November 21, 2004
Woke up to rain. Drizzled and misted all day. Big, rolling thunder at about six. Buddy scratching on the door. Kathy pokin' me to go take care of "my dog." I muttered, "It's your dog who's a little baby." She got up in a huff, but sure enough it was the little Hatkiller scratching at the door and whining. Kathy in her mother-wisdom mode, closed the blinds and went back to sleep.
I got up at seven and made bacon and eggs, read the paper, then slogged out to get firewood. Built two fires, one in the studio stove and the other in the house fireplace. Stoked them all day. Feels real good.
Went for a bike ride at about ten. Misting, felt like Rain-in-the-face. Met my neighbor Bob, a retired airline piolot, on the road who was coming back from his daughter's place with a section of picket fence in the back of his pickup. I asked him what he was going to do with it and he said he was just going to burn it. "Could you drop it off at my house for a few days?" I asked. "I'm doing a painting where four guys are walking past a picket fence and I want to see how the shadows fall on their legs, looking from the inside of the fence." He looked at me like I'm crazy and laughed (I think he seriously loves living down the street from a weirdo, artist type).
Got some good painting done. I think I've nailed the cover for my new book. Still full of doubt. Need to sleep on it. And speaking of whining, I wish I could have a posting where I write, "Woke up with supreme confidence, whipped out several paintings, all of them exactly as I pictured in my head. My skills are supreme and I am a God among the painterly." Or, something like that.
Unfortunately it's doubt and more doubt and muddy despair. And don't forget flailing. I do have to admit that sometimes I'll see something I did in the past and go, "Wow! I actually did that. Amazing." I'll remember thinking it was pure doo-doo at the time, but it ain't bad. How did I get that cloud effect? I don't know. But more often than not it's, "Man I wish I had that one back. I can't believe I let that one out of my sight."
Finished working about 4:30, cleaned up and started dinner. Deena's gone, moved into her new condo. House seems kind of empty, again.
"The best of all things is to learn. Money can be lost or stolen, health and strength may fail, but what you have committed to your mind is yours forever."
—Louis L'Amourh
Sunday, November 21, 2004
Saturday, November 20, 2004
November 20, 2004
Worked on paintngs in the morning and helped Deena move into her condo down in Scottsdale this afternoon.
Tom Wolfe really nails the election in the latest Rolling Stone:
"I've never seen an election taken so personally by people—not even Nixon vs. Kennedy. But this country is so centrist, we're not really going to go wrong whoever's elected. Our government is like a train on a track: People yell at it from the left, and they yell at it from the right, but the train goes right down the middle where the tracks are."
—Tom Wolfe
Worked on paintngs in the morning and helped Deena move into her condo down in Scottsdale this afternoon.
Tom Wolfe really nails the election in the latest Rolling Stone:
"I've never seen an election taken so personally by people—not even Nixon vs. Kennedy. But this country is so centrist, we're not really going to go wrong whoever's elected. Our government is like a train on a track: People yell at it from the left, and they yell at it from the right, but the train goes right down the middle where the tracks are."
—Tom Wolfe
Friday, November 19, 2004
November 19, 2004
Here's a smattering of possible curses from readers to this blog on the "d--d------" question: "dog dingus," comes in from J.Rae, a noted Jesse James aficionado (the story goes that Jesse, as the son of a minister, pinched his finger on a piece of equipment during the Civil War and rather than cuss said, "Dingus!" which stuck as a nickname.) Another possible angle is "Dandydick" which is submitted by D.J. Gobbledick (his alleged nom de plume). Gobble also submitted "dim dickhed" but with the caveat that it is "a term only used for present day Arizona cow-boys."
Someone claiming to be my mother submitted the phrase "dam donkey," but I’m not sure if donkeys ever built dams.
One of the employees of the Arizona Tourism Board who wishes to remain anonymous submitted the guess of "dip doodle," which just might be quaint enough, and obscure, although not very profane.
A certain employee of mine who is whip smart came up with the simple term "deadbeat" which has the "ds" in the right place and would certainly fit the situation since Philip Schneider was a mining engineer and Mike O’Rourke (Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce) was a tinhorn gambler, who was bumming around Charleston. Although it does beg the question, "Why would the paper censor the word 'deadbeat.'?" Another possibility off of this is "deadass," but it doesn’t quite ring true.
Oh, this is interesting. Yesterday I postulated facetiously that maybe it was "deadhead," and just now I looked up the term in my New Dictionary of American Slang (1986) and here's what it says: "deadhead:, from the French, middle 1800s, a nonpaying spectator at a game, show, etc.=FREELOADER." A variation is listed as "deadneck." Also listed: "Deadwood" which also dates from the 1800s and the definition is: "Unproductive persons; lazy and useless staff."
I think the first word being "dog" is pretty strong, and I would guess that the second half of the phrase severely emasculates Mr. Deuce. However, if the dashes were not meant to be taken literally, then that opens up the possibilities even more, such as:
"doodly squat" or "dry donkey" or "dog dick" or "doc dick" or "dog dater" or "dog doo-doo" or "dog doofus" or "dodo dimwit" or "damned dipshit," or "diddle dooker" or "dead deucer" or "defecating dunce" or "dew dancer" (Hey, it could happen!) or "diadromous douchebag" or "dog douchebag" or "dice dick" or "dik-dik" (a small African antelope) or "dyke dancer'"or "dim-witted dickhead" or "ding bastard" or "disdainful disapator" or, maybe not.
Personally, I think "deadneck" and "deadwood" and "deadhead" is pretty tempting to believe, although it sure doesn’t seem offensive enough to censor, does it?
"Every thought is a seed. If you plant crab apples, don't count on harvesting Golden Delicious."
—Edge Keynote
Here's a smattering of possible curses from readers to this blog on the "d--d------" question: "dog dingus," comes in from J.Rae, a noted Jesse James aficionado (the story goes that Jesse, as the son of a minister, pinched his finger on a piece of equipment during the Civil War and rather than cuss said, "Dingus!" which stuck as a nickname.) Another possible angle is "Dandydick" which is submitted by D.J. Gobbledick (his alleged nom de plume). Gobble also submitted "dim dickhed" but with the caveat that it is "a term only used for present day Arizona cow-boys."
Someone claiming to be my mother submitted the phrase "dam donkey," but I’m not sure if donkeys ever built dams.
One of the employees of the Arizona Tourism Board who wishes to remain anonymous submitted the guess of "dip doodle," which just might be quaint enough, and obscure, although not very profane.
A certain employee of mine who is whip smart came up with the simple term "deadbeat" which has the "ds" in the right place and would certainly fit the situation since Philip Schneider was a mining engineer and Mike O’Rourke (Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce) was a tinhorn gambler, who was bumming around Charleston. Although it does beg the question, "Why would the paper censor the word 'deadbeat.'?" Another possibility off of this is "deadass," but it doesn’t quite ring true.
Oh, this is interesting. Yesterday I postulated facetiously that maybe it was "deadhead," and just now I looked up the term in my New Dictionary of American Slang (1986) and here's what it says: "deadhead:, from the French, middle 1800s, a nonpaying spectator at a game, show, etc.=FREELOADER." A variation is listed as "deadneck." Also listed: "Deadwood" which also dates from the 1800s and the definition is: "Unproductive persons; lazy and useless staff."
I think the first word being "dog" is pretty strong, and I would guess that the second half of the phrase severely emasculates Mr. Deuce. However, if the dashes were not meant to be taken literally, then that opens up the possibilities even more, such as:
"doodly squat" or "dry donkey" or "dog dick" or "doc dick" or "dog dater" or "dog doo-doo" or "dog doofus" or "dodo dimwit" or "damned dipshit," or "diddle dooker" or "dead deucer" or "defecating dunce" or "dew dancer" (Hey, it could happen!) or "diadromous douchebag" or "dog douchebag" or "dice dick" or "dik-dik" (a small African antelope) or "dyke dancer'"or "dim-witted dickhead" or "ding bastard" or "disdainful disapator" or, maybe not.
Personally, I think "deadneck" and "deadwood" and "deadhead" is pretty tempting to believe, although it sure doesn’t seem offensive enough to censor, does it?
"Every thought is a seed. If you plant crab apples, don't count on harvesting Golden Delicious."
