JUMP

What are your thoughts for the next year?  Is it going to be another year of playing it safe?  Another year of doing what is expected of you and not what you really want to do.  We have all done it.  Most of us including me have done it too many times.  There are so many thoughts out there about what and how you should live each day.  Everyone of them telling you something that makes sense.  We hear it and then just ignore the ugly truth that we are often slaves to lives we do not want but could really change if we decided we wanted to.   Have you ever talked to a very old person about life?   Occasionally one will give you some clear, solid, and uncluttered advice,      "Do not go quietly into the night".  

Life of Passion

School is over.  I already miss it.  Alas, I was not to the sufficient level to perform my alternativa against "Conquistador".  (Thank God).  It was one of the most interesting and delightful things I have ever done.  The shear power of passion made all of this possible.  Fred Renk.  The memories and trappings of a life in the sport cover the walls of the ranch.  The suites of lights worn by his son, David Renk are placed with honor in the middle of the room.  No matter what you think of the spectacle you can't take away the fact that it is as old as we are.  Man against beast.  Take it for the spectacle I would urge you.  Bloodless bullfighting is an art and is moving the sword away from the age old event.  Like all things it will change or die.  No one knows which way the bullfight will go.    I encourage everyone to go out and enjoy the ride,  "OLE"!

A Date with Destiny

Waiting for my date to come into the ring is a frightening time.  Kind of hopping from one foot to the other and knowing that I would be judged by, coming out alive, controlling the bull, and keeping my feet still didn't help me settle down.  OK, no bull today.  The exam is not until Friday.  I did have an extraordinary day at the Santa Maria bullring.  I received some time with the famous American Matador David Renk.  He is the 6th and youngest US Matador in History.  The man became an artist and a ballerina with the muleta and sword in his hands.  Really worth the price of admission to get a private lesson from one of the greatest.  Unfortunately, I will be killed anyway on Friday since even the master can only do so much.   Like all wannabe's I continue to say, "shit I can do this, it's not that hard", and will endeavor to preserver.

Ballet of Death

It was a long day of "derechazo's" and "passe alto's", I am exhausted.  These moves are done with a small cape "the Muleta" and a sword.  The sword is very small and used to hold up the cape which makes the bull's target a little bigger.  Bigger target away from my flesh is a good thing.  Tomorrow is the long day.  I will start early with honing the basics and then move into some fancy things.  I asked the master Don Renk, what was on tap for Friday, "the final exam", he said throwing away his cigarette and motioning to the big hay bale in a back corral.  Welcome Conquistador.  A pardoned bull of legend.

&^%$(&), was he kidding?  The bloodless bullfight?  Did that mean both parties?

Shadow Bull

Pushing away the cigarette smoke and constant beer I learned that school is not always what you remember it to be.  Today I worked to master the "Veronica" pass.  I have a special place in my heart for the Veronica.  It is smooth and long without a hint of fear.  The pass releases energy from the bull and allows the matador to study the style and quality of the animal.  Today I received a passing grade from Don Renk with the caution that my "media Veronica" was in need of work.  The thought of turning my back on a 1200 pound bull and putting the cape on my hip and walking away did not settle into my comfort zone.  I will work on it.  Tomorrow are the moves with the small cape and more practice.  My arms are telling me that the cape is much heavier than on TV.  So my friends ... as I fight the shadow bull to perfection.....OLE!

How to be a Matador

The unknown world of the Taurine is being revealed to me in my first day of Bull Fighting school.  The Santa Maria Bull Ring is located in La Gloria, Texas just a few miles from the border.  The school and ring is run by Fred Renk, a former professional matador with the occasional help of his son David Renk, the 7th American to be confirmed at as a top level matador.  The place is not what you would think by any stretch of the imagination but one totally conceived of passion, dreams, and dedication to an art form.  Fred is a walking encyclopedia of bull fighting history and lore.  Just sitting with him for a hour over a beer taught me more about bull fighting than I could have ever read in a book.  Every faded photo and piece of memorabilia has a story and history.  The names and faced of the brave men and women on the horns are alive to Fred even if they are themselves are long since gone.  It's worth a trip I think.  Stay tuned.... tomorrow I will be in the ring.  With a horned fake bull of course.  OLE!

Miles

Relax

The room was dark and quiet. Sounds of Indian flute music softly danced from the small jam box in the corner. I’m not sure a jam box in a massage room can truly be called a jam box but there is was. Clothes off and under the sheet I slowly wedged my face into the head loop at the top of the table. I let out a big sigh and began the process to complete and utter relaxation. It worked for a second and then my arm fell off of the table. My large frame didn’t allow much room on the sides.

