Saturday, November 26, 2011

Jobs in a Tough Economy: Mare Watchers

Mare Watchers:

Need to be extremely attentive to boring details, semi-conscious during working hours and should know basic First-Aid, self-defibrillation and a rudimentary knowledge of bowel surgery and/or self-hypnosis. Marginal derangement, amphetamine addiction or chronically narcoleptic individuals encouraged to apply.  No previous experience desirable.     

Hobbies/Activities Encouraged:

                        Ability to appreciate the migratory habits of dead spiders.
                        Experimental Microwaving Projects. 
                        Playing strip-poker with the barn cat.. and losing on purpose. 
                        Practicing chopsticks with warm Jell-O.

Strongly Encouraged: An Ability to Converse with Local Crisis Clinics:

"Hello, Crisis Clinic, Hello?"

"Pepperoni and olives.  Uh, did I pick up my dry cleaning?"


"Heeerre's Johnny!"

"This is the Crisis Clinic.  How much French roast have you had?"

"Oops.  Can't talk now, my shoe's untied!"

"Do you want us to send an ambulance?"

"Sure, can they bring along the pizza?"

"Ever considered de-caf?"

"Wasn't he the president of Israel?"

"We're trying to help."

"And I appreciate that in a pizza parlor!"

Openings Begin January 1st at Breeding Farms Throughout Your Area


Monday, November 21, 2011

The Generational Continuum: War

[I never gave up on Don Quixote, though I often gave up on myself. The children of warriors are no less of a casualty in the conflicts of man.]
Over the decades, I have met a great many special kids -- special perhaps by a curious default --these children of the storms as I know them. That sad kind of trustless distinction that far too many of them carry for the remainder of their lives. You find them a lot in the company of animals and very often around the wonderful world that keeps and cherishes horses. These children are broken, damaged -- often unknowingly -- flotsam it seems, barely afloat in a foul sea by the sheer will of life itself, or perhaps the honest generosity of some creature. An animal deemed unworthy of God's grace; soulless by divine circumscription, a beast of burden, a toiler for the great canons of righteous warfare, and yet, denied that simple holy distinction by the sheer weight of humanity's ceaseless need of a selective and ultimate symbol for the validation of a uniquely human disease: self-predation.
In 1989, I wrote an essay for The Chronicle of the Horse, entitled "Horses: An Investment in Youth." I had come to recognize these children, for one is only granted acknowledgement in such a secretive society through the forced abandonment of all others. A code that lives in the eyes of the victims, as if blood alone can cleanse an open wound. We all know each other by our scars, the invisible marks of penance for the crime of existence -- or convenience. Or that in a world of incomprehensible giants, a denial of simple mercy. For in those moments of hatred and confusion, love must flee for the safety found at the ragged outskirts of our imagination. With the door bolted shut behind us.
We never cease to be somebody's child. Even in death, we are remembered as once being born. A matrix of miracles really in a world where violence and apathy dictate the lyrics of a long and oddly persistent hymn. A requiem perhaps. Taps. Pipes echoing through barren branches of an old forest. A flag neatly folded, heads bowed at half-staff -- the cold earth beckoning. And one war is never enough.
I've spent the better part of five decades wandering backwards through the wreckage of a half-dozen or more wars -- each with a participant that carried my name, my blood, ultimately my future, locked in the primal puzzle of a shared DNA. And what also seemed like a shared responsibility to enforce the dictate of a purely political manifest -- rightly or wrongly, on this tumultuous and perhaps chronically reckless planet. And children continue to fight these wars, for it seems that the 'sins of the fathers' are never enough to satisfy the insatiable greed contained in a stubborn point of view; so powerful in a single moment, so dwarfed by the continuity of all the moments.
We cannot live in a world of faith and war. Some dichotomy exists, forcing the spirit to serve two separate masters, as if the pastor and the politician can only possess the same truth on different days of an identical week. We say, Thou shalt not kill...but we kill just the same. Because we are right, because we are justified, is what we do. And we look into our children's eyes, we tell them it is wrong, it is a horror, it is against God...but please child, take up this gun one more time.
Generational. The dance of the damned it would seem, for war makes prisoners of the betterment we're truly capable of achieving in this world. An inheritance that lingers in the minds and hearts of all we touch, all we make and all that follow. Somehow, sometime, we need to break the bonds of our relentless ambition and leave one single generation at peace. It just might catch on.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Cute Dogs Sell Books!

370 Pages & An Automatic Upgrade

The author during a period of 'critical self-examinination,' combined with a completely useless attempt at lowering his cholesterol.
However, once you publish a book, you receive an upgrade from merely a lowly writer to a debt-ridden author. You suddenly find an irresistable urge to smoke a pipe, wear Cardigan sweaters and only use words with five syllables or more. People mob you in the produce section at Safeway, force you to autograph body parts and Google finally decides that you are moderately interesting.
Andy Warhol was right. Fifteen-minutes is about all you get.

News on the Book

ISBN #978-145750-492-1
Currently available through or any retail book outlet. to be up shortly. 360 pages, some completely useless illustrations -- $18.95, paperback. Alfalfa flavored and semi-edible in a desperate moment.