—Edge Keynote
Thursday, November 18, 2004
November 18, 2004
Our budget session was brutal but necessary. Took about three hours. We are growing faster than our plans and ambitions and it creates severe stress on the bookkeeping aspect of the biz. We whittled and whacked and I whined at some of the cuts, but we pruned it into shape. RG runs a tight ship and it is a blessing for us to have him, damn him.
Went to lunch yesterday with Dave Daiss down at the Desert View Deli & Breakfast joint. Had the scrambled eggs and sourdough toast ($15 cash, I bought). Dave had a Rueben sando (he said it is the first since he got sick last year). Talked about our Tombstone shoot. One of the local papers down there ran a small news item about us being in town filming. They made it sound bigger than it was. From there we laughed about the rough road we've been on and Dave told the anecdote about a botanist friend of his who worked at the Biosphere north of Tucson and how the branches on their trees kept falling off and Dave asked why, and the guy said, "No wind." The trees were protected inside the Biosphere, behind glass, so they never got blown about and it's the wind that makes the branches strong strong. No wind, the branches fall off and the tree moves back in with his parents. Kind of applies to raising kids too, doesn't it?
Finally got our "Ya'll Killed Two Cowboys" T-shirts in today. Really a strong design. What do you think?
One of the amusing and intriguing aspects of studying old newspaper accounts is the veiled, semi-censored cursing. Of course, it was very Victorian in the 1880s and they would censor even mild oaths with the first letter followed by dashes. It is still in vogue today with mainstream publications blanking out curse words like f----in' crazy. In the Old West they did the same and it's quite common to see a newspaper quote like this: "You s--- of b----- have been looking for a fight and now you can have it." That one is easy to decipher. But here’s one that’s driving me nuts. In the Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce story, Mr. Deuce (real name, Mike O'Rourke, I know, I know, how does a Mike turn into a John? When he solicits a soiled dove, perhaps?) was in Smith's restaurant in Charleston, Arizona (between Sierra Vista and Tombstone on the San Pedro) when he got crossways with a fellow diner. After an exchange over the weather turned ugly, O’Rourke muttered "Well, you’re a little too smart, anyhow." His antagonist, Philip Schneider, a mining engineer, suddenly leapt to his feet, and moving towards O'Rourke, waved his hand saying, "That will do now, I don't want any of that." O’Rourke claimed later to a newspaper reporter that Schneider called him a "d--d------," adding, "There were some ladies in the restaurant, and it made me awful mad to be called that." So, what is a d_ _ d_ _ _ _ _? All I can come up with is "dim dickhed" or "dead” something, maybe a “Dead Head”? Nah. I have a hunch it’s something very easy, but I can't see it. Can you?
"The strongest man in the world is the man who stands alone."
—Thomas Henry Huxley
Our budget session was brutal but necessary. Took about three hours. We are growing faster than our plans and ambitions and it creates severe stress on the bookkeeping aspect of the biz. We whittled and whacked and I whined at some of the cuts, but we pruned it into shape. RG runs a tight ship and it is a blessing for us to have him, damn him.
Went to lunch yesterday with Dave Daiss down at the Desert View Deli & Breakfast joint. Had the scrambled eggs and sourdough toast ($15 cash, I bought). Dave had a Rueben sando (he said it is the first since he got sick last year). Talked about our Tombstone shoot. One of the local papers down there ran a small news item about us being in town filming. They made it sound bigger than it was. From there we laughed about the rough road we've been on and Dave told the anecdote about a botanist friend of his who worked at the Biosphere north of Tucson and how the branches on their trees kept falling off and Dave asked why, and the guy said, "No wind." The trees were protected inside the Biosphere, behind glass, so they never got blown about and it's the wind that makes the branches strong strong. No wind, the branches fall off and the tree moves back in with his parents. Kind of applies to raising kids too, doesn't it?
Finally got our "Ya'll Killed Two Cowboys" T-shirts in today. Really a strong design. What do you think?
One of the amusing and intriguing aspects of studying old newspaper accounts is the veiled, semi-censored cursing. Of course, it was very Victorian in the 1880s and they would censor even mild oaths with the first letter followed by dashes. It is still in vogue today with mainstream publications blanking out curse words like f----in' crazy. In the Old West they did the same and it's quite common to see a newspaper quote like this: "You s--- of b----- have been looking for a fight and now you can have it." That one is easy to decipher. But here’s one that’s driving me nuts. In the Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce story, Mr. Deuce (real name, Mike O'Rourke, I know, I know, how does a Mike turn into a John? When he solicits a soiled dove, perhaps?) was in Smith's restaurant in Charleston, Arizona (between Sierra Vista and Tombstone on the San Pedro) when he got crossways with a fellow diner. After an exchange over the weather turned ugly, O’Rourke muttered "Well, you’re a little too smart, anyhow." His antagonist, Philip Schneider, a mining engineer, suddenly leapt to his feet, and moving towards O'Rourke, waved his hand saying, "That will do now, I don't want any of that." O’Rourke claimed later to a newspaper reporter that Schneider called him a "d--d------," adding, "There were some ladies in the restaurant, and it made me awful mad to be called that." So, what is a d_ _ d_ _ _ _ _? All I can come up with is "dim dickhed" or "dead” something, maybe a “Dead Head”? Nah. I have a hunch it’s something very easy, but I can't see it. Can you?
"The strongest man in the world is the man who stands alone."
—Thomas Henry Huxley
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
November 17, 2004
My Las Vegas postings on the Western History Association banquet brew-ha-ha has solicited comments from concerned members on both sides of the aisle. Here's a thoughtful take from an academic who wishes to remain anonymous:
"Over the years, there have been attempts to purge the WHA of non-academics. The Westerners are not as welcome as once they were; the mining historians are crowded into a session and I am sure that you figured out that Earpophiles and Billyologists are thin on the ground. There are fewer western-cut suits in evidence than once there were, likewise honest hats (although yours was a notable corrective). I am sorry that this was your first WHA, and I hope that it's not your last—some of the other sessions had some cracking good papers, and usually the venues provide ample opportunity for sitting down, irrigating and telling sea stories (the real attraction of most conferences) with friends of long acquaintance and new alike. I meant in fact to seek you out and congratulate you on the look and content of True West—and I'm sure that I'm not the only one there who reads it. I also owe you a debt: I was a student (under Peter Iverson) at ASU back in the early 90s, when you were drawing for the New Times. I've used your 'Seven Deadly Sins of Political Correctness' series in class more than once, and they have stopped several classes cold. And no, ASU isn't that bad. Just homely and set in a poor excuse for a desert community, now complete with faux lake.
"Peter Iverson is a fine historian and his career is a great example of civility and productivity. His stuff is readable and his insistence on solid scholarship sets a high standard for those of us who studied under him. He believes in the need for the WHA to include academic and non-academic alike, yet some of his students are thin-skinned and a little reverse-ethnocentric and, maybe, snobs. Moreover, I suspect that like many grad students some have little experience outside of the library and seminar room; time and life may teach them patience, tolerance (even of fools) and maybe a touch of good manners. Maybe some maturation will descend before next year's do in Phoenix; I hope so, and hope to see you there."
Had to fast this morning and go for my third MRI down at Scottsdale Imaging. Not fun being inside that damn tube with the loud clicking and BR-K-K-K-K-K-ing sound effects with an IV stuck in the arm and "cool jazz" on the headphones. Got there at 6:20, got out at 8:15, drank some coffee and drove up to the office.
Got a big budget meeting this afternoon. We're staring at a projected $170K deficit for 2005, based on all the things we want to do. Obviously, some things need to be cut.
"I am certain that nothing has done so much to destroy the juridical safeguards of individual freedom as the striving after this mirage of social justice."
—Fredrich August von Hayek
My Las Vegas postings on the Western History Association banquet brew-ha-ha has solicited comments from concerned members on both sides of the aisle. Here's a thoughtful take from an academic who wishes to remain anonymous:
"Over the years, there have been attempts to purge the WHA of non-academics. The Westerners are not as welcome as once they were; the mining historians are crowded into a session and I am sure that you figured out that Earpophiles and Billyologists are thin on the ground. There are fewer western-cut suits in evidence than once there were, likewise honest hats (although yours was a notable corrective). I am sorry that this was your first WHA, and I hope that it's not your last—some of the other sessions had some cracking good papers, and usually the venues provide ample opportunity for sitting down, irrigating and telling sea stories (the real attraction of most conferences) with friends of long acquaintance and new alike. I meant in fact to seek you out and congratulate you on the look and content of True West—and I'm sure that I'm not the only one there who reads it. I also owe you a debt: I was a student (under Peter Iverson) at ASU back in the early 90s, when you were drawing for the New Times. I've used your 'Seven Deadly Sins of Political Correctness' series in class more than once, and they have stopped several classes cold. And no, ASU isn't that bad. Just homely and set in a poor excuse for a desert community, now complete with faux lake.
