HR 2749: The Food Facism Bill of 2009?

You are what we tell you you can eat.

The House of Representatives has passed resolution 2749 which severely regulates the food industry and America’s small natural food farms. The resolution greatly amplifies the power of the Secretary of Health and Human Services and lays a yolk of terror and bankruptcy around the neck of any organic food endeavors.



Full Article is Here

Amber Flyse--Song of the Month for August 2009

I've decided to post some guitar songs on here. I already post one short story per month, I figure since I play me some geetar, mize well share. My playing is almost as bad as my writing, but hey, it's free, so sit on it! This one I call "Amber Flyse".

Just click to play. (Sorry the quality isn't the best, blogger restricts bandwidth for movies).



Thanks for listening!

The Liber Review: How to make Enemies and Alienate People by Toby Young

Toby Young’s memoir of a Briton failing to climb the social ladder of the NYC “glossy posse” is full of great pie-faced hi jinks. For a book brimming with humor and ironic witticism, the book makes a pretty poignant, pointed statement of American social structure and the inaccessibility of the “American Dream”.
The tale spun here is a pretty much the typical thread of woe and failure we hear so much of these days. The narrator spends the bulk of his time in self-debasing ridicule, thereby lending some perverse measure of (self-imposed) credence to its author when he throws his wrench of rebuke into the gears of the American social machine: We are all just post-modern versions of Melville’s Ishmael. Outcasts, trodden, huddled masses. You get the picture.


To Read the full review click here

Oregon to businesses: We hate you (Still)

Taxing a hospital may not be illegal, but it is certainly immoral. The words tax and hospital shouldn’t be in the same sentence…ever. The effort (included in the GRB) is an effort to diminish the public cost of this vast healthcare fiasco we know as the Oregon Health Plan by taxing the private companies, oft non-profit organizations (Peace Health), companies and organization which successfully provide the care we need firsthand. It’s a government sponsored pyramid scheme at least, a top-notch hen-house robbery along the lines of oh, say, a Cloward-Piven strategy in its grimmest reality.



TO READ THE FULL ARTICLE CLICK HERE

Whale Huggers of the 21st Century

We used to think they were just tree-huggin’ orcaphiliacs.

You know, in the third grade they were the little girls who colored those panoramic ocean scenes complete with the jumping lumpy humpback whale and the big yellow sun. The sun always shines in those pictures. Frederic Church would be proud, wouldn’t he? Usually there was a little caption somewhere on the seascape masterpiece that read: “Save the whales!”

Yeah, them.

Those girls.

But then those girls grew up and went to high school and after they learned how to put a condom on a cucumber they moved up in the world and became “the future of America”. That’s right. They went to college. In college, when they weren’t busy hitting the bong or downloading illegal copies of some obscure Bob Marley album, they learned about the big bad Corporate Individual and the evils of the petroleum industry. They studied Marx, grew hair in places American girls should not have hair.

And they liked it.

They loved every self-indulging, self-inflating, self-promoting minute of it. In fact, they loved themselves so much, they eventually started hating the fact that they loved themselves. Well, not themselves, but some other selves which, in their newfound drivel-driven philosophy they were forced to consider as part of the “collective”. And being now wards of the collective unconscious or…subconscious…or whatever it was, they had no choice but to join Greenpeace. After all, mom and dad never really gave a shit about the whales. In fact, I don’t think daddy ever really liked that superbly creative, uniquely original, extremely insightful, thought-provoking crayon rendition of Moby fucking Dick and the big, yellow, sun.

So, to better understand the oppressive state of the nuclear family, the logical step was to get some sociology notches on the liberal arts garter belt. Of course, this is where the girls learned that people are really, really bad and there’s this, like, carbon thingy that like is bad for the ozone and the planet is, like, totally overpopulated and because of rich people our level of ecolo—ecologistic—ecologisticality or something, is really not sustainable! They joined the “No War for Oil” protest organization, which, as you’ll recall, was comprised of a bunch of bike-riding nitwits that didn’t need—at least didn’t think they needed—oil at all. Then, after failing to pass the philosophy course entitled “Cultural Relativism”due to a wee little binge with peyote and Hunter S Thompson, these girls lapped up three trimesters of transgender relations and human sexuality courses, before they came to the beaming enlightenment that they had been academically transformed into this lying, shithead of a guy:





And while I technically cannot prove that this man has no penis, I assure you, he has no balls.

Oh, and one more thing, little missy. Those crayons you colored that piece of crap over-bloated whale picture with? Yeah. Paraffin. Comes from petroleum. Dunce.

Ten Songs That Would Make My Mother Cringe...If She Only Knew...

A note before the storm: Here's a little story about a kid growing up in the 70's and 80's in America. Some of the content herein may not be suitable for all readers. There's nothing totally crass here, I think, but my opinion rarely matches up with anyone elses...

1. Freebird—Lynyrd Skynyrd. Not because she hates southern rock but because that’s the song Billy Schaefer was playing on his portable transistor radio when him and his cousin Jenny Cramer and me snuck out to the pipe at the swamp that summer. It was a huge concrete drainage pipe. It wasn’t even a pipe really, to us it was a tunnel. It was long and dark and smelled like swamp gas—which is pretty much like what the bathroom smells like after your dad takes a big dump. But on the other side of the tunnel was the secluded clearing where even the sun couldn’t see us. Billy would pay his cousin quarters to drop her pants for us. She was two or three years older than us and she called it “hot-buns” because she would force me to drop my pants and…well, you get the picture. Billy called it “humping”. But I kind of knew that word meant something else…

