The Great White, Chapter 3

When first we met The Great White, I was attacked over and over again under water. I was trapped fully in his world with no escape, no possible hope of survival.

This chapter went on for months.

Recently, The Great White returned, but this time, we met on my terms. As he charged to and fro under the dock, my cousin and I lobbed and reeled a thick rope until it caught in his teeth and I pulled him in, holding him aloft with one massive arm.

Now, he has moved on to a more potent fare. No longer did he solely attack me, but my father. And he brought a friend.

We were in what appeared to be a shark tank in an aquarium when, out of no where, The Great White's partner slipped in behind my father, clenching his left leg in his powerful jaws and shaking him like a bottle of separated orange juice. I shot through the water and jammed a black bic pen into the assailant's eye. Blood oozed out, and yet the beast did not release my father. I withdrew the pen and jammed it into its gills. Finally, my father broke free, just in time to point over my shoulder, giving me barely enough time to roll out of the way of The Great White, coming in hot. His jaws were open wide, expectant, cocky even. I rolled toward my left shoulder and was bowled over, spinning to the right. We raced for the surface and escaped the watery hold. We told everyone around to get away from the edge and, better yet, get the hell out of the aquarium altogether.

One man jauntily walked up to me and said, "It doesn't look that bad."

I glared at him as though I could convince The Great White to hunt him instead with a mere look. "You have no idea."

Christmas Eve, or A Poem About a Oranges, Birthdays, Sweaters, Roasts, Interns, Italian Cakes, Mexicans and Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas -

A Friday night, too -

And my friend, Holly's, birthday

was quite the to-do.

When we searched for a bar that

Would stay open late

It appeared that our outing

Was planned out by fate.

For was only one bar that

Would pour Christmas Eve -

Our beloved Streets of London -

Not hard to believe.

It was already late-ish,

That is, if you're old,

So I sought out a partner

To keep out the cold.

I had one friend named Laura

Who wanted a ride

On my big motorcycle.

Like The Dude, I'd abide.

So I stole her from rapture

Of films well conceived,

And we went for a bike ride

On this Christmas Eve.

We both rode to Old Sacto

To see all the lights

And my timing was perfect

For them to flash bright.

I turned right back around and

We headed on home.

Then I dropped her right off and

Was back on my own.

Like old Santa I flew to

The bar and my crew

Prepped for much merry-making

You know that it's true.

My dear Holly was there with

Danielle and three more:

There was Cynthia, Carly,

And Annie, the whore.

They drank Blue Moon with oranges

By pitcher and pint

And they chatted with boys who

Just might treat them right.

There were Mexican soldiers

Whom Annie had found

And some Firemen with sweaters

Of purplish brown.

Yes the time rolled on by us

And two-o'clock struck

Then the bar made us head home

No matter how drunk.

I then turned to Danielle, with

her pretty blond bob,

I said, "How 'bout a ride on

My big orange hog?"

Oh her eyes sparkled grey at

The thought of a ride

So we walked to my Shadow

Parked barely outside.

Then I gave her a helmet,

All decked out with chains,

I acquired my own with

Orange stripes bright as flames.

I turned over the motor

And she roared to life.

And Danielle held on tighter,

Eyes grey as a knife.

So we drove all of nine blocks

And parked by her door,

Then she asked me to enter

And see what's in store,

When the door opened warmly

And sound blasted out,

Twas a party upon us

Of that we'd no doubt.

The Italian neighbor,

Andrea by name,

And his lovely partner,

His wife - quite a dame -

They had brought champagne over

And cake from a box

Thus the party was on now,

Twas just three-o'clock.

The next twenty-four hours

The T.V. would play

just the film "Christmas Story"

for all Christmas day.

While it played in the background

And Chris served the roast,

We all raised up our glasses

For a Christmas toast.

As the hours kept on rolling

The girls went to sleep.

Firstly Annie, then Carly

Upstairs they did creep.

There were Laura and Chris who

Now slept in a chair

While Danielle and I cuddled

Now barely aware

That Andrea was drinking

The wine from each cup

Though the clock in my pocket

Chimed five when it struck.

I decided to mosey

My sluggish way home

Since the sun would be rising

In air cold as stone.

I said, " 'night" to the party

And guests in the house

And I crept to my Shadow

As hushed as a mouse.

Twas now Christmas's morning

And I just got home.

A successful fiesta

Spent far from alone.

Blue Polo and Black Slacks

Linda would not have left Sam's side for anything. Nothing short of death could take her from him. So when she passed away last month, it was a blow unlike any other, not only for her family, but for ours.