"Peter Iverson is a fine historian and his career is a great example of civility and productivity. His stuff is readable and his insistence on solid scholarship sets a high standard for those of us who studied under him. He believes in the need for the WHA to include academic and non-academic alike, yet some of his students are thin-skinned and a little reverse-ethnocentric and, maybe, snobs. Moreover, I suspect that like many grad students some have little experience outside of the library and seminar room; time and life may teach them patience, tolerance (even of fools) and maybe a touch of good manners. Maybe some maturation will descend before next year's do in Phoenix; I hope so, and hope to see you there."
Had to fast this morning and go for my third MRI down at Scottsdale Imaging. Not fun being inside that damn tube with the loud clicking and BR-K-K-K-K-K-ing sound effects with an IV stuck in the arm and "cool jazz" on the headphones. Got there at 6:20, got out at 8:15, drank some coffee and drove up to the office.
Got a big budget meeting this afternoon. We're staring at a projected $170K deficit for 2005, based on all the things we want to do. Obviously, some things need to be cut.
"I am certain that nothing has done so much to destroy the juridical safeguards of individual freedom as the striving after this mirage of social justice."
—Fredrich August von Hayek
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
November 16, 2004
Been reading some impactful stuff lately, mostly out of magazines, because, hey, I'm a magazine kind of guy (I probably have 26 or 27 subscriptions). The New Yorker did a big profile on the French newspaper Le Monde. Here is a quote that really hit me where I live:
"Scoops and masterpieces are few and far between, and what keeps a reader addicted to this paper is a continuity of tone. Reading Le Monde became a daily, secular ritual of French rectitude."
—The New Yorker, November 15, 2004
And speaking of "continuity of tone," I believe the new incarnation of Esquire magazine is now the best Men's magazine bar none. The writing is quite edgy and brilliant in a smart-ass kind of way. Two examples:
"Real people's lives don't conform to narrative expectation. They tend to be random and discursive: And then this happened and then that happened and this happened and then that happened. . . Not a problem if you're telling the Joe Blow story, since only historians and the Blow family will object to the necessary omissions and distortions."
—Mike D'Angelo, Esquire
"In humans, say the experts, males suffer increased mortality because—instead of whining about historical injustice—they compete: for resources, for jobs, and for silly, shiny trophies."
—Answer Fella, Esquire
Tried to finish up the Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce story today but it just wouldn't fall. Lots of great new stuff, need to shoe horn it all in five pages. Going to be tight, but good.
At lunch I drove out to Peoria to Earl's Eating and Drinking Establishment and met Dan Harshberger for lunch (huevos rancheros and decaf coffee, Betty bought) and had a talk about redesigning their menu. We did their last one about 15 years ago and it was fun talking to Brad, Betty and Carol Radina about their ideas and what they want for the new one. We looked at old menus (steak dinner with all the fixins, $4.99). Ah, but we were so much thinner then, we’re older than that now.
"Artists to my mind are the real architects of change, and not the political legislators who implement change after the fact."
—William S. Burroughs
Been reading some impactful stuff lately, mostly out of magazines, because, hey, I'm a magazine kind of guy (I probably have 26 or 27 subscriptions). The New Yorker did a big profile on the French newspaper Le Monde. Here is a quote that really hit me where I live:
"Scoops and masterpieces are few and far between, and what keeps a reader addicted to this paper is a continuity of tone. Reading Le Monde became a daily, secular ritual of French rectitude."
—The New Yorker, November 15, 2004
And speaking of "continuity of tone," I believe the new incarnation of Esquire magazine is now the best Men's magazine bar none. The writing is quite edgy and brilliant in a smart-ass kind of way. Two examples:
"Real people's lives don't conform to narrative expectation. They tend to be random and discursive: And then this happened and then that happened and this happened and then that happened. . . Not a problem if you're telling the Joe Blow story, since only historians and the Blow family will object to the necessary omissions and distortions."
—Mike D'Angelo, Esquire
"In humans, say the experts, males suffer increased mortality because—instead of whining about historical injustice—they compete: for resources, for jobs, and for silly, shiny trophies."
—Answer Fella, Esquire
Tried to finish up the Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce story today but it just wouldn't fall. Lots of great new stuff, need to shoe horn it all in five pages. Going to be tight, but good.
At lunch I drove out to Peoria to Earl's Eating and Drinking Establishment and met Dan Harshberger for lunch (huevos rancheros and decaf coffee, Betty bought) and had a talk about redesigning their menu. We did their last one about 15 years ago and it was fun talking to Brad, Betty and Carol Radina about their ideas and what they want for the new one. We looked at old menus (steak dinner with all the fixins, $4.99). Ah, but we were so much thinner then, we’re older than that now.
"Artists to my mind are the real architects of change, and not the political legislators who implement change after the fact."
—William S. Burroughs
Monday, November 15, 2004
November 15, 2004
Big, dramatic sunrise. More clouds and rain today, although mostly sprinkles. Went for a bike ride as the sun broke over Ratcliff Ridge. The air, cold and wet. Really beautiful out. Of course I thanked Robert Urich for the extra day.
Got into the office at eight and received a packet from Neil Carmony containing an in depth report by Steve Gatto on the killing of Phillip Schneider at Charleston, Arizona Territory on January 14, 1881. Very different from the "accepted version," or the version in most of the books. More on this later.
Shot photos of my Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce painting and ran it up to Foothills Photo. Went by the bank and made a deposit, cashed a royalty check ($111.20).
Western singing star Dennis Jay came by the True West offices around noon and sang songs for the staff. Gus Walker set it up. Really great music, with the rain outside and songs like "Letters from Mexico" and "Christmas in the Badlands" it doesn’t get much better than that. You can check him out at:
http://communities.msn.com/DennisJaysJamboree
After lunch Brian Label and Bill Welch came by the office with more Buffalo Bill images for an upcoming show in Ruidoso. Brian showed me several fake Bill Codys being sold on Ebay. The conmen are quite cunning. They take famous photos cheaply reproduced as laser prints then mount them onto old photo cards (pulling off some worthless landscape or family image and replacing it with the laser Cody), then price them to hook the greedy. Here's how: A real photo of Cody would run, say, $2,400, so if the price for a Cody on Ebay was $100 most people would know it was a fake. but they hit the price range of $750 and the buyers think, "Oh, this guy doesn’t know what he has, I’ll scarf it up." But, alas, the prints are worth maybe $1.75 so the scarfer becomes the scarfee. According to Brian the fraud is rampant and extends to saddles, spurs, bits, gunbelts and all kinds of artwork. Just too much money to be made. We talked about doing another piece on this so our readers can learn how to spot the damn things. Would be a great public service. We almost need to run a department to keep up with the fraud.
Got a massage from Christie at four ($50 biz account). Felt good. My left shoulder has been real sore all week.
For those of you who don't know, actor Robert Urich (Lonesome Dove, Vegas) was born on the same day as I was, and he's been gone for a year or two, so I often thank him, for the extra time I got and he didn't.
"A pessimist counting his blessings: 10... 9... 8... 7..."
—Old Contrarian Saying
Big, dramatic sunrise. More clouds and rain today, although mostly sprinkles. Went for a bike ride as the sun broke over Ratcliff Ridge. The air, cold and wet. Really beautiful out. Of course I thanked Robert Urich for the extra day.
Got into the office at eight and received a packet from Neil Carmony containing an in depth report by Steve Gatto on the killing of Phillip Schneider at Charleston, Arizona Territory on January 14, 1881. Very different from the "accepted version," or the version in most of the books. More on this later.
Shot photos of my Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce painting and ran it up to Foothills Photo. Went by the bank and made a deposit, cashed a royalty check ($111.20).
