MORE COWBOY CONFLICT

Happy Halloween!

HALLOWEEN SPECIAL

LOW TECH MANUFACTURING IN DETROIT

I discovered the following video footage while cleaning my basement (see below). If my memory serves me correct, I narrated this piece in 1989. My wife might argue that it’s from the early 90’s. I do know this much: the company secretary operated the camcorder. She and I started dating a few months prior, even though I vowed never to mix pleasure with work. Three years later we married. She might argue that it was at least one year prior and four years later. We have our differences.

As for the video content: It’s a "How To" piece on making locker mirrors; something I knew all to well, having manufactured them for five years. My lines were not rehearsed, nor did I really care that much considering it was an assignment for an Instructional Media Class at Madonna College in Livonia, Michigan. In my opinion, a majority of the education courses were, and still are, a waste of time and money. I did what needed to be done in order to get my teaching certificate, that’s all that mattered.

I didn’t have too many fond memories of college, especially that IM Class. I remember standing around a film projector waiting for my turn to demonstrate that I could thread the film properly without damaging the equipment. I remember thinking, Isn’t that what those nerdy high school AV kids are for? Still, I kept my mouth shut and went through the motions, not knowing that my future students would do most of their learning the good old fashion way: a book, a pencil, and a sheet of paper.

It’s amazing how much junk I’ve accumulated over the years. I’m having difficulty letting go of the past, but each week an extra garbage bag full of videotapes, cassettes, books, and papers are dropped off at the curb. It’s like shedding an old skin; I should’ve been doing this all along.

READING "PITCH"

IF YOU'D ONLY PAY ATTENTION

Jason Evan's "Ascension" Short Fiction Contest at Clarity of Night.

Written form, Entry #8: If You'd Only Pay Attention (2nd Place)

Muffin Monster demonstration below.

THREE DOWN, TWO TO GO

I suspect that if I had been a bit more cooperative, I might’ve become more than I am, I might’ve really gone places instead of painting myself into that proverbial corner called “prison employment.” Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful to be working, I’ve heard the same first line of a Tom Petty song each weekday morning for the past two years, She’s an American Girrrrl, and have never hit the snooze button. I kill the alarm and get up immediately. I've got bills to pay. I’ve even done my part to stimulate the economy with that dreaded activity called: Christmas Shopping.

This year, for reasons I’ll try not to delve into, I’m forced to celebrate Christmas FIVE times.

A week ago, we exchanged gifts at my parents’ house, this past weekend we celebrated SA’s homecoming. In case you may have forgotten, SA (I Am Batman) is my wife’s cousin from Chicago. She’s also the one who discovered a common, yet subtle theme throughout my blog—The Voice of Reason. Now I’m more deliberate regarding whom that voice is. But I digress.

Christmas #2 was spent in the Grosse Pointes so SA could reunite with family. As we traveled west on I-94, I gave her my camcorder and some brief instructions on how to use it; thus the following short video footage. I’ll warn you now: I had my braces tightened the evening prior; The orthodontist stuffed my mouth full of gauze due to an abscess that wouldn’t stop bleeding. There’s no arguing that my teeth and upper gum line contributed to my weekend-long, crabby disposition and perhaps played a part in the edited selection of photographs and Christmas music. But I’m much better now.

I included very little footage of Christmas #3—just me clanking my Miller bottle against some holiday knick-knacks.

I wish everyone a Merry Christmas and hope to visit everyone’s blogs soon.

AT THE END OF NARDONE STREET

I’m no Richard Attenburrough, or Leonard Nemoy, or James Earl Jones, but it only seems fitting that I try my hand—I mean “voice”—at narration. I’ve been organizing my childhood photos for a Christmas DVD that I intend to give to my grandmothers.

Please feel free to comment. Your suggestions are greatly appreciated. I already know that a better microphone is needed; Reading from under a heavy comforter, sheltering my voice from the steady hum of the computer, seems downright silly.