Kathy came in and knowing not to say anything to break my relation ritual just began her routine. The warm hands and pressure felt great on my tired sore body. This was going to be a good one I thought as relaxation was taking hold. As I drifted to nirvana I hoped I had turned off my cell phone on the table. That would be a bitch if work started to call. Especially that goof from Canada. I really needed to get up there and take care of that. Travel that was all I seemed to do these days and with that old suitcase no wonder it was not fun. So after this massage I have to go to the mall to get another one but that would be hard because of the traffic and the weather. It would allow me to eat sushi which was good because I needed to go to the store and pick up some things and I sure hoped I didn’t see my neighbor this time. I should just move away and take advantage to the remote work lifestyle. Shit, I don’t want to do this job anymore, I hate it. I want to be relaxed and enjoy life. LIfe, wow, I just had a birthday. I am old. Old and out of shape. How come my arm can’t stay on this table. But I am relaxed or am I?

And so my massage went for the entire time. It stuck me very hard how we really are terrible at relaxing and even worse at living in the moment. My mind was out of control and it scared me. Have the little tiny things of life taken over the NOW. Hum. Maybe I should bring it up in mediation class tomorrow.......

Trapped

Trapped.  The cold steel of worry, fear, and procrastination firmly wrapped around your leg.  It happens to all of us at different times.  To some of us it happens all the time.  Sometimes I worry about my fear of putting things off.  Maybe I should just relax and go with the flow?  Have you ever wondered what your life would be like if you were not afraid of things?  I do.  It really does suck to be paralyzed with fear about something that most of the time doesn't exist.  What about worrying about things that almost always don't exist.  By that I mean they have already happened and you are worrying about what you "think" someone thought about it, or you are making up some scene in your head that does not exist and you are worrying about that.  Live in the moment?  Hum.  Could work.  My favorite way to get trapped is to not do something I absolutely know will make a difference in my life.  Maybe it's a phone call, or getting some exercise, perhaps it's just taking one step toward living a dream.  Again, it's almost always a small step yet we want to put things off until tomorrow.

"We spend the best part of our lives earning money in order to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it"  Thoreau.

"We'd love to drop all and explore the world outside, we tell ourselves, bu thte time neer seems right.  Thus, given an unlimited amount of choices, we make none.  Settling into our lives, we get so obsessed with holding on to our domestic certainties that we forget why we desired them in the first place", Rolf Potts.

So.........now what?

Miles

Fear Fandango

When was the last time you tried something you have never done before?  What was it, if you did?  Do you even remember?  Most of us are pretty good at it when we are young.  It's kind of easy really, everything is new.  It's giving it a shot when you get older that is a bit more daunting.  It became very clear to me Saturday morning at a public ice skating rink in Colorado.  Watching an adult learn to ice skate is serious spectator sport.  The facial  expressions, the fear, the pain of the landing all come to together in a moment I call the "Fear Fandango".  The moment with arms failing and feet scrambling to keep the the ship upright only to ultimately lose the fight.  The moment of truth then is really not the mastery of the task but the resolve to keep trying.  This law of achievement is not new.  But as you can see the respect of the effort is not bound my age, gender, nationality, or ability.  Maybe it's time you took the young fearless spirit that is buried inside of you for a mach III drive around block.  Remember....chicks dig scares.

Miles

Don't miss the Tube

In 1994 I had everything I had ever owned stolen.  A big multi room place with all the trappings of a man cave.  The biggest bed money could buy....rarely used..  Guns, sports crap, and most importantly...Televisions.  Not TV's but Televisions.  They were big and heavy and expensive.  But a man had to have at least ...Three.  I had three Televisions in my house.  One day they all disappeared  like a garage sale without the need for making change.  Since that day I have not replaced them.  Man Blind I guess you could call it... NO TV.  Ok, this is the strange part.  I have only missed that device once or twice in all of those years.  Truly.  There used to be an old NIKE ad about throwing away your TELEVISION. Well, I sort of did.

Today my time is more precious.  I read, I think, I enjoy a glass of wine and I  dream.  Occasionally, I end up in a hotel with a "clicker".   Tonight I was in that place.  yes, I turned it on.

A man eating a 7 pound stack of waffles

Vegas bitches

Searching for Bigfoot

A show about a hot tub

A show about a pawn shop cheating a guy

Three shows about dead people

Two shows about some idiot with no talent singing

Another one about catching criminals

4 shopping shows

2 shows about religion

1 old movie in Black and White

4 biased stupid crazy news shows

So if you are the people who stole every thing I own that night or day in 1994.... you can keep the TELEVISIONS and please let me know where to send your Christmas card....handwritten of course.

