissful recipe when he was four years old back in Saratoga Township, Pratt County, Kansas in 1925! Forget Bisquick! GrandPappie make his exquisite biscuits from scratch and they’ll make you rise on up and proclaim with a hearty holler "GrandPappie Bailey’s biscuits make me sing in jubilee!" Add those goodly biscuits to perfecto gravy sunshine, luscious gravy or grubby gravy; all made from the drippings of the finest browned breakfast sausage, and you’ve got yourself a mess of breakfast delight!

Biscuits and Gravy, a tradition in certain circles, is also a great ceremony. There are times when B&G is made just for the sake of making it. It’s a treat sitting down to a steaming plate of biscuits and gravy. Try it. They taste good any time of year.

Besides homemade, the current best biscuits and gravy (2007) reside at Bauer's Campus Café, 435 Poncha, Alamosa, CO 81101 (719) 589-4202. They are cheap and delectable.

Russ Dale
Biscuits and Gravy Society

a small B&G gallery

THE B&G RAP by Russ Dale

Biscuits and Gravy Rap Lyrics:

TELEPHONE CONVERSATION

Yo. We hit the B&G jackpot dawg. We be sittin' down to a heapin' plate of biscuits and gravy yo. Better dan da restrents. Come on over Shiz-Hole. It's homemade from the drippings of the finest browned breakfast sausage. Uh huh. Dats right. You's got a hankering for a mess of fluffy, mongo buttermilk biscuits covered in peppery, white country sausage gravy? I'll sees you in ten minutes dawg!

What up J-Hole? I's got a song fo you.
Forget your cereal. We got lardy goodness.
It's ethereal. Down right crudeness
Food stuffs. Release your cuffs.
No greasy bacon. Hey I ain't fakin' It's time to awaken!
No no no
No eggs neither
Take a breatha

We's gonna slather
or rather
tether, every otha, whilst enjoy this weather.
And together
Fill our bellies with anti jams and jellies. Inhale the smellies, no delis fellies, feelin' wellies. Feliz Navadad!
Knees on sod, pray to God, not Zod, just nod, join the B&G vice squad. It's odd.
It's peppery. We play. Don't stray!

It's biscuity goodness. Call the press.
I see you drool. Welcome to school.
You's got hunger? You ain't getting' any younger!
The pains be stabbin'. Yo stomach you grabbin'
Soooooooooooo

(Chorus)
Grab a plate yo. It's feast time.
You's be filled with glee
At my blissful recipe.
It's Biscuits. Biscuits and gravy. (HAY-VE)
freshly split
buttery enchantment (buttery)
hearty contentment
Don't be lazy. Taste my gravy

I used that buttermilk? Smoother than silk!
And da steamin' pepper white gravy. Sweeeeeeet so very savory.
Can't forget the peppah. Freshly ground black peppah.
Pass the butter yo. Ain't in no mood for olio.
Damn straight yo. We go wit da flow.
Got the Jimmy Dean sausage. Brown breakfast sausage.
Yo it's spicy pork. Don't need no goddamn fork.
I know I be a smarty. This food am mighty hearty.

Hear that bell that ring? Join me and sing.
It's breakfast time. Come here my rhyme.
(Chorus)
It's feast time.
You's be filled with glee
At my blissful recipe.
It's Biscuits. Biscuits and gravy.
freshly split
buttery enchantment
hearty contentment
Don't be lazy. Taste my gravy

Taste like shit? Damn foo. You don't like it?
Well fuck you!

I slather I don't skimp. I'm the B&G pimp.