Western singing star Dennis Jay came by the True West offices around noon and sang songs for the staff. Gus Walker set it up. Really great music, with the rain outside and songs like "Letters from Mexico" and "Christmas in the Badlands" it doesn’t get much better than that. You can check him out at:
http://communities.msn.com/DennisJaysJamboree
After lunch Brian Label and Bill Welch came by the office with more Buffalo Bill images for an upcoming show in Ruidoso. Brian showed me several fake Bill Codys being sold on Ebay. The conmen are quite cunning. They take famous photos cheaply reproduced as laser prints then mount them onto old photo cards (pulling off some worthless landscape or family image and replacing it with the laser Cody), then price them to hook the greedy. Here's how: A real photo of Cody would run, say, $2,400, so if the price for a Cody on Ebay was $100 most people would know it was a fake. but they hit the price range of $750 and the buyers think, "Oh, this guy doesn’t know what he has, I’ll scarf it up." But, alas, the prints are worth maybe $1.75 so the scarfer becomes the scarfee. According to Brian the fraud is rampant and extends to saddles, spurs, bits, gunbelts and all kinds of artwork. Just too much money to be made. We talked about doing another piece on this so our readers can learn how to spot the damn things. Would be a great public service. We almost need to run a department to keep up with the fraud.
Got a massage from Christie at four ($50 biz account). Felt good. My left shoulder has been real sore all week.
For those of you who don't know, actor Robert Urich (Lonesome Dove, Vegas) was born on the same day as I was, and he's been gone for a year or two, so I often thank him, for the extra time I got and he didn't.
"A pessimist counting his blessings: 10... 9... 8... 7..."
—Old Contrarian Saying
Sunday, November 14, 2004
November 14, 2004
It was an amber alert. Everyone knew an attack was coming, they just didn't know when. Sleeper cells had activated on Saturday morning and made various probes at the defenses, trying to spot the weakest points.
The strike, code-named "Packrat Freedom" came off at three hundred hours today. A borrowed pair of kitchen tongs and four grocery bags (Bashas' and Albertson's) made up the special ops munitions, and the first Dadtallion, the point of the spear, so to speak, went in first, pouncing on the hood area of the '49 Ford like a weasel on a Weasels for Mayhem vacation. The team leader, began removing acres of dead cholla from around the wheel wells. Dog soldiers, led by Peaches and Buddy (way back, in reserve, if you call under a palo verde tree, reserve) took up positions beneath the car waiting for the trapped insurgents to appear.
Much swearing (those RPG cholla really hurt when they stick ya) yet 35 minutes and four bags full of cholla later, not one insurgent had appeared. So we called in the artillery. A garden hose from the back yard did the trick, softening up the defenses with well-aimed firepower, until the first, fat little rat leader scurried across the engine wall and Peaches grabbed him in a dog-like grip and took him out to Guantanimo (the driveway) to play with.
Earlier, a bird had flown into the studio and like the two dozen birds before him, he flew from hat to hat, leaving a little bird calling card on each and every lid. I finally went up to the loft and tried to shoo him downstairs and out the door, but he took a left turn and went into the bathroom. I was actually relieved because I figured in that small, contained space I could keep him away from the dogs, capture him and take him outside and grant him his freedom. I closed the door, had him cornered in the shower, but he scurried free, hit the window and before I could get to him and thus save his little life, he went to the bottom of the door and scurried under the crack, straight into Peaches' mouth.
But it wasn't all death and destruction out here on the Sonoran Desert. Kathy and I got up early and headed downtown to the Matador for huevos rancheros (free, they never charge us, but we left a $4 tip for the waitress and a $5 tip for the mariachis, plus $1 for parking) and a visit to the Phoenix Art Museum to catch the annual Cowboy Artist's show ($18 cash). Always inspiring, although much of that stuff is getting quite tired. My faves were painted by the usual suspects, Roy Anderson (an old neighbor), John Moyers (a very colorful wood carrying donkey) and a couple others.
Got home around one. Worked on Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce. May try another one, although I can't keep repainting this. Many other scenes to do.
"In the discipline of the human, the toil of doing the work precedes the delight of understanding the truth."
—Aurelius Augustinuss
It was an amber alert. Everyone knew an attack was coming, they just didn't know when. Sleeper cells had activated on Saturday morning and made various probes at the defenses, trying to spot the weakest points.
The strike, code-named "Packrat Freedom" came off at three hundred hours today. A borrowed pair of kitchen tongs and four grocery bags (Bashas' and Albertson's) made up the special ops munitions, and the first Dadtallion, the point of the spear, so to speak, went in first, pouncing on the hood area of the '49 Ford like a weasel on a Weasels for Mayhem vacation. The team leader, began removing acres of dead cholla from around the wheel wells. Dog soldiers, led by Peaches and Buddy (way back, in reserve, if you call under a palo verde tree, reserve) took up positions beneath the car waiting for the trapped insurgents to appear.
Much swearing (those RPG cholla really hurt when they stick ya) yet 35 minutes and four bags full of cholla later, not one insurgent had appeared. So we called in the artillery. A garden hose from the back yard did the trick, softening up the defenses with well-aimed firepower, until the first, fat little rat leader scurried across the engine wall and Peaches grabbed him in a dog-like grip and took him out to Guantanimo (the driveway) to play with.
Earlier, a bird had flown into the studio and like the two dozen birds before him, he flew from hat to hat, leaving a little bird calling card on each and every lid. I finally went up to the loft and tried to shoo him downstairs and out the door, but he took a left turn and went into the bathroom. I was actually relieved because I figured in that small, contained space I could keep him away from the dogs, capture him and take him outside and grant him his freedom. I closed the door, had him cornered in the shower, but he scurried free, hit the window and before I could get to him and thus save his little life, he went to the bottom of the door and scurried under the crack, straight into Peaches' mouth.
But it wasn't all death and destruction out here on the Sonoran Desert. Kathy and I got up early and headed downtown to the Matador for huevos rancheros (free, they never charge us, but we left a $4 tip for the waitress and a $5 tip for the mariachis, plus $1 for parking) and a visit to the Phoenix Art Museum to catch the annual Cowboy Artist's show ($18 cash). Always inspiring, although much of that stuff is getting quite tired. My faves were painted by the usual suspects, Roy Anderson (an old neighbor), John Moyers (a very colorful wood carrying donkey) and a couple others.
Got home around one. Worked on Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce. May try another one, although I can't keep repainting this. Many other scenes to do.
"In the discipline of the human, the toil of doing the work precedes the delight of understanding the truth."
—Aurelius Augustinuss
Saturday, November 13, 2004
November 13, 2004
Worked all day on Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce. Did 11 sketches, then shifted to gouache. Fun, but I think I overworked it. I'll post one tomorrow.
Girls went shopping at the new Ikea store down in Chandler. Huge hype and lines, traffic jams. I wouldn't even dream of going near the place, but Kathy and Deena are drawn there like moths to a flame sale.
Speaking of flames, had my second fire of the season in the studio stove this morning. Felt good.
Pack rats got in the engine of the '49 Ford. Need to clean out the cholla tomorrow. Have Eric from 24 Hour Car Care coming out Monday to assess the damage.
Went up town at three to check mail, drop off Cody photographs to Bill Welch, make a bank deposit, check the mail. Buddy Boze Hatkiller rode along. Not sure if that was a good idea, but he pretty much behaved. He did pass some gas on the way home that made me wish he had stayed home. It's funny, males, and even male dogs give you that, "Hey, it wasn't me!" look. Must be a chromosone deal.
I knew Emma Bull would come through on the Bisbee movie being filmed down there. Here's her commentary:
"It's called Desolation, you silly git.Yesterday they were shooting on Subway Street, behind the old Woolworth building. The fading paint on the business signs and the old stained brick wall wasn't good enough for 'em—they dressed the set with old wooden pallets, ratty cardboard boxes, miscellaneous discarded junk, more dented galvanized metal trash cans than can be found in all of Bisbee--and three imported tumbleweeds. I have no idea where they
brought those in from.
“It was a hoot, and reminded me of the magic of movies. The process itself is like watching paint dry, everyone involved is worked like a slave and subject to verbal abuse from whoever's above them in the pecking order, projects that start off promising are usually compromised into the ground before they're finished... And yet, there was a back street in a near-abandoned mining town in Nevada, on the back side of a building that houses one of the best and fanciest restaurants in Arizona and not ten yards from one of the most beautiful houses in Bisbee.