Linda had worked with my brother, Sam, for years. I don't even know how many. I was too young when she started with him to even try to keep track now. Maybe ten? Ten years or so.

She followed him everywhere. Every school. Every summer program. Every year. Her car was there, trailing the bus and she was there to push him around in his chair all day every day at school.

I remember once, when Sam had been asking for her a lot one Summer, my family was driving to a vacation and my mom was trying to reference "Linda Vista," an area in California. But she didn't want to say Linda (pronounced LEEN-duh) because she thought it would set Sam off on a thought train that we'd never get him off of again. I wasn't getting it, though. She kept saying "the town that's name means pretty view." I kept saying, "Bella Vista? Isn't that a high school?" (yes it is.) My dad finally whispered to me, "Linda Vista." I said, "why aren't we saying it out loud? Why aren't we saying Linda Vista?" Sam said, "BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-BA?!" and started pointing back the way we'd come for the next hour or so. "Ohhh," I said.

Tonight, her husband came to visit us and have dinner.

I've never thought so hard about which clothes to change into after biking home from work.

It's 10:37. Do you know where your blogs are?

On December 8, 2010 the world mourned the 30-year anniversary of John Lennon's death. I meditated on this throughout the day and felt overwhelmed by a sense of both hope and sadness. Hope that one day the world would finally hear the messages of love and solidarity that Lennon sang about. Sadness that we still haven't. On that same day there was civil war, political riots and car bombings around the world. People were still dying because of hate.

So I sat down and I wrote about it. I wrote out everything I was feeling and wrote it out well. I finished the short essay and opened my blogger page to post it and was greeted with an unwelcome message:

"Sorry. The blog you're looking for does not exist. If you own this blog, click here."

Excuse me?

What do you mean "the blog I'm looking for does not exist?" Yes it does - it very much exists! In fact, I posted on it two days ago! Something about birds! Very poetic! What the f#$k do you mean it doesn't exist?!

I scoured the internet for suggestions. I emailed google. I called tech buddies. I mourned the death of my blog. In the midst of the wikileaks scandal, I couldn't help but feel I had been hacked and destroyed but for what? Why would someone take down my blog? I'm not subversive, I'm not offensive, I'm not treasonous. Where is my blog?!

For days, bordering on weeks, my blog was gone. I'd check twice a day. Maybe someone had found it. I put up flyers. "Reward. Lost Blog. Small, pretentious, cute. Please email if found." Had it run away? Had it been taken from me? Would I need Liam Nieson-like skills to retrieve it from the evil clutches of foreign blog pimps?

Then finally, one day, out of the blue, I check the address and POP there it is!

"Hey!" It said.

"OH HELL NAW!" I retorted. "You disappear for a week and then just show up and say, 'Hey?' I don't think so! I'm not even talking to you right now! You just sit in your room and think about what you've -- I was worried sick about you! Don't you have any consideration for my feelings? You just sit right there and you -- I am so mad at you! I'm over here trying to spread LOVE and PEACE and FREE HUGS and you're off galavanting I don't even know where! I -- we -- we'll discuss this later…"

I stormed off in a huff, pointedly not posting my message to the world about John Lennon, love, peace and harmony.

It's 10:37. Do you know where your blogs are?

Why to get Vaccinated from the Flu

As I mention in the blurb on this video, my brother has a very compromised immune system and if he gets sick it can easily land him in the hospital. We've spent too much time there in our lives and I don't intend to have to do it again if it can be avoided. So, I get vaccinated. Not to keep the flu out of me, but to keep it away from him.

Vote for my video at the following link:

http://www.brickfish.com/Pages/VideosSeries/VideoView.aspx?vid=11331_36964363&pid=293037&scid=576

The Elder Egret

(This story is dedicated to the Red-Shouldred Hawk who watched me ride my bicycle near Banister Park from a puddle on the side of the road and to the swift Doe who crossed my path later, cutting through the four-second lead the cyclist ahead of me had.)

The Elder Egret

12/5/2010

It was early. I ate my eggs and toast as the sun came up, barely high enough to reflect some distant hint that it would be here as soon as the snooze alarm went off again in the window across from mine that looks into my neighbor's game room. I was twenty miles down the highway, Northbound on Interstate Five on my six-hundred cc Honda Shadow, before I needed my sunglasses.