Miles

LOSER

After the disappointment of not winning the powerball.

What I could have done with the 15 dollars

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Double appetizer plate at Applebee's

Large thin crust supreme pizza, Pizza Hut

Two hours on the shooting range, Indoors

1.75 glasses of LA CREMA at the Forge in Ben Wheeler

1.5 albums on ITUNES

Three 12 packs of Coke for my weekend mixers

10 minutes of chair massage at the airport neck massage booth

a good chunk of Sockeye at Whole Foods

A bottle of LA CREMA at HEB

One cover charge to see Chris Wall at the Broken Spoke

15 midway tickets at the State Fair

4.32 gallons of unleaded

A "ZAC BROWN" CD at walmart

5 cans of Wilson extra duty tennis balls at Academy

Cheap sunglasses at the CVS

5 more chances at the next powerball

A minimum blackjack bet at Harrah's in New Orleans, back tables

3 cups of night crawlers at the bait shop

42.25 shares of HOKU stock....yes I own it.

One bottle of MOUNT GAY Rum, on sale of course

One "Primero Classe" bus ticket from Mexico City to Cuernavaca.

Need I say more....

Wicked Rich

227. 76 Million after Tax

So what if I do win?  Someone has to win at some point.  What would I be doing with my 227.6 Million bucks?  Well, let’s see.  I would spend it of course.  I’m a single dude, no kids, or real family.  I could do the redneck millionaire thing without a lot of trouble.  So...

First I would plan to spend it over ten years.  I’m no Spring chicken either so let’s get on with it.

10 years = 22.76 Million per year     

So, follow me....not bad money.  Slightly more than I make now.  Let’s take a look at the essentials for year one and approximate costs.

TempurPedic bed 5650 My back sucks

Ranch in Colorado (large)      1,990,000 I hate neighbors and 1300 acres works                           

                                                                                for me

Tricked out truck (Chevy)         53,000 I like to be able to look down into other 

                                                                                 peoples car windows.

5900 Sq.ft House (Austin)      1,100.000 Once I Longhorn always a Longhorn

150 cc. Vespa     (Red) 6200 Parking a big truck in Austin sucks.

Hill Country Ranch (Texas)       879,000 A Texan needs a place to BBQ

Apple Super Computer (Desk)      9980 Cowbird Stories in comfort

Dallas Cowboy tickets  (10)        13,250 Don’t ask me why....Romo?

42 ft. Super RV with hot tub     245,000 I hate service station bathrooms

Buy Flea Market  (Texas)      2,300,000 Love to Junk.  The Mountain as they 

                                                                                call it, is loaded with eccentric folks 

                                                                                that should be preserved.

54 ft. motor Yacht in              1,550.000 I love the water and can’t sail a lick

Bahamas

Patek Phillippe Watch                46,000 I hate being late

Apartment Aspen (large)      3,450,000 Sometimes it’s hot in Texas

Sonic toothbrush  (red)                  195 The thought of dentures scares me

House in Bali  (medium)     1,100,000 I’m a sucker for EAT, PRAY, LOVE

                        Does it work in Reverse?

Endowed Chair of Leisure

Studies, UT Austin 2,000,000 Deep science has always fascinated 

                        me.

Endowed Campus Party   450,000 200 kegs of beer annually free to 

                        students seems like a fitting thorn in the 

                                                                                Universities side after all these years.

Bugatti Supersport Auto    1,300,000 If Madonna can own one....Please...

                        “material man...oh oh material man...

Apartment Paris (central)  2,600,000 Ah...the city of lights.  Fresh bread and

                        a heavy Cab...

World Wildlife Fund              500,000 I watched Wild Kingdom as a kid.

Bullfighting lessons       1500         Bloodless of course, and the shoes, oh

                        the shoes....

Guitar Lessons (10)   10,000        Eric Clapton is not cheap

Some spending money          25,000 That way I don’t always feel like I’m 

for friends                 paying.

Build Clinics in Latin         1,000,000 Nothing stronger than Karma

America

RED video camera                75,000        Gotta keep a record of the journey

Anonymous Gifts to            500,000        Again Karma

complete strangers

Dinner at Hiro’s sushi                 500       Good for you too

Tokyo

15,000 Acres Big              1,524,650      Love the high desert.  It’s close to the 

Big Bend, Texas              Terlingua Chili Cookoff.

Best Seats US Open             25,000      If you don’t get hit with sweat, 

Tennis                                                                  you aren’t close enough.

Good start to the first year of filthy richness.  