2. How Deep is Your Love?—Bee Gees. Because of what I saw when I ran in the house that day. Stupid Shane Travis had to chase me and Donnie Miller all the way home because Donnie said Shane’s girlfriend’s butt was as big as the Hindenberg. I didn’t really know what the Hindenberg was, but gauging from the size of Alicia Skidmore’s ass-end baggage, it had to be colossal. Anyway we split up at the edge of the woods behind the school. The plan was to meet back at Donnie’s house. He jumped over Mr. Greerdon’s hedgerow and outran The Juggs—Mr. Greerdon’s hungry-fanged Rotweiller. Shane and I stopped a few paces away from each other and watched Donnie disappear. I smirked off a taunting little smile—shouldn’t have done that. I ran out of breath turning the corner on Center Street. I had some ground on him, but he was big, I knew he wasn’t going to stop. I ducked into the True Value Hardware Store. I was out of breath and dripping wet with sweat. I thought I’d lost him, and pretended to be in the market for a new garden hoe, but there is a distinct sound the bells on the doors make when an angry fourteen year-old bully comes crashing into proximity with his prey. I bolted through the back, past the garden hoses and immature tomato plants, back through the warehouse and out the huge bay door. I never looked back. I just assumed he was on my case. I made it down Alton Street passed 43rd and finally to Donnie’s house on Shattuck. I blasted through the door. I had never knocked before since Donnie’s house was my after-school home. I wish I’d knocked that day. There were the Gibb boys squeaking out the worst love song ever. And there was Donnie’s older brother, Chad, and his girlfriend, in the buff, on the couch…which was doing some squeaking of it’s own.

3. Glory Days—Bruce Springsteen. Because that’s the song that was playing on Chad’s boom box when my cousin Billy hit a baseball through the windshield of Glenn Nevin’s brand new Toyota 4x4. Something about that rock and roll rhythm makes boys hit the ball harder than seems possible. And since the song glorifies baseball anyway, I think we should have blamed Springsteen for subliminally enhancing our 11 year-old physical prowess. Bet you didn’t know a song with an organ and a ukulele could be so potent. But it was—especially if you swung the bat right at the end of the verse, when the chorus hits that first power beat. Everyone in the neighborhood knew Curly Alfred (which was the “nice” nickname people had for him…all the boys called him Poopred Noodlehead) was best friends with Shane Travis—who everyone hated. So we all got together and decided to blame Noodlehead—who wasn’t even playing that day. Not that it makes anyone feel better, but I cried when I heard Noodlehead getting his ass whipped by his dad that night.

4. Once in a Lifetime—Talking Heads. Because this is the song that Tony put into the tape player the time that I found myself “behind the wheel of a large automobile”—my mom’s Ford LTD automobile. You see, Tony knew I could get the keys and his girlfriend lived way out in East County and I still owed him for beating up Chance Parker and he was leaving town and he would jump off the Freemont if he couldn’t see her one last time and his mom was drunk on the couch in her bathrobe and his sister was blowing coke smoke through the vents into his room… Ok, Tony had some issues, yeah, but I agreed to do it. The old tradition of getting what we deserve has been displaced by a sheer meaninglessness—I think that’s what the song says. But you can’t drive and attempt to sift David Byrne’s lyrics through the waters of that funky, new age…thing the band was doing. It’s dangerous. And I’m sorry that dog died, I really am, but Tony kept grabbing the wheel, laughing, pushing on my knee so I’d accelerate… There’s really nothing more to say. I’m sorry.

5. Wrapped Around Your Finger—The Police. I guess there’s a double meaning for me with this one. First, because of what my fingers were wrapped around that day: my first cigarette. Second, because of why I was smoking it: Maria Zora. My God, she was the world. Everything. Her hair, how it sparkled in the sunlight. And that smile, the one she had to tease me with. That song, a smooth, enticing melody intertwining with an echoing guitar that lingered like a stymied teen-age eruption of emotion. The song crept up louder and louder from some car parked at the bottom of the hill, and all I could think about was how laden with unrelenting truth it was. How she buried her toes in the sand as the swing gently swung. This was what love felt like, right? Like the feeling the song emotes?
Yeah.
Right.
Let me tell you. That girl was a witch. Biggest mistake of my teenage love life was falling for this vixen. You see, her sister Carmella, well she had it for me, big time. But I was to stupid to see it—or maybe I ignored it. We all went up to the park that day. They had all been smoking up there at the swings for quite some time, but I’d never tried it. I thought—I actually, literally, truly, for really real thought—if I smoked, Maria would like me. The thing about it is, I knew—I know I knew—she was the doom-bringing toxic-wrath bitchspawn of Lucifer. And Carmella, well Jesus man, Carmella was as sweet as any person I’ve ever met in all these years since. No one needs to know the details of my demise at the hands of this wretched Siren. Let me just say this: I am an idiot.
Now, twenty years later, Maria has been married and divorced three times (all ugly), Carmella moved away to New York or Miami or somewhere shiny to became a big shot journalist and I’m sitting here writing this with a cigarette burning in my ashtray.
Loser.

6. Rock the Casbah—The Clash. It wasn’t the song playing in his car, it was the song playing in his house when we went in. “That crazy casbah sound”. Yeah.
I was at the homecoming game with my sister who decided to take off with her boyfriend to God knows where. That really pissed me off for some reason so I went behind the visitor bleachers to smoke a cigarette. Usually there were a few rockers hanging out there, but no one was around at that moment…except Marty Kilgore, who was about thirty years old and came to every game. He was sitting on the hood of that ’83 Corolla he had totally tricked out with teal and chrome. He could sense I was irritated and motioned for me to come over. I did. He offered to give me a ride home after we talked about the game for a minute or two. I agreed. He said he had to stop by his house to pick something up. He told me to come inside because he didn’t like leaving his car running in the heat. I did. He told me to sit on the reclining chair. I did. The song’s tinny resonance escaping some back room, the clapping percussions, the electronic jetfighters flying overhead, the raspy screech of words I couldn’t understand and those I knew too well:
“He thinks its not kosher
Fundamentally he cant take it.
You know he really hates it.”
And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