"Moviemaking is like Fairyland--it'll kill you if you try to live there, but visiting is like nothing else on earth."
And here’s some astute commentary from one who knows on the recent flap over the banquet speaker, etc. at the recent WHA conference in Vegas: "The Mountain Man toast and the Green River knife ceremony are . . . toast. The banquet speaker is a thing of the past. The buffs have been shown the door. High Seriousness reigns. We will in the future not meet in any Western state not colored ‘blue’ on the electoral map, since while Nevada may be unionized, it's a bit too titty for some, leaving only California to host future meetings. C'est fini, I said, using the language of America's favorite ally."
"The truth will set you free.
But before it does, it will make you angry."
—Jerry Joiner
Worked all day on Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce. Did 11 sketches, then shifted to gouache. Fun, but I think I overworked it. I'll post one tomorrow.
Girls went shopping at the new Ikea store down in Chandler. Huge hype and lines, traffic jams. I wouldn't even dream of going near the place, but Kathy and Deena are drawn there like moths to a flame sale.
Speaking of flames, had my second fire of the season in the studio stove this morning. Felt good.
Pack rats got in the engine of the '49 Ford. Need to clean out the cholla tomorrow. Have Eric from 24 Hour Car Care coming out Monday to assess the damage.
Went up town at three to check mail, drop off Cody photographs to Bill Welch, make a bank deposit, check the mail. Buddy Boze Hatkiller rode along. Not sure if that was a good idea, but he pretty much behaved. He did pass some gas on the way home that made me wish he had stayed home. It's funny, males, and even male dogs give you that, "Hey, it wasn't me!" look. Must be a chromosone deal.
I knew Emma Bull would come through on the Bisbee movie being filmed down there. Here's her commentary:
"It's called Desolation, you silly git.Yesterday they were shooting on Subway Street, behind the old Woolworth building. The fading paint on the business signs and the old stained brick wall wasn't good enough for 'em—they dressed the set with old wooden pallets, ratty cardboard boxes, miscellaneous discarded junk, more dented galvanized metal trash cans than can be found in all of Bisbee--and three imported tumbleweeds. I have no idea where they
brought those in from.
“It was a hoot, and reminded me of the magic of movies. The process itself is like watching paint dry, everyone involved is worked like a slave and subject to verbal abuse from whoever's above them in the pecking order, projects that start off promising are usually compromised into the ground before they're finished... And yet, there was a back street in a near-abandoned mining town in Nevada, on the back side of a building that houses one of the best and fanciest restaurants in Arizona and not ten yards from one of the most beautiful houses in Bisbee.
"Moviemaking is like Fairyland--it'll kill you if you try to live there, but visiting is like nothing else on earth."
And here’s some astute commentary from one who knows on the recent flap over the banquet speaker, etc. at the recent WHA conference in Vegas: "The Mountain Man toast and the Green River knife ceremony are . . . toast. The banquet speaker is a thing of the past. The buffs have been shown the door. High Seriousness reigns. We will in the future not meet in any Western state not colored ‘blue’ on the electoral map, since while Nevada may be unionized, it's a bit too titty for some, leaving only California to host future meetings. C'est fini, I said, using the language of America's favorite ally."
"The truth will set you free.
But before it does, it will make you angry."
—Jerry Joiner
Friday, November 12, 2004
November 12, 2004
Looks like we'll get more rain tonight. Quite wet out, the air that is (5:27 P.M.). Worked all morning on Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce copy. Shamie, from Ireland, and the foremost card expert I know (his cards have been featured in numerous Westerns, including Deadwood) came in to visit Mike Melrose and I took the opportunity to ask him how Mr. Deuce got his name. Later, he phoned me with this answer: "Because of his habit of betting heavily when he held no more than a deuce as a hole-card, he earned his everlasting pseudonym Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce." Makes sense, eh?
Got a call from Grant of Optimo Hats down in Bisbee and he told me all about a Steven King novel, or story they are filming down there. Evidently, they"re using sepia toned 16 mm film and making it stutter to give the flashback sequences an oldtime effect. I swore I"d remember the name of the movie but I've already forgotten it. I'm not worried, Emma will tell me.
Minnesota Mike and I went up to Carefree at lunch time to see Brian Label's and Bill Welch's new store Cowboy Legacy Gallery. Wow! It really has some cool stuff. Saddles, big artwork by the likes of John Moyers (Cowboy Artist), Donna Sickle Howells and oldtime Western posters (at $4,500 a pop!), spurs, guns, sculpture, and some pretty cool old photos including a series of Buffalo Bill crossing with a Mormon wagon train at Lee's Ferry. Begged Bill to allow us to scan them for a future True West article and he brought them down and Robert scanned them. One of them has a great 1950s style cowpunchers style hat, and this is in 1890 (I want it for my "Confessions of a hat Nazi" piece next summer).
Did a portrait of Buckskin Frank Leslie in full scout regalia for my new book, then whipped out a pretty neat little image of a rifle toting Frank McLaury. Not bad. Copped it from a Jeremy Rowe photograph, or I should say, one from his stunning collection.
Had lunch at the Bad Donkey (A cob snob salad and an iced tea, $10.80 cash, I thought Melrose would buy but he's so damned cheap).
Kathy seemed quite nice this morning, and I guess I should count my blessings. And one of my blessings is I'm thankful she doesn't read this blog.
"If a man says something in the woods and there are no women there, is he still wrong?"
—Old Guy Saying
Looks like we'll get more rain tonight. Quite wet out, the air that is (5:27 P.M.). Worked all morning on Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce copy. Shamie, from Ireland, and the foremost card expert I know (his cards have been featured in numerous Westerns, including Deadwood) came in to visit Mike Melrose and I took the opportunity to ask him how Mr. Deuce got his name. Later, he phoned me with this answer: "Because of his habit of betting heavily when he held no more than a deuce as a hole-card, he earned his everlasting pseudonym Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce." Makes sense, eh?
Got a call from Grant of Optimo Hats down in Bisbee and he told me all about a Steven King novel, or story they are filming down there. Evidently, they"re using sepia toned 16 mm film and making it stutter to give the flashback sequences an oldtime effect. I swore I"d remember the name of the movie but I've already forgotten it. I'm not worried, Emma will tell me.
Minnesota Mike and I went up to Carefree at lunch time to see Brian Label's and Bill Welch's new store Cowboy Legacy Gallery. Wow! It really has some cool stuff. Saddles, big artwork by the likes of John Moyers (Cowboy Artist), Donna Sickle Howells and oldtime Western posters (at $4,500 a pop!), spurs, guns, sculpture, and some pretty cool old photos including a series of Buffalo Bill crossing with a Mormon wagon train at Lee's Ferry. Begged Bill to allow us to scan them for a future True West article and he brought them down and Robert scanned them. One of them has a great 1950s style cowpunchers style hat, and this is in 1890 (I want it for my "Confessions of a hat Nazi" piece next summer).
Did a portrait of Buckskin Frank Leslie in full scout regalia for my new book, then whipped out a pretty neat little image of a rifle toting Frank McLaury. Not bad. Copped it from a Jeremy Rowe photograph, or I should say, one from his stunning collection.
Had lunch at the Bad Donkey (A cob snob salad and an iced tea, $10.80 cash, I thought Melrose would buy but he's so damned cheap).
Kathy seemed quite nice this morning, and I guess I should count my blessings. And one of my blessings is I'm thankful she doesn't read this blog.
"If a man says something in the woods and there are no women there, is he still wrong?"
—Old Guy Saying
Thursday, November 11, 2004
November 11, 2004
Slept in until 7:15, got up and had coffee. Got into it with Kathy about whether the Tombstone tv project is off purpose. I tried to assure her it all will dovetail together, with the tv show complementing the magazine but her analogy was, "That's like me going to the gym and hoping it will help my business." And my answer to that was, "That's a dumb comparison. I'm not doing the pilot for exercise." And, of course it went south from there. Escaped the house at 8:10 and got into work where I have a tad more respect.
Worked all morning on finishing Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce copy, Gus put it in magazine template. Need some good art for Mr. Deuce. There is no known photo, but here's his description from a reporter for the Tucson Citizen, c. 1881: "rather under the average size, has a fair face, slight black mustache and well-marked eyebrows, blue eyes and black hair and seemed quiet and self-possessed." I think I know this guy. Now to capture him.