A Brief Stay in Paradise

The rutted dirt track pounded and twisted every internal organ in our bodies as we picked our way ahead.  We traveled at only slightly more than a shuffle as the suburban creaked, groaned and scraped it’s way through this vast and desolate landscape.   The word wilderness always seems to conjure up magnificent mountain valleys and deep heavy forest.  It is seldom used for rocky burnt desert of Northern Mexico.  Strangely I think because this is one of the most remote and unforgiving places left in North America.

San Antoino de los Alamos was a place of legend in archeological circles.  At least those circles that studied indigenous cultures in this part of the world.  Only a name on the most detailed topographical maps provided by the government map agency in Aguacalientes.  There was no ejido, no village there.  Just a spring and one man, Raul Villarreal.  And what we had spent three days on these rutted tracks to get a glimpse of....centuries of rock art.  “Pinturas de los indios”.  The only sticking point in this plan was that Raul didn’t allow visitors and he made that very clear with an old model 94   rifle.  He had turned away universities, governments, and travelers.  Raul did not like strangers.  We envisioned that today would be our day to be turned away.  Hopefully, without any new holes in our expedition.

The rock outcrop was visible from miles away.  At our pace of travel that meant several hours.  The dirt track seemed to get much worse as we neared the oasis.  We were constantly  stoping to move rocks, pieces of wood, or to bypass deep gullies in the road.  After several hours we managed to arrive at a rickety wire gate with a croaked handwritten sign on the back of a cut up oil can that said, “prohibida la entrada”.  This was a crossroads for sure.  Grampa told me one important lesson that all good Texans should always remember, “Don’t go through a gate that doesn’t want you”.  From the gate we could see the bright green of trees rising up from the brown stark surroundings.  No structures were visible and certainly no people.   We would never get permission from here so a decision had to be made.  

In those days Northern Mexico was one of the harshest physical environments on earth.  It has always amazed me that those environments bred a very different type of people.  There is a kindness and compassion grown from living hard that defies our modern sensibilities.  In our journeys there we have shared a last can of beans, eaten the family goat, slept on old blankets that were the goat herders only source of warmth while he stood by the fire in the dark.  The prospect of getting shot by a local in the desert was new to me.  We would press on.

The greenery was even more absurd as we neared what appeared to be a narrow slot canyon.  A stream was visible from a distance and trees lined the banks as it flowed from the tight rock outcrop.  A small Immaculate house stood on a low rise looking out over the  panorama of desert shaded by the grove of birch and cottonwood.  

We waited for more than an hour at the outer gate without any sign of life in the enclosure.  The silence of the desert made us certain that we had been heard as we picked our way up the road.  We had gone as far as we dared and we would wait and hope for some contact or we would turn and leave.  We were making our plans to leave when we saw movement coming from behind the house.  A tall man in a hat was heading our way and he had a rifle.

His long sleeve shirt was tattered but clean except for the grease.  The piping of the horses on the chest had long since gone.  It was tucked in neatly and locked by a very ornate mexican belt and buckle.  His hat was sweat soaked and rumpled but perfectly seated on his head.  There was no doubt where the rattlesnake came from that made up the band.  He was slim and dignified as much as any man I had seen in my life with a face that was tanned and leathery with bright green eyes.  He was at least 70 years old.  And he was covered in grease.

He stopped about 20 paces from the gate and began to tell us in a loud firm voice that this was private property and we needed to leave.  He was not threatening but firm.  The rifle was loose in his hand like someone who carried it every day of his life everywhere he went.  The tension relaxed a bit as we tried to speak with him in broken spanish.  “Was this San Antonio de los Alamos? “, we asked.  After a few attempts he admitted it was.  After a few seconds of awkward silence my friend asked him about the grease.  Terry was a mechanic and recognized the by product of mechanical crisis.   “My truck is broken”  Raul said in a very weary voice.  He looked like a man ready to give up.  Terry offered to take a look and see if he could help.   Raul thought for a minute then turned and started walking back to the house, rifle in hand.   After about 10 yards he stopped and paused for a second, then turned around. A man without transportation in this place would not survive.   That is when I shook the hand of Raul Villarreal.

San Antonio de los Alamos was one of if not the most beautiful places I have ever seen.  I’m sure the flowers had more color in other places, there were bigger trees, and clearer water elsewhere but for the sheer power of contrast it had no equal.    An island of green in a vast and constant ocean of brown.  His house was small but perfectly cared for.  In the front yard was a grave.  A mound of dirt protected by small rocks all of the same size and shape.  A cross was at the head.  It was not nailed or screwed together.   It was hand notched with an intricate inlay that made the cross piece flush with the main part.  It had no name.  The grave was circled in flowers that did not belong in this desert.  They were freshly watered.  I came to find out later it was Mrs.Villarreal’s grave.