7. Bring it on Home—Led Zeppelin. Because this is the song my mom’s boyfriend was playing in his new CD player in his car when he picked me up from J.D.H. I still don’t know how he was able to get me out; he wasn’t my dad or anything, just my mom’s rich boyfriend with a Porsche and a CD player. The song starts out slow and bluesy, you know, and I was depressed and muddled. I knew I would be grounded at least until I was 32. He didn’t say anything, just put the Porsche in that special “I’m one cool mother fucker” gear that only Porsche’s have. We drove. Neither of us talked. The blues. He’d glance over at me every now and then, I could sense it, but I just stared out the window at the streaking tracers emanating from the highway lights. But then the song starts bustin’. He started dancing in his seat. It was the first time I can remember anyone dancing while sitting—and doing a damned good job of it. I’ll never forget that big ass smile and his wide, bright, happy eyes. He kept nudging me. “Can you dig it?” Nudge. “I know you can dig this.” Nudge, nudge. I guess I could “dig it” a little bit. I started bobbing my head slightly. He nudged me some more. I started getting into it, dancing, waving my arms around. I smiled, which made him laugh, which made me giggle hysterically which made Jimmy Page rip off an extra crazy riff, which made Robert Plant the happiest Tommy on the planet. Then, for three encapsulating minutes, the chaos of my teenage wasteland dissipated. We rolled up to my house and parked out front as J.P.J. brought it on home and the song ended. He told me he had straightened everything out and that, as long as I wasn’t dropping acid with my long-haired hoodlum friends at the train station anymore, my mother would never need to know about that night. And that, I certainly could dig.

8. The Temple of Syrinx—Rush. Because one of my long-haired hoodlum friends starting singing this song while we were breaking into the basement window of St. Ignatius. Actually, I was there with two other guys, and neither of them had long hair. In fact, we could probably just say they ran with the crowd that didn’t particularly care for hair all that much. Sledge, he was the guy that looked like what Sid Vicious would have looked like if he weighed 225 and had a swastika shaved into the side of his head, and Shea, who was a shorter, meaner version of Sledge and always had two or three switchblades hidden somewhere in that bomber jacket. Those were my partners in crime and wine was our mark. Shea said he knew where they locked it up. But when we got to the cabinet where the holy sacrament was supposedly kept, it was empty, save for a folded piece of paper. Sledge couldn’t read all that good, so he gave it to me. I tried to read it, but it was hard to do in the dark. Shea snapped open his Zippo, the one with the double lightning bolts on it, and I read the words in the flickering light: “If you want the wine, Mass is at 11 a.m. every Sunday. See you there. Father Mellhouse.” Shea got pissed and started knocking shit over at random, but Sledge just started singing louder. It sounded good in the cathedral. A crisp, acoustic echo. “We are the priests!” We sang at the altar. I mumbled the words I didn’t know, but Sledge knew the song by heart. We would have stayed longer, but Shea got mad when he found a candleabra under the pulpit. “A Candleabra? What the fucking whore is this Jew shit doing in here?” He shoved the thing under the flap of his jacket and marched off, der brave soldat Schweik, to dispose of it in the river. After the golden article of transgression had splashed down in the Willamette, we continued to sing:
“Look around this world we made
Equality our stock in trade
Come and join the brotherhood of man
Oh what a wide contented world
Let the banners be unfurled
Hold the red star proudly high in hand”
Blatant ignorance. No idea what we were singing. No idea what we were doing. No idea. That’s all.

9. Hey Joe—The Jimi Hendrix Experience. Because usually fag bashing was an organized event. But on this night it was completely and hopelessly random. For those who don’t know, fag bashing in the 80’s was nothing like it is today. Today some kid gets on Youtube and posts a comment like “this song is gay” and that kid has successfully fag bashed. In the 80’s though, the activity was a sport—or at least at times involved baseball bats or a three iron—but it always culminated in the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. I didn’t go in for it, wasn’t really my style. Sure, I talked like I hated any pretty thing that wouldn’t “screw to save his species”, but I didn’t really hate any isolated thing. What I hated was an undefined, intangible abstract only loosely described as “everything”. Saying I had nothing to do with fag bashing isn’t entirely a self-acquittal, however. In fact, my sins…well, they are vaster and infinitely sadder.
So we’re walking downtown on Park at about closing time. All the bars were pretty much emptied by then. In the 80’s downtown was pretty much dead after midnight…except for one area. I don’t know maybe we were drunk, or trippin’. But this guy, this flamer, you know the kind in straight clothes but with the Robert Palmer girl make-up and slicked back hair, comes sauntering up the street, smiling, lisping to himself, walking his gay hip-waving walk. Shea looks at me like he can’t actually believe this guy is going to keep walking toward us. Chris Zigler was with us that night. I was pretty sure “Ziggy”, as we called him back then, was schizophrenic, but everyone else just assumed he’d taken too many drugs into his system. Anyway, Ziggy and I stop while Shea advances toward the guy a few steps. The guy almost gets past us but, and I’ll never understand this, as he was almost past our hating gazes and on with his life, he stopped. “What? You want to hurt me?”
No one answered.
“Well. What are you waiting for? Go on. Hurt me.”
Ziggy and I shot confused glances at each other.
“Yeah. This window right here.” He was talking right at Shea now.
“Go ahead. You want to bash my head into this window? I want you to do it. Do it!”
Then he took a step toward Shea. The last step he would make that night. At one point the gay guy had dug his nails into Shea’s arm so deep that he yelled for Ziggy to “Hold down this Mary’s arms!” Blood? Probably, but I don’t remember. I just remember the guy laughing and laughing as Shea pummeled him, bashed his head into the glittering concrete, kicked him all over his body. I remember Ziggy holding the guy up by his pony tail as Shea slapped his face—hard, precise, sharp, deliberate back hands. And I just stood there. Vaster and infinitely sadder. I said nothing. Smoked my cigarette and looked up past the skyscrapers at one solitary bright star hovering above the evils of the Earth.
And that’s when the song happened. It was a red Mercedes coupe, I believe. I think it had been parked there the whole time, because I never saw it arrive. But the doors opened, and the song that was previously playing in a muffled, subconscious distance filled the street and echoed off the buildings. Jimi’s voice came pouring out, and it seemed to me that either he or his sweet guitar, or maybe both, were crying.
Two black guys got out. One of them stood by the car. The other had a long leather trench coat on and walked slowly toward the foray, yelling: “Hey! What’s the problem here?”
Shea got off the gay guy. I was pretty sure this was going to get worse. Ziggy went running down the street. Shea and the black guy took steps toward each other and the closer the black guy got it became apparent that he was quite possibly the tallest man on the planet. Shea’s stride slowed as he realized the size of the guy. I was standing about twenty feet away, and I could tell, this guy was an NBA player. Shea probably made the best decision of his life at that moment when he turned and ran after Ziggy.
Me? I just stood there, staring at a star, thinking a million guilty thoughts, letting Jimi’s blues wash over me until the police came.

