October 10, 2006
I had bad dreams last night. The-tired-and-trying-to-find-a-resting-place kind. I was driving an old car with rusted fender wells, packed with stuff and there was no place to pull over, so I coasted into the narrow medium of a desert highway and got out, went up front to open the hood, and before I could get it open a mean tourist-bully-type pulled in behind me and starting pushing my car with his car. I was helpless to do anything and before I knew it we were going faster and faster. Fortunately I was wearing roller skates, but there I was going fifty, backwards, down old Route 66 and no way to stop. Or rest.

My dream analysis expert (Kathy) laughed and told me the car is me, my numerous projects are my “stuff” and the mean tourist, well, take your pick: True West, The Westerns Channel, my staff, Bob Brink, Jesus, George Bush and, or, Tri Star. Oh, and don’t forget J.D. Nelson, my chicken house job boss.

Last night I got home from work at 5:30 and there was J.D. working in the back yard with all the post holes dug for the chicken house, except one. He said his wife had company so he came down early. As I grabbed a shovel and proceeded to dig the last hole, he told me a story and it went something like this:

“My back hurts. Can’t work like I used to. After the war, I was datin’ this ol’ gal lived on a ranch south of Kingman. Every month I would take off four days from the inspection station and go visit my folks down in the Gila Valley (Safford). I wanted to take her with me but her mama didn’t want her to ride that far in a car (too dangerous), so I rented an airplane. On the way back, we had to land in Cottonwood and as we came in I didn’t realize there was a cross-runway, and as I came down, I saw it too late and there we were, goin’ 85 right into the desert, and she’s yellin’ and screamin’ and she told me later I said, “Dammit, shuttup and let me think.” And we went out into the desert, collapsed the nose landing gear, I put my foot through a new radio I just bought and my face slammed into the instrument panel. When I woke up, there she was hanging upside down, screaming bloody murder. We walked into Cottonwood, waited at a little ol’ hospital for about two hours, but they wouldn’t do anything, so we took the bus to Prescott, waited there for two hours, then took the bus to Seligman and while we were trying to sleep this old gal up front starts singin’ and I went up there and I said to her, “You keep this up and we’re gonna stop this bus and put you off.” Afterwards I went up front and told the driver what I did and he said, ‘Thanks.’ About two weeks later, the mom calls me and says, ‘What’d you do to my daughter? She’s cryin’ and carryin’ on about crashing an airplane.’ So I borrowed an airplane from the Kingman air base and took off, and circled around a canyon behind their ranch house, and came up a draw and went right over the front porch at full throttle. Her mom went right up the wall. Later I was in Wickiup, and was standing in line for something and this ol’ gal was in front of me, and she turned around and it was her, only she was pregnant. That’s the last time I ever saw her.”

By this time, the last hole was dug and I said, “J.D. what was her name? I probably went to high school with the kid she had.” For the life of him, he couldn’t remember, but he told me that's how he got the bad back.

Speaking of Bob Brink, he is in New York attending the grand opening of the new Hearst building, as a guest of honor. Last night he met Oprah. The Hearst Corp build the state-of-the-art building and paid cash ($500 million).

This morning Deena called at 6:30 from Mankato, Minnesota, and said that her boyfriend Frank had just text messaged her (while driving to work on the 101) that the owner of Pischke’s has commited suicde. I got up and went out and got the paper. It’s true. Chris Pischke, the owner of one of my fave restaurants, was evidently depressed over the slow demise of his classic restaurant, drove to a mortuary on Sunday night and shot himself. Monday was the twentieth anniversary of the cafe.

Dung Nazis?
“I got the John Wayne painting. Thank you again for allowing me to have it. Is it oil or watercolor? [no, gouache] I'm obviously not gifted in this arena. I plan on framing it and hanging it on my Western wall in my office at work.

“I have really enjoyed the blog recently. I like the guy who was upset that the blog was all about you. (?) I thought that is what a blog is, autobiographical. Oh well. I have especially enjoyed the new "Dung Nazis". I have enjoyed the discussions about hats and saddles from the appropriate Nazi Faction but this latest is the greatest. On a personal note, I have never thought about it one way or another. I will say I'm not offended that I don't regularly see it or see a risen horses tail. I pretty much have been able to get along with just the animals themselves.

“I will say that any ‘Dung Nazi’ should enjoy Ulzana's Raid. It is an excellent movie that I throw in my top 15 all time westerns. I had to expand from 10 a few years ago. Not only do you get to see horse dung but it is picked up and sniffed. This should please the over the top realists. The movie has been out of DVD production for several years. I was not familiar with it until the Westerns Channel showed it awhile back. I wish they would reissue the DVD. I'm not interested in paying 100 plus for a copy.

“There is another good Burt Lancaster western Valdez is Coming. I don't remember if there are any good scenes of horse dung but is well worth watching”
—Hugh Howard

“We must believe in luck. For how else can we explain the success of those we don't like?”
—Jean Cocteau