Went home for lunch and had leftover salmon and pasta and an apple. Took the dogs for a walk to the creek and at the edge of the creek bank they started barking and pointing. I thought it might be javalina or, worse, a real estate agent, but no, it was a surveyor with one of those modern, tall transit poles with a GPS satellite mini-dish on top. He claimed to be doing a river bottom survey for flood control. Half believed him and went back up to the house.
Got back in the office around 1:30 and whipped out two scratchboards of Tom Waters, the plaid shirt corpse. Took good reference photos in Tombstone (so there, Kathy!) and got some good barroom effects, lighting, etc. Finished around 4:20.
Talked on the phone yesterday to Dale Evan's former agent, Dick Baxter. He ordered several copies of the new issue with Dale's shapely image on the cover. Dick said he got tears in his eyes when he saw it. He told me Dale's last words to him were, “Now don’t you forget me now. You’re like my little brother." He choked up just telling me. Roy and Dale were quite a couple, weren't they?
RG just came in (4:55) and handed me a two-page memo on the pros and cons of doing a tv show and a True Wesrt Production Company. He said he did it for Kathy. That was nice. I guess I'll cancel the divorce proceedings.
"The perfect age is somewhere between old enough to know better and too young to care."
—Old Vaquero Saying
Slept in until 7:15, got up and had coffee. Got into it with Kathy about whether the Tombstone tv project is off purpose. I tried to assure her it all will dovetail together, with the tv show complementing the magazine but her analogy was, "That's like me going to the gym and hoping it will help my business." And my answer to that was, "That's a dumb comparison. I'm not doing the pilot for exercise." And, of course it went south from there. Escaped the house at 8:10 and got into work where I have a tad more respect.
Worked all morning on finishing Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce copy, Gus put it in magazine template. Need some good art for Mr. Deuce. There is no known photo, but here's his description from a reporter for the Tucson Citizen, c. 1881: "rather under the average size, has a fair face, slight black mustache and well-marked eyebrows, blue eyes and black hair and seemed quiet and self-possessed." I think I know this guy. Now to capture him.
Went home for lunch and had leftover salmon and pasta and an apple. Took the dogs for a walk to the creek and at the edge of the creek bank they started barking and pointing. I thought it might be javalina or, worse, a real estate agent, but no, it was a surveyor with one of those modern, tall transit poles with a GPS satellite mini-dish on top. He claimed to be doing a river bottom survey for flood control. Half believed him and went back up to the house.
Got back in the office around 1:30 and whipped out two scratchboards of Tom Waters, the plaid shirt corpse. Took good reference photos in Tombstone (so there, Kathy!) and got some good barroom effects, lighting, etc. Finished around 4:20.
Talked on the phone yesterday to Dale Evan's former agent, Dick Baxter. He ordered several copies of the new issue with Dale's shapely image on the cover. Dick said he got tears in his eyes when he saw it. He told me Dale's last words to him were, “Now don’t you forget me now. You’re like my little brother." He choked up just telling me. Roy and Dale were quite a couple, weren't they?
RG just came in (4:55) and handed me a two-page memo on the pros and cons of doing a tv show and a True Wesrt Production Company. He said he did it for Kathy. That was nice. I guess I'll cancel the divorce proceedings.
"The perfect age is somewhere between old enough to know better and too young to care."
—Old Vaquero Saying
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
November 10, 2002
The Tombstone tape is mighty fine. In fact, the money shot, Ike Clanton letting fly with both barrels at Virgil Earp, shot on the exact spot where it happened is just too cool for school. I've Emailed our web guru, Jason, to see if he can load the sequence onto the site here so you can see it. He's out of town and it may take several days, but you need to see this. I've watched it multiple times and each and every time I let out a whoop. It is so believable.
Of course, it's not all perfect. Some of the other stuff is so-so (the two-story adobe Huachuca Water Co. building under construction is obviously cinderblock and although we went out of our way to disguise it, it's still glaring and fooled no one on the staff who viewed the tape this morning), but all in all, it is a winner. The sawing of Virgil Earp's arm is outrageous and several were fooled by the doggy bone. Amazing. Mike P. stayed up last night tweaking the editing until midnite and I can't wait to see it fine tuned.
Worked on two black and blue plaid shirt killing scratchboards and wrote up a proposal for the show. Had an executive session with RG, Bob Brink and Carole at 1:30. We are working on several big projects and we talked quite a bit about the pros and cons. More later.
Well, I spoke too soon on the success of last weekend’s Wild West Days. A horseman was killed on Saturday afternoon at the event. In fact, as I drove up town on Saturday to get film I passed the accident site unaware of what had just happened. I heard the sirens, and a firetruck passed us going on the shoulder but I never made the connection. I assumed it was some horse accident but didn't dream it was of the deadly kind.
Evidently a horse participating in a poker run got spooked by a hayride wagon and backed into cholla cactus, then, no doubt in extreme pain, galloped across Cave Creek Road, in traffic, and dumped the rider, who landed on his head in the Horny Toad's parking lot, which is about fifty yards east of our offices. A bystander who witnessed the wreck, ran over to help and noticed the rider was "unconscious, with blood coming out of his ears." He was 63 and, according to the Republic, an accomplished rider.
Of course, now critics are slamming the event as being poorly run and too dangerous. I feel so bad for the family and the community. Everyone worked so hard to make it a success. All that work and now this.
"Death is never at a loss for an occasion."
—Old Vaquero Saying
The Tombstone tape is mighty fine. In fact, the money shot, Ike Clanton letting fly with both barrels at Virgil Earp, shot on the exact spot where it happened is just too cool for school. I've Emailed our web guru, Jason, to see if he can load the sequence onto the site here so you can see it. He's out of town and it may take several days, but you need to see this. I've watched it multiple times and each and every time I let out a whoop. It is so believable.
Of course, it's not all perfect. Some of the other stuff is so-so (the two-story adobe Huachuca Water Co. building under construction is obviously cinderblock and although we went out of our way to disguise it, it's still glaring and fooled no one on the staff who viewed the tape this morning), but all in all, it is a winner. The sawing of Virgil Earp's arm is outrageous and several were fooled by the doggy bone. Amazing. Mike P. stayed up last night tweaking the editing until midnite and I can't wait to see it fine tuned.
Worked on two black and blue plaid shirt killing scratchboards and wrote up a proposal for the show. Had an executive session with RG, Bob Brink and Carole at 1:30. We are working on several big projects and we talked quite a bit about the pros and cons. More later.
Well, I spoke too soon on the success of last weekend’s Wild West Days. A horseman was killed on Saturday afternoon at the event. In fact, as I drove up town on Saturday to get film I passed the accident site unaware of what had just happened. I heard the sirens, and a firetruck passed us going on the shoulder but I never made the connection. I assumed it was some horse accident but didn't dream it was of the deadly kind.
Evidently a horse participating in a poker run got spooked by a hayride wagon and backed into cholla cactus, then, no doubt in extreme pain, galloped across Cave Creek Road, in traffic, and dumped the rider, who landed on his head in the Horny Toad's parking lot, which is about fifty yards east of our offices. A bystander who witnessed the wreck, ran over to help and noticed the rider was "unconscious, with blood coming out of his ears." He was 63 and, according to the Republic, an accomplished rider.
Of course, now critics are slamming the event as being poorly run and too dangerous. I feel so bad for the family and the community. Everyone worked so hard to make it a success. All that work and now this.
"Death is never at a loss for an occasion."
—Old Vaquero Saying
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
November 9, 2002
Worked hard today on five scratchboards. One on John Wayne. One on Monet. One on a back shooter. One on Kevin Costner as Wyatt Earp and one on a posse in full gallop. I really like the Monet. He looks like he belongs in Tombstone and in fact, he may end up there in my new book.
Carole and I went to lunch at Pai Wei. Had the hot and spicy soup and an iced tea. Carole had the vegi combo (I bought, $14 cash). Good talk about our kids, both at home and at the office.
Worked until 5:30, heading over to Mike Pellegatti's to look at the Tombstone footage. Got a call from Sir John in Tombstone this morning. Someone told him the footage we shot last Wednesday would be on tv tonight. "We're fast, but we don’t work quite that fast," I told him.