10. Go Your Own Way—Fleetwood Mac. Because this was the song playing in my mom’s car stereo when we drove home after Sledge’s funeral. Because one chapter of my life ended, and I realized on that long slow procession that things…they were a changin’. There’s something prophetically funeralistic about that song. I can’t quite put my finger on it and everyone else on the planet says it’s a song about escape and freedom—I just think it’s about separation and death. Maybe I’m just as morbid now as I was then. Or maybe the chiming guitars in the song remind me of a place we’ll all eventually go. Anyway, I went my own way after this. I got a job a few weeks later and enrolled in college the following year.
So why would my mother cringe at this song? Not because Sledge’s death probably saved my life. No, I suppose in some way she probably realizes this is true. And I suppose, being my mother, she’s in some way happy things worked out like they did, in the end. I know Sledge’s death released me from a bond most of those guys only got out of the way Sledge did. He was leader of this gang of dealers and robbers. Nothing happened he didn’t know about. Without him we were vulnerable and weak. The thing about Sledge’s death is that I was literally this ê ê close to him when he died. And that’s what it took. A chest riddled with bullets and shards of bleeding glass. He writhed there, a gasping, spitting boy, soldiering to the end in a world of deceit and pain. Dying a death we all openly pretended to admire. My salvation was a child, rapt in the skin-headed vestige of confusion, sorrow and thuggery. And I was glad, unrepentantly relieved, he was dead—I cringe at that thought now, and would certainly hope my mother would.
When I think back on all these people I knew, I think about Donnie and his infatuation with poetry and the beautiful things in life and how he met his end in a foreign country, fighting a foreign war. I think about Shane Travis, the bully, who now owns his own company and is one of the great, benevolent men we all aspire to be. I think about Shea and his dad who taught him how to hate, about Maria and Carm—and I think about her a lot, I find myself not remorseful, no, not a bit. I’d say I’m as incapable of comprehending any of this now as I was back then. Just as ignorant, just as befuddled, I suppose.
But sometimes, something happens. It happens when my ten year-old daughter is riding her bike or brings me a glass of ice cold lemonade she made all by herself, and I look at her smile, and I think of myself: you don’t deserve this, you aren’t good enough for this, and I want to scream and laugh and weep and quiver and I want to rend open up my soul, grab the little girl in my arms because I don’t want her to know about that ugly world out there and I can only hope I absorbed some of it for her. I want her to believe that there is a desirable, beautiful place somewhere out there past all the evil. That there is a place where grace endures and hope remains. I want her to know beyond doubt that in this place:
“Everything’s waiting for you.”

A Perfect Circle

Two young men look up to the sky to see a sun which had finally spun its way above the ridgeline of the foothills of the mountain they cannot see. The sun glows and turns in a silver ring that surrounds it. Up and above the conical firs, above the circles of spruce in the bowl of the valley the sun had reached its peak. It seems to hover there, a golden disc of fire, illuminating and blinding with its perpetual glow. The everlasting, noontide rays of the sun come spiraling down, absorbing direction and sense.

It was hot.

Eddie: Whichever direction we go, we end up in the same place.
Jack: I’m not lost. Just be quiet.
Eddie: Well this may not be the best time, but I think I gotta tell you something else.
Jack: What?
Eddie: Evolution is a lie man.
Jack: The fuck are you talking about now?
Eddie: Should be the Theory of Revolution. Shit goes around, it doesn’t progress.
Jack: Will you be quiet? I’m trying to listen.
Eddie: You tell me to talk…you tell me to shut up.

They are lost. Going in circles. Of course, ‘going in circles’ implies that they aren’t going anywhere, which is not entirely true. Jack, the older of the two, had been trying to gather information, gain some bearings. Even after all this time, he refused to ‘be lost’ in the wilderness. The other, Eddie is his name, is handling their situation the same as had always handled stress: he talked. Not even an encounter with the infamous Whetlock bear who was said to rip men to shreds just to see them squirm could change that aspect of Eddie. He talked and talked and talked.

Jack: Just shuttup.
Eddie: Did you know that a turtle can live one hundred seventy-five years?
Jack: Listen. Who? Turtle Beducci? I doubt he’ll live to be forty.
Eddie: Man… I said a turtle. I’m being serious. I’m talking about a one hundred seventy-five year cycle here.
Jack: I know. But you remember that guy? Crazy mother, him.
Eddie: Unbelievable
Jack: That’s Turtle.
Eddie: What the hell man? T-U-R-T-L-E.
Jack: That’s nice, now spell tortoise.
Eddie: You’re an idiot. Did you know that? Besides, his nickname was T-U-R-D-L-E, because he used to shit his pants all the time in grade school.
Jack: No shit? How about shutting the fuck up?
Eddie: Yeah. Shit. I’m talking about a turtle.
Jack: Well, every time I see a turtle or hear the word turtle it reminds me of Beducci.
Eddie: Ah. Ok. Fine. Connections: whenever I look at a bicycle wheel I think about turtles.
Jack: I don’t want to talk about turtles and I absolutely do not want to talk about cycles.