Raul showed us the truck and he was right.  It was broken.  The back springs had broken apart and caused the rear to rest completely on the chassis.  No doubt from many trips down the twisted rutted track.   Terry had a plan.  Several hours later through a series of spare parts and a blow torch  Terry fashioned a fix.  Raul stood back and said nothing only running for parts and pieces of things to continue the experiment.  Midway through Raul saw what Terry was trying to do and their dance began.  Terry would stop cutting and look around for some unidentified something and Raul would hand it to him.  No words were spoken.  

The truck was fixed.  Mr. Villarreal disappeared into the house as we looked at each other and remembered we had not asked about the rock art.  It was only then that we looked up at the walls of the slot canyon and could see the red ochre geometric shapes on the distant walls.  The excitement was building for us and Mr. Villarreal returned with some water.    

Finally, I managed the courage to ask about the rock art.  In a tired voice he asked me if I worked for the government.  I said no.   Then he asked if we were school teachers.  Again I said no.  “We were just some normal people who loved pinturas de los indios”, I told him.  He thought for a minute and looked back at his truck then motioned to the edge of the yard.  There was a gate.  “Vamos a verlo”, he said.  Go take a look.  

It’s an old cliche to say, “words can never describe” something but it was true.  Imagine thousands of years of pictures and script laid down on top of each other.   All telling a story about life, death and struggle in this desolate place.  Imagine the life returned to you by the clean spring water and the shade of these trees after weeks of walking or riding to places unknown.  There was prehistoric geometric shapes that were painted high on the cliff sides.  There were more modern shapes of deer and antelope being hunted.  My favorites were the mothers being depicted giving birth and the indians waring on what where most certainly friars on horseback.  In a small cave there was spanish script and hand prints along with the outlines of old spanish rifles.  Who knows why they put them there but here they were.    No one in our group had ever seen or heard of anything like this.  It was one of a kind.   A few photos and our time was up.  We could see Raul’s discomfort as he waited for us at the fence.    Our praise of his place and the art went without comment.  It was time for us to leave. 

He followed us back to the inner gate and closed and locked it behind us.  We shook hands and before we drove off Terry asked him how long he had lived at San Antonio.  He said ever since he could remember but he would be the last.  He told us that the rock art was going to cause him to lose everything.  His home, the resting places of his family, and his life will soon be gone. It was just a matter of time.  The Mexican government had already told him this place will be a national park very soon.  It didn’t matter to them that this was his land and his home.  The rock art was too valuable.   Now for us it all made sense.  

Five months later we heard through an Archeologist in Mexico that Raul Villarreal had taken kerosene and covered the walls of the slot canyon in San Antonio de los Alamos then lit them on fire.  

A Terminal History

A piece of Austin legend?  Sure.  The best honky tonk in Texas?  Without a doubt.  A place of memories and good times?  Always scattered across my memory.  Being strangled by development, the most pervasive means of cultural annihilation?  A picture is worth a thousand words.  Anyone who has ever been to the “Spoke” will remember the low ceiling, semi cold beer, and the museum.  The owner James White and Willie looked a little younger then but I guess we all were.  

I know I know....it’s still there.  It’s not gone.  It’s a landmark.  I know.  Anyone who has been in Austin long will tell you it won’t be that much longer.  I’m mad at things these days.  Things like ear hair, getting stiff (in a bad way), being on the AARP mailing list, but most of all I’m mad at development.  Austin has done this before.  Up and down they go running out what made Austin Weird in the first place.  It’s not the first time but I’m afraid it may be the last.  What is it about destroying things that have history that we find so appealing?  It can’t be just about making a buck?  If it is don’t tell me I am holding out for a better answer.  If you have it then share it.  In the mean time, get down to Austin and cut a rug at the Spoke while you can still hear the music.  

The King of Yams

My introduction to Earl Parrot came many years ago in a tiny national forest campground deep in a narrow rock strewn valley in the Ozark Mountains.  I was just passing through looking for a little piece and quiet and some good fishing.  Earl’s campsite was at the edge of the small clearing near the forest.   There were tarps strung and laced with cord that reminded me of a sail rig on a triple master off New England.  Everything appeared functional and in it’s place.  Firewood was stacked high and orderly on the side under one tarp and a small well used tent was barely visible under the structure.

After being in and out over the next couple of days I had wondered who or how many occupied that campsite that seemed so much like home.  Earl and I were the only ones there and taking a look at the weather forecast it was easy to understand why.  Rain and cold all week.