"If you get mad at critics, you almost always can be sure they are right."
—Stephen King
Worked hard today on five scratchboards. One on John Wayne. One on Monet. One on a back shooter. One on Kevin Costner as Wyatt Earp and one on a posse in full gallop. I really like the Monet. He looks like he belongs in Tombstone and in fact, he may end up there in my new book.
Carole and I went to lunch at Pai Wei. Had the hot and spicy soup and an iced tea. Carole had the vegi combo (I bought, $14 cash). Good talk about our kids, both at home and at the office.
Worked until 5:30, heading over to Mike Pellegatti's to look at the Tombstone footage. Got a call from Sir John in Tombstone this morning. Someone told him the footage we shot last Wednesday would be on tv tonight. "We're fast, but we don’t work quite that fast," I told him.
"If you get mad at critics, you almost always can be sure they are right."
—Stephen King
Monday, November 08, 2004
November 8, 2002
Woke up to more rain. Our January issue goes out the door today. Lots of last minute changes and angst over missed deadlines. Going to Tombstone last Wednesday didn't help.
Whipped out a John Wayne scratchboard, but he looks too goofy (bloated, puffy eyes, half-crocked, wait! Maybe it's dead on!).
Set up all of the re-enactors from the Vigilantes of Tombstone with free subscriptions. It's the least we can do. There were about twenty of them. They did great work. We're also running a photo of them in front of the Oriental in the January issue.
By now I'm sure you've heard of the Clay Aiken diet put forth by Larry the Cable Guy? "That's where you pop in a Clay Aiken CD and try to keep food down."
Went home for lunch and had a pastrami sando and an apple. Heated up some tea, sat out in the studio and studied three paintings, each about half done. In spite of all this I kept the food down.
Worked until six, headed home.
"The primary function of the government is—and here I am quoting directly from the U.S. Constitution—'to spew out paper.'"
—Dave Barry
Woke up to more rain. Our January issue goes out the door today. Lots of last minute changes and angst over missed deadlines. Going to Tombstone last Wednesday didn't help.
Whipped out a John Wayne scratchboard, but he looks too goofy (bloated, puffy eyes, half-crocked, wait! Maybe it's dead on!).
Set up all of the re-enactors from the Vigilantes of Tombstone with free subscriptions. It's the least we can do. There were about twenty of them. They did great work. We're also running a photo of them in front of the Oriental in the January issue.
By now I'm sure you've heard of the Clay Aiken diet put forth by Larry the Cable Guy? "That's where you pop in a Clay Aiken CD and try to keep food down."
Went home for lunch and had a pastrami sando and an apple. Heated up some tea, sat out in the studio and studied three paintings, each about half done. In spite of all this I kept the food down.
Worked until six, headed home.
"The primary function of the government is—and here I am quoting directly from the U.S. Constitution—'to spew out paper.'"
—Dave Barry
Sunday, November 07, 2004
November 7, 2004
Woke up to light rain. Always a nice way to start a Sunday. Drank coffee and read the paper. Much about the Democrats and their malaise, or their disbelief. Great quote from Sam Rayburn, used in association with the election results of 2000 and now 2004: "There's no education in the second kick of a mule."
Got a new poll up: Have you ever taken a scenic train trip in the American West? Yes/No. Vote here.
On Friday I had lunch with Michael Wallis, the so-called King of Route 66. His book on the Mother Road has sold close to a million copies. He's since written a book on Pretty Boy Floyd and now he's turning his attention to Billy the Kid. He came with his son John and we ate at El Encanto and talked about all things Billy. Michael lives in Tulsa, flew in and his son is driving him on a big tour of Arizona Billy sites, including Globe, Clifton, Bonita, etc. Almost the same exact route we'll be taking on our Maniac tour next April.
I took the opportunity to ask him about the unstoppable, mythic attraction of all things Route 66. It's kind of hard for me to understand since I grew up on the damn thing and don't quite get how and why it has transcended almost everything in the culture. When I was in Tombstone last week they had Route 66 shirts for sale on Allen Street. When we were in Heathrow Airport in London last December they had a Route 66 diner in the terminal.
Michael summed it up like this: "It's the allure of the open road." Wow! so simple and yet so true. See, I remember the poodle skirts and the '57 Chevys and the Sno-Cap Drive-in, but I also remember the tragic wrecks (one section of 66 east of Kingman was known as "Death Alley") and the petty, conniving, cheap tourists and the Okies with no money and the blacks pulling in on the outside drive and asking me where they could stay and I said, "Anywhere you want to," and the black man said, "Is your father here?" and I went and got him and he told the guy that his family could stay at a little motel next to the Coronado Courts. And this was in 1964!
Anyway, Michael also told me that if you think the Route 66 phenom is big now wait until next year when Pixar releases Cars, a movie about Route 66 and a ficticious bypassed town called Radiator Springs. A NASCAR car (voiced by Owen Wilson) gets pulled over by a '49 Merc cop car (voiced by Michael Wallis—he has great pipes) and Wilson's car is taken to the local judge car (voiced by Paul Newman), and on and on. If their other movies, Toy Story, Monstors, Inc., Finding Nemo, including the Incredibles, which opened Friday, is any indication, Cars is probably going to be huge. Michael told me Pixar contacted him about being a consultant when the project was first dreamed up and they rented a fleet of Cadillacs and travelled 66 with him showing them all the legendary mileposts, etc.
I guess Charlie Waters and I need to get hopping on our Route 66 epic, The Exits. Or, maybe we should just chill, and wait.
"All things come to him who waits, especially things not worth waiting for."
—Old Vaquero Sayingg
Woke up to light rain. Always a nice way to start a Sunday. Drank coffee and read the paper. Much about the Democrats and their malaise, or their disbelief. Great quote from Sam Rayburn, used in association with the election results of 2000 and now 2004: "There's no education in the second kick of a mule."
Got a new poll up: Have you ever taken a scenic train trip in the American West? Yes/No. Vote here.
On Friday I had lunch with Michael Wallis, the so-called King of Route 66. His book on the Mother Road has sold close to a million copies. He's since written a book on Pretty Boy Floyd and now he's turning his attention to Billy the Kid. He came with his son John and we ate at El Encanto and talked about all things Billy. Michael lives in Tulsa, flew in and his son is driving him on a big tour of Arizona Billy sites, including Globe, Clifton, Bonita, etc. Almost the same exact route we'll be taking on our Maniac tour next April.
I took the opportunity to ask him about the unstoppable, mythic attraction of all things Route 66. It's kind of hard for me to understand since I grew up on the damn thing and don't quite get how and why it has transcended almost everything in the culture. When I was in Tombstone last week they had Route 66 shirts for sale on Allen Street. When we were in Heathrow Airport in London last December they had a Route 66 diner in the terminal.
Michael summed it up like this: "It's the allure of the open road." Wow! so simple and yet so true. See, I remember the poodle skirts and the '57 Chevys and the Sno-Cap Drive-in, but I also remember the tragic wrecks (one section of 66 east of Kingman was known as "Death Alley") and the petty, conniving, cheap tourists and the Okies with no money and the blacks pulling in on the outside drive and asking me where they could stay and I said, "Anywhere you want to," and the black man said, "Is your father here?" and I went and got him and he told the guy that his family could stay at a little motel next to the Coronado Courts. And this was in 1964!
Anyway, Michael also told me that if you think the Route 66 phenom is big now wait until next year when Pixar releases Cars, a movie about Route 66 and a ficticious bypassed town called Radiator Springs. A NASCAR car (voiced by Owen Wilson) gets pulled over by a '49 Merc cop car (voiced by Michael Wallis—he has great pipes) and Wilson's car is taken to the local judge car (voiced by Paul Newman), and on and on. If their other movies, Toy Story, Monstors, Inc., Finding Nemo, including the Incredibles, which opened Friday, is any indication, Cars is probably going to be huge. Michael told me Pixar contacted him about being a consultant when the project was first dreamed up and they rented a fleet of Cadillacs and travelled 66 with him showing them all the legendary mileposts, etc.
I guess Charlie Waters and I need to get hopping on our Route 66 epic, The Exits. Or, maybe we should just chill, and wait.
"All things come to him who waits, especially things not worth waiting for."