Since the accident this morning, carrying around their bicycles had become more than burdensome. Running with a bicycle wasn’t an option, so when they had to run, they had to backtrack for the cycles. If only that path had not disappeared in the undergrowth. If only they had a compass…there’s a thought that would return later and often. There is the sun. Still. The still sun. That’s of no use. They continue on. What else can they do?

Eddie: A turtle’s life is one big perpetual cycle. Did you know that?
Jack: My life is one big circle. I get up, I eat, I shit, I work, I eat some more, I shit some more…
Eddie: I’m talking about cycles. Revolutions. Thirty-six chromosomes.
Jack: I think you are the only person alive that can confuse a turtle with a bicycle wheel.
Eddie: What? A bicycle wheel has thirty-six spokes.
Jack: Thirty-five.
Eddie: Don’t you see the connection?
Jack: Will you just shut up? It’s not important.
Eddie: God, how old are you? You can’t live your whole life without knowing something important before you die. And you definitely have to be able to decipher between shit that is important and the shit that isn’t!
Jack: I’m trying to hear…do you really want to die out here?

Jack really thought he heard water. But this forest brims with all sorts of sounds. There are two creeks…certainly somewhere nearby. Every once in a whle the rush of water sends an echo over the hills. Figuring out where it came from is proving difficult for Jack. There are birds of all kinds making all kinds of ruckus. There are other bustling creatures in the bushes and undergrowth. A distant plane was humming beyond and over the mountain. Twigs snap, limbs fall in the shadows, a bumblebee zips here and there across the path the two men are making. The day lingered. The sounds mingled and clanged in the heat like a symphony tuning before a concert. Eddie has no interest in the auditions of the forest. He was mumbling something under his breath, making noises of his own.

Eddie: A turtle has thirty-six chromosomes. Are you listening to me?
Jack: I don’t know.
Eddie: How many chromosomes does a turtle have?
Jack: Listen! That’s our salvation, man!
Eddie: I give up.
Jack: Don’t you know what that is?
Eddie: No! And I don’t care what you hear as long as it’s not that goddamned bear.
Jack: The Whetlock bear again…the bear is history. Let it go.
Eddie: So says you. It’s probably the Whetlock bear drinking the blood of his latest victim…that’s what you hear.
Jack: You don’t hear it? The creek? That’s a creek.
Eddie: Ok…I don’t hear it.
Jack: Salmon Creek runs parallel to highway twenty-six, man! On the south side!

Jack was trying very hard to figure out where they might be. Eddie wasn’t helping.

Eddie: Whatever, we’re still lost. That’s not gonna help us. We’re still screwed. It’s going to get freezing tonight. If the cold don’t kill us, the bear will.
Jack: That must be Salmon Creek. I can hear it. Eddie, the bear isn’t here.
Eddie: Yeah right. The Whetlock bear has been hunting us all day. Guarantee it.
Jack: You’re hopeless. Listen.
Eddie: You’re goddamned right I am! I’m sick of this shit!
Jack: Dude, chill. Chromosomes. Ok? We need to keep you talking or you’re gonna go wacky.
Eddie: No we don’t.
Jack: Yes we do.
Eddie: We don’t need to talk about anything. You don’t want to hear it anyway.
Jack: Let’s just keep moving. Just try to keep a conversation going. I won’t stop you.
Eddie: Ok, fine. So can we can go straight back from right here? This very spot?

Now, here’s the trick. The answer is ‘yes’. Yes, they could go straight back from any point. But it won’t lead them out of the circular predicament they have created for themselves. At any point, we can go back, but the story is always the same. Always.

Jack: Yes.
Eddie: Yeah? Are you sure?
Jack: I am sure. We can go back from any point here.
Eddie: You better be posi-fucking-tively sure.
Jack: Well…I’m pretty sure.
Eddie: Don’t say you’re ‘pretty’ sure! You’re half-assed planning is what got us into this shit-hole mess in the first place!
Jack: Instead of doing that, why don’t you give me a valid suggestion? I’m pretty sure the creek is just over that ridge there.
Eddie: Yeah, I’m gonna scream! I can’t believe you said that! I’m screaming now. And loud!
Jack: That’s right. Yell. That’ll help. Real great. I should just leave you here for that stupid bear.

Eddie isn’t happy. The bear is nowhere to be seen. But the forest moves still. Eddie screams and the forest replies.

Eddie: I loved my poor bicycle! Bicycle! Bicycle!
Jack: The bike is toast, man. Come on, get a grip and let’s get up that ridge over there, ok?
Eddie: I really am going to get you killed…I’m going to get myself killed! I don’t think I can handle this. Twelve hundred bucks I paid for that bike!
Jack: That’s definitely not helpful. Talk about something. Turdle Beducci, remember? Or whatever, anything. Talk about anything.
Eddie: Why does this shit happen to me? I have to stop. Just leave me here to die.

Eddie’s friend would never leave him there to die. They had been friends since high school. He may have thought about leaving Eddie, just for a few minutes, to scope things out, but knew that would never work. And now he noticed that something was moving in the shadows along the ridgeline again.

Jack: Eddie just keep moving, bro. We got to keep moving or we’re going to die.
Eddie: Fuck! F-uuuuuuuuuu-ck! Fuck bicycles! Fuck bears and turtles and trees and fuck all this fuckity fucked-up fuck fuck fuckity fuck!
Jack: Eddie. Pay attention. Eddie…
Eddie: Oh my God! Oh my God!
Jack: Eddie! Keep it together!
Eddie: What?!
Jack: Is that the bear you were talking about?

And there it was. The Whetlock bear of local legend, slayer of man and beast. Widow-maker. Death-bringer. The fangs of Satan gleaming, dripping with vile. His coat, a mane of pure anger. Eyes, circular portals to the End of all things.

Eddie: Oh…my…God.
Jack: C’mon! Run!