My exploration took me out longer than expected one day and I realized the steady rain was destroying my hopes for a nice warm fire to ward off the cold.  I had left my precious fire wood uncovered like a complete rookie.   To my surprise when I returned, I saw a tattered blue tarp pulled over my woodpile.  Looking underneath I saw my soaked wood was topped with 3 or 4 pieces of a dry crisp oak that was not mine.  The rain had stopped and the oak made a warm dancing fire to pushed back the cold.  Looking over to the distant campsite I saw the same dancing glow and decided it was time to meet the neighbor who had saved my evening.

Earl was about 80 years old with deep weathered lines on his face that told me he was a man’s man.  The wrinkles painted his face in the firelight as we shared a spirit I had brought over.  Earl was from Wyoming and spent a lifetime on the ranch.  He was a true cowboy and told me of his days as a rodeo cowboy and bronc buster through the 50’s and 60’s.  “Never no dollars in that back then”, he said.  “Just a good way to meet girls and break a few bones”.    He was quiet and thoughtful in his words and used them sparingly.  It was one of those conversations that made you embarrassed when you said you lived in Austin and was on vacation.  You see Earl was living in the National Forest.  He said without emotion that his children had taken his ranch and sold the parcels off to out of staters.  They wanted to put him in a home and just get rid of him but he decided to go on the road.  We never talked about how he got there or how long he had been there but the policy of the park was you could not stay in one place for over two weeks.  I knew I had stretched my welcome with this dignified and private man so I thanked him for the wood and the words and went back to my piece of the world.

Earl would wave when I would see him each day.  I never knew what he did with his time but I could tell he was well respected by the park rangers.  One day they helped him move his tent, wood, and shelter contraption a few feet to beat the park rules of being in one place too long.  The rangers laughed and talked and lifted and moved his things with respect that son’s would show their grandfather.  Occasionally a ranger would show up and pick Earl up and drive away.  I learned later that he was getting a small check at the post office which he sent to his children.  Imagine that.  

I was nearing the end of my stay and packing up the truck when a ranger drove in at high speed.  He jumped out and talked in an excited voice to Earl who moved with some haste to get a big burlap sack and some grocery bags that were neatly folded.  Before he left with the ranger he shuffled over to me and in a wild eyed excited voice told me the story.  It was simple you see, a grocery truck had turned over on a rain soaked mountain road.  It’s contents were scattered down a steep ravine.  All those groceries were there for the taking. No telling what was down there but he knew there was yams.  I suppose looking back Earl expected me to jump in my truck and follow him.  It was an enticing offer but I chose to go in search of one more bite instead.  A couple of hours and I was back ready to hit the road.  I walked over to say good bye to Mr Parrot but he was no where around.  What I did see was more than 30 one gallon cans of yams stacked neatly under a separate weather beaten tarp.  The cans were dented and muddy but no doubt a treasure for the cowboy from Wyoming.  I smiled as I walked back to close up my truck and leave the forest for good.  As I did I noticed three one gallon cans of yams sitting on the tailgate of my truck.  None of mine were dented or dirty.  He had give me the perfect ones.  

First Class

Blankets, peanuts, headphones, your choice of entree, a few drinks were all part of the old First Class days.   Some of those things are still there....well one I guess.  Now First Class means an extra power connection for your DEVICES.  Take 2B for instance, he is wired in, powered up, and downloaded.  First Class is now bring your own class and get there first.  Not what the old PAN AM travel guru's had in mind.    Well, here it is....headphones listening to music, (not the movie on his computer), reading an IPAD magazine, the movie on the computer, and I almost forgot...the in flight movie...which was mostly terrible sit com reruns....  welcome to FIRST CLASS in the new age.

Miles (aka Larry no more)
www.bymiles.com

Forgotten

What is it about a place or a thing from your past that acts as a key to open doors to feelings and thoughts long since locked away.  They are always so different than the picture memory paints. Those places are often faded and run down without the size and color provided by our old imagination.   Maybe that is what makes it all so amazing that the fragments of our youth can open such deep feelings and thoughts.  This old tennis court was the only court with lights in town.  My family lived across the street but I lived here.  Endless summers of imaginary tennis matches against the greats of the day.  Early morning practices by myself that would later lead to living most of my adult life within the game.  Today I needed to remember the single minded focus that was mine in those years long ago.  Today I needed to remember what is possible.  Today I wanted to relive the power of chasing my dreams.  The years muffle the sounds but do not silence that voice.  Today I needed to remember not to forget.