Also, I plan on sharing an email correspondence I had with Bonnie Jo Campbell, author of Women and Other Animals, and Q Road, regarding her soon to be released short story collection American Salvage.

Peace.

SUMMER OF 1972

Sometimes we lose sight of what’s important in life, the daily grind of work robbing us of precious moments spent with family and friends. Not so in the summer of 1972. My parents and grandparents packed their campers and we headed out West to see wild buffalo, prairie dogs, the Bad Lands, Mount Rushmore, and Yellowstone National Park, among other things.

It’s hard to imagine where thirty-five years have gone. I can still feel the warm breeze on my face as my brother maneuvers a miniature milk truck in a dusty parking lot. I was the loyal passenger, a nine-year old boy, waving to Dad while he filmed us; My brother making ever widening turns, our circles becoming larger and larger, as if we had known our freedom wouldn’t last forever.

It’s the silly things in life we cherish the most—like staying at a Flintstone themed park or enjoying the built-in swimming pool with mammoth slide (hey, that’s how I remember it). I may have chickened-out at going down the damn thing—I’d hear about it and regret it whenever Dad set up the projector and ran the film—but it didn’t traumatize me too much; I've learned to laugh at myself. And to see our late grandfather heading for the luxury showers with a towel in hand made us all smile.

Unfortunately, as I tried to duplicate my brother’s feat of feeding a fawn, I got a little extra something that I hadn’t bargained for. Seems to be the story of my life.

I hope everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving. I’m leaving for Texas and promised not to blog while on vacation. See you when I get back.

LABOR DAY

Never mind the dapper young fellow with the most baseball patches on his jacket. Never mind his older brother with five, count them, five such patches--Do the math if you feel the need, I won't stop you. Never mind the detachable, unique, uno-level, luxury-model, camper with master bedroom and a panoramic view. Never mind that the view included a stopover in Missouri. Never mind the mangy, homeless mutt that got between the two boys. None of these things matter. It's just an old family photo of two youngsters enjoying a camping trip with their parents. I'm sure, as this Labor Day weekend comes to a close, there will be new family photos of camping trips all across the United States (and Canada too).

Fast-forwarded approximately thirty-five years, and that toe-headed youngster with the photo-scratched eye will tell you that he no longer goes camping. "I mistakenly took my wife camping once. I pitched a tent over some pine needles and her allergies kicked in. Her misery became my misery," he says. And so the story goes.

Here's the latest:

I didn't do much of anything this weekend. I stayed home and walked my dog around the subdivision each evening. On Saturday, with my dog on leash, I encountered a fawn. It followed us for two and half blocks. I ignored it, yet it kept pace and kept bleating.

"Hey Dad," I heard a kid yell, "there's a deer following that guy walking his dog."

His dad looked up and yelled, "There's a deer behind you."

I ignored the dad, the son, and the fawn. I concentrated on walking my dog. A few minutes later, the fawn trotted in the direction of a house where I smelled hamburgers on a grill. I had finally lost it.

What else did I do this holiday weekend? Ivan's going to love this; call it the tie-in no matter how contrived it seems. I read a negative comment regarding my YouTube video about a deer on my front lawn. The title of the piece, which I posted here on June 23, 2007, is "Ted Nugent Visits My House." Here's the comment:

Now go and eat your hamburgers PETA. PETA is an extremist organization. Dogs hate PETA; they do because they know PETA members refuse to feed dogs meat. And anyone knows every dog will tell you they need at least one can of horsemeat per week. PETA treats dogs the same way Hitler treated the Jews. They round'em up against their will and exterminate them. PETA kills more dogs then most hunters will ever kill deer in their lifetimes. Join NRA- hunters.

Other than that, I didn't do too much this holiday weekend.

SQUID JIGGIN' (HOW TO CATCH THE BIG ONE)

THE JOB ALTERNATIVE

TED NUGENT VISITS MY HOUSE

BIG CAT CAUGHT

BEYOND THE SEA ... LAKE HURON

THE FAREWELL TOUR