What could they do? Run.

Eddie: You gotta be fucking kidding me!
Jack: Holy shit! That’s…the biggest damn bear…Behind those rocks! Go! Go! Go!
Eddie: Oh shit!
Jack: Did you see that? What is that thing?!

The illusion of safety. The forest, as serene and tranquil, as taken advantage…it is as it is. Back in the city, we know to look for predation. We think we know who is hunting and who is hunted. The wilderness masks. The sun waxes. The forest lies.

Eddie: Is that him?
Jack: Ok. Stop, stop, stop. Stop here.
Eddie: I don’t see him anywhere!
Jack: I don’t think he chased us, I think our paths crossed coincidentally.
Eddie: I hope you’re right. You’re never right.
Jack: Let’s just get up on that mound over there for a few minutes. I think it’s safe.
Eddie: Do you see him?
Jack: I think I can sense him. But I can’t make him out if he’s back there.
Eddie: You don’t see him?
Jack: I don’t know. Shh!
Eddie: You see? That’s what I’m talking about.
Jack: He might still be around here. Shut the fuck up!
Eddie: Grizzly fuckin Adams man.
Jack: Ok, that’s enough, man. Serious. Let me regain my bearings.

Jack knows they have to keep moving. But the feeling of recurrence overwhelms him. This rock, this ridge, the mound over there…all familiar. Eddie notices it too. Eddie is confused. This way is that and that, this. Nothing makes sense. The sun never moves from its zenith. It simply beams. The flooding lamp of some celestial interrogator.

Eddie: Well, this is exactly what I was talking about. We came up here on twelve-hundred dollar mountain bikes and now were being chased by Grizzly Adams or…whatever!
Jack: Grizzly Adams was the guy. The bears name was Ben, or something like that.
Eddie: No it wasn’t.
Jack: Was that show even on when you were a kid?
Eddie: Your’re the damned T.V. junkie. I’ve never even seen the stupid show.
Jack: The bear’s name wasn’t Grizzly Adams.
Eddie: Whatever you say.
Jack: Ok. Just hunker down here for a minute or two. Catch your breath, keep your eyes open.

They make their way to the feigned safety of an outcropping. Covered with moss and hanging grasses. They hide themselves. They know that won’t help. They’ll have to move and do this again and again.

Eddie: Grizzly fuckin’ Adams, man.
Jack: The Whetlock bear. Unbelievable.
Eddie: Jesus, that’s one big bear. Shit! Look!
Jack: What is it? I don’t see!
Eddie: Down there. In the gulch! It’s moving!
Jack: Ok listen, there’s no bear up here. Calm down. He’s out there, but he’s not right here, right now. Ok? Let’s keep it that way and keep moving.
Eddie: You ever seen a bear that big?
Jack: Well, I have now.
Eddie: Do you ever think about dying?
Jack: You’re really asking for it. You need to shuttup.

Eddie hunches down like a school boy digging for worms. He mumbles to himself a string of psuedo decipherable words that soon become a silent song.

Eddie: I love my bicycle.
Jack: Loved.
Eddie: I love my bicycle.
Jack: Loved.
Eddie: I love my bicycle.
Jack: God, you’ve finally lost it.

Jack starts walking westward toward the mountain they can not see through the trees. Eddie, lost in thought, looks up to see that Jack is almost out of sight and runs to catch up.

Eddie: Bicycle wheels have thirty-six spokes.
Jack: Yes, you’re an overflowing fountain of information.
Eddie: I’m right, aren’t I?
Jack: Right about what?
Eddie: We aren’t making it out of here. We’re going in circles. We’re turtles. I was right.
Jack: Oh for fucks sake…What the hell do you know about turtles anyway?
Eddie: Turtles have thirty-six chromosomes.
Jack: Yeah, and they’re complete idiots.

Jack stops at a small crick. Eddie kneels down and laps up some water like a dog. Jack cups his hands to drink. They continue on, talking and walking, but looking this way and that for any sign of danger.


Eddie: The Whetlock bear has hunted these woods for centuries, that’s what they say.
Jack: Ridiculous. What, that stupid bear? He’s a bear you’re a human. Chromosomes, man.
Eddie: We can’t outrun him forever. It’s the tortoise and the hare.
Jack: Oh my God. Does it ever end with you?
Eddie: Well, this might not be the best time to mention, but…
Jack: We aint lost. Shut up about it.
Eddie: We’re going in circles man.
Jack: Look, we aren’t lost and not every little thing in life is a circle for fuck’s sake.
Eddie: Name one that isn’t.
Jack: Stories have a very distinct beginning, middle and end. Right? They aren’t circular.
Eddie: Oh, really? Just answer me this then what if the end of the story is the beginning and the beginning is the end?
Jack: Stories have a very distinct beginning middle and end. Right? They aren’t circular.
Eddie: Name one that isn’t.
Jack: Look, we aren’t lost and not every little thing in life is a circle for fuck’s sake.
Eddie: We’re going in circles man.
Jack: We aint lost. Shut up about it.
Eddie: Well, this might not be the best time to mention, but…
Jack: Oh my God does it ever end with you?
Eddie: We can’t outrun him forever. It’s the tortoise and the hare.
Jack: Ridiculous. What, that stupid bear? He’s a bear you’re a human. Chromosomes, man.
Eddie: The Whetlock bear has hunted these woods for centuries, that’s what they say.

Jack stops at a small crick. Eddie kneels down and laps up some water like a dog. Jack cups his hands to drink. They continue on, talking and walking, but looking this way and that for any sign of danger.

Jack: Yeah, and they’re complete idiots.
Eddie: Turtles have thirty-six chromosomes.
Jack: Oh for fucks sake…What the hell do you know about turtles anyway?
Eddie: We aren’t making it out of here. We’re going in circles. We’re turtles. I was right.
Jack: Right about what?
Eddie: I’m right aren’t I?
Jack: Yes, you’re an overflowing fountain of information.
Eddie: Bicycle wheels have thirty-six spokes.