Miles
www.bymiles.com
 

The Burn 2012

Just a short show about this years burn.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSDTlEd_n2E&feature=plcp


Enjoy

Miles

Burningman Bedouin

Survival in the desert depends on a number of things.  Instinct, cunning, will to have another Margarita.  And so it was as I survived the massive sandstorm and rescuing a young british couple with a couple of BUD LIGHTS.  Lucky for them the Playa Pharoah almost ran over them as they lay huddled in the sand.  Well, they may have been doing something else....   No matter, it's always the law of the desert to help those in need and Burningman 2012 was no different.  Stay tuned for some other photos and video.  www.bymiles.com.

Enjoy

Miles

The Playa Pharoah

The construction and design of the perfect "Mutant Vehicle" is a mixture of fear, love, and certainly a bit of confused.  Such was the case of the Playa Pharoah this year at Burningman.   The old girl held together in some of the roughest sand seas and managed to give memorable voyages to many this year on the playa.  My goddess of love and fertility adorn the vessel  as it sailed aimlessly in the sand.  This year was a mixture of sand storms and sand dancing.  Nothing compares to a smooth ride and some good company on the playa at Burningman.  Stay tuned for some more photos from Black Rock.

Miles

Faces of Pre Burn

Sitting in the Walmart parking lot in Fernley, Nevada getting ready to go home.  To Black Rock City that is.  This is the rig from Camp Fiasco and the Nordic Breeze.  The Cleopatra is just out of the picture looking more like a scene from the local links course at the moment.  Lot's of work ahead and it's getting exciting.  So friends, be good and enjoy the moment.  I will be off the grid for a week or so.

Ciao from Burningman,

Miles

Bar Sluts

Anyone remember those old Stuckeys that used to be everywhere on the interstate.  Well, Nevada has always been a bit different.  You may still have been able to get those wooden bowls, pralines, and the wonderful snow globes in this place a few years ago but there is no doubt that Stuckeys didn't have it all.   This place was is on a desolate road in the middle of nowhere Nevada.  Not that far from the infamous Area 51.  Did alien scientists hang out here before they were found out or was just a lack of party traffic that put this piece of Americana out of business.   I don't know but we can all take a guess.  Mile 1432 on the way to Burningman.  Black Rock City is getting close.

Later

Paint me a Desert

Some times you stumble on places that take your breath away.  Maybe a few of you have been to the Petrified Forest National Park.  I had not.   Now the stone trees are cool but they don't do a ton for me.   However the forgotten trip to see the "Blue Mesa" ended up with a view of the Painted Desert.  Go take a look if you get a chance.  Mile  987 on the trip to Burningman.

Ciao,

Born to Burn

On my way to Black Rock City for Burningman.  This year the PHAROH BOAT will grace the playa provided it gets there in one piece.  The trailer is loaded, I mean loaded.  Now I have to get the 2000 miles out of the way and then figure out how to put the thing back together.   Tonight in New Mexico and then on to Arizona.   I can see Black Rock City off in the distance.  

Enjoy the Ride

Miles

The River of Bears Slideshow

Enjoy the Show.   The River of Bears.

Click the link.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1A0cUkpX1D0&feature=plcp


Miles

Closet of Life

I spent a good deal of today working on the pharaoh boat hoping to get the beast ready for Burningman.  Always thanks to JL for the drawing that made it pass muster.  As I was getting out of the heat I realized what was really in this room.  NOISE.  The room is small for sure but I am not certain I have ever had a place that was filled with more past and present.  I look around and see photo shoots, studios, first monday costumes, mardi gras, burningman, art and the lack of art..., pieces of a life that may well be too scattered but not without varity.   There is history, failure, success, love, anger, and potential.  All in one tiny place.  Some strange things happening for those fans of the paranormal.  Just going to let that ride but it must have to do with doing a better job of living in the moment.    I want to encourage you to stop and look around you.  Are the things that fill your "now" space things that you want and love....if not, go out and change things...  from one hoarder to another....

Carpe Diem

Miles

The River of Bears

Nothing can prepare you for how enormous and wild this country really is unless you get off your ass and go take a look.  I was fortunate last week to spend a week in a place that only a few people see each year.  It opened my eyes to some very deep seated understandings.  One, I can go 6 days without Chardonnay.  Two, the caffeine headache is still awful.  Three, freeze dried food still sucks although not as much as 25 years ago.  Oh, yes and the bears.....

McNeil River Bear Sanctuary has been around for 30 years.  It's permit only and takes a bit of effort to get there.  Tides, float planes, all your supplies, and weather.  If you decide to try it and you win the lottery for a permit you will not be disappointed.  There is something about a 1200 pound wild Brown Bear 10 feet from you that will sting the senses like nothing else.  At one point our "bear guy" threw down is huge bear rifle and threw sticks at a charging boar...  900 plus pounds.  Crude but effective.