After I needed my sunglasses, but long before I stopped for my second breakfast one tank of gas north from Sacramento, I saw a flock of Egrets. Maybe "flock" is the wrong word for them, though. A "flock of pigeons" sounds right. Egrets don't seem to travel in flocks, though. More of "congregations." They bring with them a sense of near-holiness, a solemness that other birds don't match. Even hawks and owls don't quite get to that level. A hawk is solitary - a solo hunter - a lone wolf, as it were. But Egrets are always together. One never sees an Egret alone, or at least very rarely. There's always at least one other one not too far away as though they need someone nearby to remind them that the rest of the world is still spinning along with them.

I saw this congregation of Egrets wading in the water off to the right side of the road with the sun just peeking over the edge of the flat, grassy horizon, almost silhouetting the birds as I passed. With my engine rumbling beneath me and an eighteen-wheeler on my left, the congregation rose, like church-goers when the priest raises his sacred snack on high. They rose up and took flight, just as I was passing.

It's easy to believe that those birds took no note of me whatsoever and that they were simply bored of wading in that particular position in that particular accumulation of fluid, but I could feel them. It was like a part of me rose up with them and flew along for a while before returning to my two fixed wheels on the ground. While I flew with them, one looked over and said, "good morning."

"Good morning, to you," I said.

"Where are you off to?" on asked me, shaking her sleek white head, dispelling water into the biting dawn air.

"Seattle," I said.

"Seattle! No kidding," the gentleman to my right mused. "You're just going straight up to Seattle on a motorcycle?"

"Well, not exactly," I replied. "I'm stopping in Ashland to see some plays, then meeting up with an old friend outside of Tacoma or Portland, and then to Seattle. Then back to Sacramento with some family visits on the way back down."

"Sound to me," the grizzled-looking Egret, obviously the eldest, croaked, "like you're off on a journey, not to a destination."

The other Egrets mumbled and nodded, approving of the clairvoyant wisdom and insight this elder Egret possessed and shared. They seemed impressed and reverent that he had shared his thoughts with me, a lowly ground-walker. His gifts must be a rare treat, even among the creatures of the sky.

"That sounds right," I said humbly. "I am off on a journey."

"May you fly on powdered wings and find safe ground upon which you may rest," the congregation sang in perfect four-part harmony.

"And may you all as well," I replied, like the good little Catholic I once was.

I returned to my body and once again felt the hot engine between my knees, the quivering handlebars in front of me, the weight of my bags behind me and the pull of the Earth's gravity. I looked up one last time and waved to the congregation who had made me one of them for a fleeting moment. They flew on and so did I.

Several weeks later, I was not much father North than I was when I met the elder Egret and his congregation. Though, I was facing the other way this time. Heading South, my journey nearly at an end. This time, it was midday, around Noon or maybe one o'clock. And it was hot. I had stripped away all of my extra layers and linings of my jacket and stuffed them in my backpack at the last gas station I'd stopped at where there was a diner named for my ex-girlfriend's ex-roommate, Cozy. Even with most of my layers doffed, I was sweating terribly. The sun was merciless and at seventy miles per hour, the wind was scorching. The heat only served to worsen my mood. Shasta Pass was hours behind me, now, and Seattle days away. My journey was nearly at an end and I would go back to the life I had tried to escape, even if temporarily, on two wheels and an engine. Just as I was thinking about this and getting depressed for the first time in almost thirty seconds, a glint of light caught my eye off to the right.

The congregation had returned to welcome me back! As they landed on the bank (to the West of the road, this time), the lovely and formerly damp young lady, called out to me,

"Welcome home!" she shouted.

"Thanks..." I dejectedly replied.

"You don't sound glad to see us," the young male chastised.

"Oh it's not that," I said. "I'm just sad that my journey is at an end and that I won't see the Emerald City and all my friends for many more months."

"How can your journey be at an end," the elder abrasively growled. "You live, do you not?"

"I do," I said.

"You dream, do you not?" the elder rumbled.

"I do," I said.

"Then how," the elder roared, "can your journey be ever at an end?"

Silence fell among the congregation. I too, fell silent and hung my head, ashamed that I had disappointed the elder Egret so terribly. He waded over to me where my spirit had slumped and he put his wings around me, lifting my chin from my chest with his long, rapier beak.

"Do not feel ashamed," the elder said, his voice now like that of a beautiful young woman with sad green eyes, "for you have learned much and you are now ready to begin your journey."

A tear streamed down my sweaty, dust-coated face.

"Thank you, elder Egret," my voice shivered. "I shall now begin my journey."

Before I could blink the elder Egret had sent me back to my bike and I was, once more, rumbling Southbound on Interstate Five among SUV's, eighteen-wheelers and mini-vans. It was still hot. I was still sad. But I was beginning my journey.