Jack starts walking westward toward the mountain they can not see through the trees. Eddie, lost in thought, looks up to see that Jack is almost out of sight and runs to catch up.

Jack: God you’ve finally lost it.
Eddie: I love my bicycle.
Jack: Loved.
Eddie: I love my bicycle.
Jack: Loved.
Eddie: I love my bicycle.

Eddie hunches down like a school boy digging for worms. He mumbles to himself a string of psuedo decipherable words that soon become a silent song.

Jack: You’re really asking for it. You need to shuttup.
Eddie: Do you ever think about dying?
Jack: Well, I have now.
Eddie: You ever seen a bear that big?
Jack: Ok listen, there’s no bear up here. Calm down. He’s out there. But he’s not right here, right now. Ok? Let’s keep it that way and keep moving.
Eddie: Down there! In the gulch! It’s moving!
Jack: What is it? I don’t see!
Eddie: Jesus, that’s one big bear. Shit! Look!
Jack: The Whetlock bear. Unbelievable!
Eddie: Grizzly fuckin’ Adams, man.

They make their way to the feigned safety of an outcropping covered with moss and hanging grasses. They hide themselves. They know it won’t help. They’ll have to move and do this again and again.

Jack: Ok. Just hunker down here for a minute or two. Catch your breath, keep your eyes open.
Eddie: Whatever you say.
Jack: The bear’s name wasn’t Grizzly Adams.
Eddie: You’re the damned T.V. junkie. I’ve never even seen the stupid show.
Jack: Was that show even on when you were a kid?
Eddie: No it wasn’t.
Jack: Grizzly Adams was the guy. The bears name was Ben, or something like that.
Eddie: Well, this is exactly what I was talking about. We came up here on twelve-hundred dollar mountain bikes and now were being chased by Grizzly Adams…or whatever.

Jack knows they have to keep moving. But the feeling of recurrence overwhelms him. This rock, this ridge, the mound over there…all familiar. Eddie notices it too. Eddie is confused. This way is that and that, this. Nothing makes sense. The sun never moves from its zenith. It simply beams. The flooding lamp of some celestial interrogator.

Jack: Ok that’s enough man. Serious. Let me regain my bearings.
Eddie: Grizzly fuckin’ Adams, man.
Jack: He might still be around here. Shut the fuck up.
Eddie: You see? That’s what I’m talking about.
Jack: I don’t know. Shh!
Eddie: You don’t see him?
Jack: I think I can sense him. But I can’t make him out if he’s back there.
Eddie: Do you see him?
Jack: Let’s just get up on that mound over there for a few minutes. I think it’s safe.
Eddie: I hope you’re right. You’re never right.
Jack: I don’t think he chased us, I think our paths crossed coincidentally.
Eddie: I don’t see him anywhere!
Jack: Ok. Stop, stop, stop. Stop here.
Eddie: Is that him?

The illusion of safety. The forest, as serene and tranquil, as taken advantage of…it is as it is. Back in the city, we know to look for predation. We think we know who is hunting and who is hunted. The wilderness masks. The sun waxes. The forest lies.

Jack: Did you see that? What is that thing?!
Eddie: Oh shit!
Jack: Holy shit! That’s…the biggest damn bear…Behind those rocks! Go! Go! Go!
Eddie: You gotta be fucking kidding me!

What else could they do? Run.

Jack: C’mon! Run!
Eddie: Oh…my …God.

And there it is. The Whetlock bear of local legend, slayer of man and beast. Widow-maker. Death-bringer. The fangs of Satan gleaming, dripping with vile. His coat, a mane of pure anger. Eyes, circular portals to the End of all things.

Jack: Is that the bear you were talking about?
Eddie: What?!
Jack: Eddie! Keep it together!
Eddie: Oh my God! Oh my God!
Jack: Eddie. Pay attention. Eddie…
Eddie: Fuck! F-uuuuuuuuuu-ck! Fuck bicycles! Fuck bears and turtles and tress and fuck all this fuckity fucked-up fuck fuck fuckity fuck!
Jack: Eddie just keep moving, bro. We got to keep moving or we’re going to die.

Jack would never leave Eddie there to die. They had been friends since high school. He may have thought about leaving Eddie, just for a few minutes, to scope things out, but knew that would never work. And now he noticed that something was moving in the shadows along the ridgeline again. Eddie was frantic.

Eddie: Why does this shit happen to me? I have to stop. Just leave me here to die.
Jack: That’s definitely not helpful.. Talk about something, Eddie. Turdle Beducci, remember? Or whatever, anything. Keep walking. Talk about anything.
Eddie: I really am going to get you killed…I’m going to get myself killed! I don’t think I can handle this. Twelve hundred bucks I paid for that bike!
Jack: The bike is toast, man. Come on, get a grip and let’s get up that ridge over there, ok?
Eddie: I loved my poor bicycle! Bicycle! Bicycle!

Eddie isn’t happy. The bear is nowhere to be seen. But the forest moves still. Eddie screams and the forest replies.

Jack: That’s right. Yell. That’ll help. Real great. I should just leave you here for that stupid bear.
Eddie: Yeah, I’m gonna scream! I can’t believe you said that! I’m screaming now. And loud!
Jack: Instead of doing that, why don’t you give me a valid suggestion? I’m pretty sure the creek is just over that ridge there.
Eddie: Don’t say you’re ‘pretty’ sure! You’re half-assed planning is what got us into this shit-hole mess in the first place!
Jack: Well…I’m pretty sure.
Eddie: You better be posi-fucking-tively sure!
Jack: I am sure. We can go back from any point here.
Eddie: Yeah? Are you sure?
Jack: Yes.

Now, here’s the trick. The answer is ‘yes’. Yes, they could go straight back from any point. But it won’t lead them out of the circular predicament they have created for themselves. At any point, we can go back, but the story is always the same. Always.