So take a look at the rest of the images if you get a chance on my website (www.bymiles.com)  Should be all up by the end of the weekend.  I would love to hear the comments.  "River of Bears".

Enjoy,

Miles

Just, what does it mean?

I am sitting in a little coffee shop in Canton, Texas this morning and doing some writing.  It's been a crazy few weeks in my life.  I beginning to think it has something to do with the full moon right behind the lunar eclipse thing that happened and then of course Venus crossing the sun.  (I thought my computer screen has speck of Ketchup on it).  Over the last few years I have been using a computer to write about things.  The cool thing about that is that I can always read my writing.  And of course if I end up with something too crazy on those long lonely nights, it has a great eraser....  The coolest thing for me is that it counts words.  So over the last couple of years I have been able to sum up my year or life in a number of words.  Milestones if you will.  This year word 100,000 came this morning around 1:30 AM.  Don't ask why I was up but I was.   The word was "JUST".   Last year was LIFE.  Just is a very good word I think.  It's short.  Only 4 letters like love, life, more, ours, and fart.    All in all a very good word.    But it can come back to bite you too.  JUST what?  Just stop ..doing something, Just start....  JUST forget or forgive....or maybe JUST remember.    For me it signals action of some kind.

For all of you out there living your lives....I wish that you would JUST forget the bad and focus on the good, JUST stop worrying about what you can't change and JUST realize that chance plays JUST as much of a role in life as choice, so JUST enjoy the ride.   JUST stop blaming other people and celebrate those people in your life that you love.  JUST give them a little kiss to remind yourself JUST how lucky you are.

JUST try it and see.

Miles

Main Street America

I think it was in a Bruce Springsteen song.....  small town da da....  He must have been singing about one if not the most perfect main street in America.  It was long and dominating.  Every shop filled with a business.  There were people and cars and life.  It was not some entertainment district or amusement park. It was main street America.  Brooksville, Pennsylvania was the place.  Absolutely the perfect main street in the country or at least one of them.  The photo does not do it justice and for that I apologize.  Only one tiny lens this trip.  There is a court house that looks like a Norman Rockwell painting right in the middle of the long wide thoroughfare.  There almost seemed like nothing happens at the courthouse as the Courthouse grill was very quiet.  25 cents will get you two hours on the meter.  If you are ever on PA 28 North of Pittsburgh stop by for the Demi sandwich.  It will not disappoint.

Miles

The Bird Man in the Nest

Non- motorized flight?  Humm.  Not really sure how that works.  Hot air and updrafts or something like that.  Well, I finally go to find out today.   Outside of Durango I took my first glider ride.  It was really a cool experience.  I have survived many a crappy landing during my "flying days", but was never in a place were you got to soar like the birds and didn't get much of a mulligan if you screwed up the landing. Stephane was great and he did let me land which I managed to do with a video camera in my hand.  Ok, he was not too happy about that or the "weeds" at the end of the runway but we survived and I got my deposit back.  What are air brakes on a glider anyway....   All in all a great experience.  If you get the chance....  go shoot the bird....in a glider I mean.   Stay tuned for the video in a couple of days.

Miles
aka  the bird man.

You Gotta Love Durango

What is it about the town of Durango, Colorado?   I just love the place.  18,000 outdoor loving, hiking boot wearing, fleece covered, bikoyackers.   One main street , plenty of restaurants, wine bars, and music.  Not to mention the San Juan Mountains in the backyard.  Just a great place.   I'm back at the General Palmer again.  I know, I said I would try another place but I just can't get away from the hand pinching single person elevator.  It's like a magnet to me.

A glass of wine at Cosmo with a classical guitar guru that may have been homeless but oh did he have the touch.  I asked Chase where he was from...."you know man....around...."  I nodded like I was solid into his universe and he said, " checked out Aspen, Santa Fe, Telluride, and now Durango,   I dig this place".  me too Chase....me too.    Tomorrow I fly like a bird...   Hopefully some moving pictures up tomorrow night.  

Ciao,

Miles

Just another First Monday

It happens every month but for some reason it seemed like a long time since the last First Monday in Canton.  This sleepy little town fills up with over 200,000 junkists for 3 days and then drops back down to Sleep Hollow.  This weekend was the first time in a long while I have not made a contribution to the "Weird Collect".  I didn't have a lot of time and my dogs were tired.  Still I did see a few things that would have looked great in the Villa.  Maybe the impala horns for next time.  If you ever get a chance stop by 45 Lazy Daze Lane for a rum punch or maybe a Mexican Martini.  Viva La Villa.

Miles