Eddie: Ok, Fine. So can we go straight back from right here? This very spot?
Jack: Let’s just keep moving. Just try to keep a conversation going. I won’t stop you.
Eddie: We don’t need to talk about anything. You don’t want to hear it anyway.
Jack: Yes we do.
Eddie: No we don’t.
Jack: Dude, chill. Chromosomes. Ok? We need to keep you talking or you’re gonna go wacky.
Eddie: You’re goddamned right I am! I’m sick of this shit!
Jack: You’re hopeless. Listen.
Eddie: Yeah right. The Whetlock bear has been hunting us all day. Guarantee it.
Jack: That must be Salmon Creek. I can hear it. Eddie, the bear isn’t here.
Eddie: Whatever, we’re still lost. That’s not gonna help us. We’re still screwed. It’s going to get freezing tonight. If the cold don’t kill us, the bear will.

Jack was trying very hard to figure out where they might be. Eddie wasn’t helping.

Jack: Salmon Creek runs parallel to highway twenty-six, man! On the south side!
Eddie: Ok…I don’t hear it.
Jack: You don’t hear it? The creek? That’s a creek.
Eddie: So says you. It’s probably the Whetlock bear drinking the blood of his latest victim…that’s what you hear.
Jack: The Whetlock bear again…the bear is history. Let it go.
Eddie: No! And I don’t care what you hear as long as it’s not the goddamned bear!
Jack: Don’t you know what that is?
Eddie: I give up.
Jack: Listen! That’s our salvation, man!
Eddie: How many chromosomes does a turtle have?
Jack: I don’t know.
Eddie: A turtle has thirty-six chromosomes. Are you listening to me?

Jack really thought he heard water. But this forest brims with all sorts of sounds. There are two creeks…certainly somewhere nearby. Every once in a whle the rush of water sends an echo over the hills. Figuring out where it came from is proving difficult for Jack. There are birds of all kinds making all kinds of ruckus. There are other bustling creatures in the bushes and undergrowth. A distant plane was humming beyond and over the mountain. Twigs snap, limbs fall in the shadows, a bumblee zips here and there across the path the two men are making. The day lingered. The sounds mingled and clanged in the heat like a symphony tuning before a concert. Eddie has no interest in the auditions of the forest. He was mumbling something under his breath, making noises of his own.

Jack: I’m trying to hear…do you really want to die out here?
Eddie: God, how old are you? You can’t live your whole life without knowing something important before you die. And you definitely have to be able to decipher between shit that is important and the shit that isn’t!
Jack: Will you just shut up? It’s not important.
Eddie: Don’t you see the connection?
Jack: Thirty-five.
Eddie: What? A bicycle has thirty-six spokes.
Jack: I think you’re the only person alive that can confuse a turtle with a bicycle wheel.
Eddie: I’m talking about cycles. Revolutions. Thirty-six chromosomes.
Jack: My life is one big circle. I get up, I eat, I shit, I work, I eat some more, I shit some more…
Eddie: A turtle’s life is a perpetual cycle. Did you know that?

Since the accident this morning, carrying around their bicycles had become more than burdensome. Running with a bicycle wasn’t an option, so when they had to run, they had to backtrack for the cycles. If only that path had not disappeared in the undergrowth. If only they had a compass…there’s a thought that would return later and often. There is the sun. Still. The still sun. That’s of no use. They continue on. What else can they do?

Jack: I don’t want to talk about turtles and I absolutely do not want to talk about cycles.
Eddie: Ah Ok. Fine. Connections: whenever I look at a bicycle wheel I think about turtles.
Jack: Well, every time I see a turtle or hear the word turtle it reminds me of Beducci.
Eddie: Yeah. Shit. I’m talking about a turtle.
Jack: No shit? How about shutting the fuck up?
Eddie: You’re an idiot. Did you know that? Besides, his nickname was T-U-R-D-L-E, because he used to shit his pants all the time in grade school. T-U-R-D-L-E.
Jack: That’s nice, now spell tortoise.
Eddie: What the hell man? T-U-R-T-L-E.
Jack: That’s turtle.
Eddie: Unbelievable.
Jack: I know. But you remember that guy? Crazy mother, him.
Eddie: Man…I said a turtle. I’m being serious. I’m talking about a one hundred seventy-five year cycle here.
Jack: Listen. Who? Turtle Beducci? I doubt he’ll live to be forty.
Eddie: Did you know that a turtle can live one hundred seventy-five years.
Jack: Just shut up.

They were lost. Again. Going in circles…or so they thought. Of course, ‘going in circles’ implies that they weren’t going anywhere, which is not entirely true. Jack had been trying to gather information they whole way, even with Eddie constantly jabbering. Jack refused to ‘be lost’ in the wilderness. The other, Eddie was his name, was handling their situation the same as he had always handled stress. He talked. Not even an encounter with the infamous Whetlock bear who was said to rip men to shreds just to see them squirm could change that aspect of Eddie. He talked and talked and talked.

Eddie: You tell me to talk…you tell me to shut up.
Jack: Will you be quiet? Right now I’m trying to listen.
Eddie: Should be the Theory of Revolution. Shit goes around, it doesn’t progress.
Jack: The fuck are you talking about now?
Eddie: Evolution is a lie, man.
Jack: What?
Eddie: Well this may not be the best time, but I think I gotta tell you something else…
Jack: I’m not lost. Just be quiet.
Eddie: Whichever direction we go, we end up in the same place.

Two young men look up to the sky to see a sun which had finally spun its way above the ridgeline of the foothills of the mountain they cannot see. The sun glows and turns in a silver ring that surrounds it. Up and above the conical firs, above the circles of spruce in the bowl of the valley the sun had reached its peak. It seems to hover there, a golden disc of fire, illuminating and blinding with its perpetual glow. The everlasting, noontide rays of the sun come spiraling down, absorbing direction and sense.

It was hot.


Copyright 2008, The Liber Review
Portland Oregon