—Old Vaquero Sayingg
Saturday, November 06, 2004
November 6, 2004
It's Wild West Weekend in Cave Creek and we've got the crowds. Horses everywhere. The Merchant's Association has a winner.
I was in the Territorial Bookstore in Tombstone on Wednesday talking to Doc Ingalls (he's the guy who coined the phrase Wild West Ghetto) and a couple came in and pointed at my book knowingly. When I casually asked them why they said they were True West subscribers from Virginia City, Nevada. I shook hands with Mike and Joy McDonough and we had a good laugh. Mike said he is thinking about joining the Maniac Club and I told him he'd better get a move on because we are at 940 and counting. I started to leave and his wife asked me if I’d sign a hardbound Classic Gunfights and as he pulled one down from the shelf I said as diplomatically as I could, "I need to tell you that you get a free Classic Gunfights if you join the True West Maniac Club," and Doc gives me a dirty look as the guy considers putting it back. "Great Bob," Doc snarls, "we're trying to make a living here, you know." I told the guy to buy the book and he did.
The Moral: When in Tombstone do as the Ghetto Boys do.
Got up this morning and went for a bike ride in my slippers (hmmmmm, ex-DJ, red shorts. . ), came back, took the dogs to the creek. A guy came in last week with a map of the upper Verde, drawn by the military and commissioned by a Lt. C.C. Cooke, I think his name was, and the guy told me he has a carved inscription by Cooke up on his property near Seven Springs and it's dated 1868, or so. He told me Cooke also signed his name in the CC Cave, supposedly in the ceiling. So when I walked over there this morning I took a good look, but couldn't find it. The earliest inscription I have found, besides the sinagua pictographs, is 1903, or so.
Bailed into drawings and did six Old West sketches, then bailed into a gunfight image of Luke Short out front of the Oriental. Then took a stab at two big night scenes of Tombstone's deadliest intersection. Got about half done. Did a big gouache of Tom Waters looking belligerent in his black and blue plaid shirt. Very good undertone. Excellent smokey barroom effects. Can't wait to ruin it tomorrow.
At 2:30 went up to Foothills Photo and got the prints from our nighttime shoot in Tombstone. Really struck out. Most everything is badly underexposed ($27 something, biz account). Win some, lose some. Mike P. said he'd pop off some stills of the video and I'm counting on that for some good effects.
Yes, Emma, we shot the horses reined up at the hitching post but it looks a tad phony. The intro is good, but the shooter had the Cowboys cheat and pull their horses off the rail and it looks, well, it looks phony. We may try it again, but the problem is the Cowboys don't want their horses running with loose reins because they're concerned their cayuses will step on them and get hurt, or break the reins, so they weren't real thrilled to actually let the horses "do their thing." This is funny, because one of the cowboys, (his initials are D.D.) was kicked out of Tombstone a few weeks ago because two of his horses pulled out a light pole. Now I wish I had video of that!
"The truth may not be helpful but the concealment of it cannot be."
—Melvin Konner˜
It's Wild West Weekend in Cave Creek and we've got the crowds. Horses everywhere. The Merchant's Association has a winner.
I was in the Territorial Bookstore in Tombstone on Wednesday talking to Doc Ingalls (he's the guy who coined the phrase Wild West Ghetto) and a couple came in and pointed at my book knowingly. When I casually asked them why they said they were True West subscribers from Virginia City, Nevada. I shook hands with Mike and Joy McDonough and we had a good laugh. Mike said he is thinking about joining the Maniac Club and I told him he'd better get a move on because we are at 940 and counting. I started to leave and his wife asked me if I’d sign a hardbound Classic Gunfights and as he pulled one down from the shelf I said as diplomatically as I could, "I need to tell you that you get a free Classic Gunfights if you join the True West Maniac Club," and Doc gives me a dirty look as the guy considers putting it back. "Great Bob," Doc snarls, "we're trying to make a living here, you know." I told the guy to buy the book and he did.
The Moral: When in Tombstone do as the Ghetto Boys do.
Got up this morning and went for a bike ride in my slippers (hmmmmm, ex-DJ, red shorts. . ), came back, took the dogs to the creek. A guy came in last week with a map of the upper Verde, drawn by the military and commissioned by a Lt. C.C. Cooke, I think his name was, and the guy told me he has a carved inscription by Cooke up on his property near Seven Springs and it's dated 1868, or so. He told me Cooke also signed his name in the CC Cave, supposedly in the ceiling. So when I walked over there this morning I took a good look, but couldn't find it. The earliest inscription I have found, besides the sinagua pictographs, is 1903, or so.
Bailed into drawings and did six Old West sketches, then bailed into a gunfight image of Luke Short out front of the Oriental. Then took a stab at two big night scenes of Tombstone's deadliest intersection. Got about half done. Did a big gouache of Tom Waters looking belligerent in his black and blue plaid shirt. Very good undertone. Excellent smokey barroom effects. Can't wait to ruin it tomorrow.
At 2:30 went up to Foothills Photo and got the prints from our nighttime shoot in Tombstone. Really struck out. Most everything is badly underexposed ($27 something, biz account). Win some, lose some. Mike P. said he'd pop off some stills of the video and I'm counting on that for some good effects.
Yes, Emma, we shot the horses reined up at the hitching post but it looks a tad phony. The intro is good, but the shooter had the Cowboys cheat and pull their horses off the rail and it looks, well, it looks phony. We may try it again, but the problem is the Cowboys don't want their horses running with loose reins because they're concerned their cayuses will step on them and get hurt, or break the reins, so they weren't real thrilled to actually let the horses "do their thing." This is funny, because one of the cowboys, (his initials are D.D.) was kicked out of Tombstone a few weeks ago because two of his horses pulled out a light pole. Now I wish I had video of that!
"The truth may not be helpful but the concealment of it cannot be."
—Melvin Konner˜
Friday, November 05, 2004
November 5, 2004
Some highs and lows on our second trip down to the Land of the Wild West Ghetto. Paul Hutton flew over from Albuquerque on Tuesday and Minnesota Mike and I rode down to Tombstone with him on Wednesday morning. Lots of laughs both coming and going. Quite rude and crude, of course, and a running joke from Hutton went along the lines of, "That’s real tasteful, would you like to be the banquet speaker next year at WHA?" I’d tell you some of the specifics, but Paul still has one year left on his contract and I don’t want to give his enemies any more ammunition than they already think they have. I will say that on one occasion Paul launched off into a rant at his adversaries in which he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white, and we watched with some alarm as his venting grew into a rage as flying phlegm skittered across the interior, until he swerved across the median straight into oncoming traffic (not easy to do on a divided highway). Both Mike and I managed to guide him back into our lane until he calmed down. I imagine the scissor-hold Mike put on Hutton's neck helped to slow the blood to his brain enough so that we could get control of the car. Other than that, Paul was very calm for the entire trip.
Mike Pellegatti got to Tombstone first and began to take over the intersection of Fifth and Allen. He put lights up on top of the Oriental, he took down Stop signs (don't tell the sheriff) and he put dimmer switches on the pan lighting in front of the Crystal Palace Saloon. Our key grip (Melrose) helped him put trash bags over the numerous street lamps ("too much low sodium light").
At about nine in the evening we pulled out the double-barrelled shotguns and went to work, firing off four or five rounds, simulating the shooting of Virgil Earp on December 28, 1881. After each one we expected to hear sirens, but the law never showed.
We quickly "struck the set" and headed for the Buford House B&B where our hosts Richard and Ruth put plastic on a Victorian bed and we poured blood and customized chicken parts and dog bones on Kent Cooksley to simulate Virgil Earp's elbow wound. Jerry from Curly Bill's B&B did a masterful portrayal of Doc Goodfellow and we even sawed the elbow bone in half (actually the dog bone) and everyone went, "Eeeeuuuuuuuuu," and we wrapped at about midnite.
Started drinking beer and fell into bed around one. Got up at 6:30 and immediately began watching Tombstone over breakfast (don't try this at home kids). Took off at 8:30 and got gas in Benson and headed up the Ten to Cave Creek. Got here at 12:30. Paul and I met Bob Brink and RG at Tonto for lunch. Had a good discussion on the footage we shot and how we can utilize it (the Outdoor channel only wants to shoot in high def).
"Sure I felt stupid, but I was also mighty relieved when my doctor told me the burning sensation I was experiencing while urinating was due to standing too close to the campfire."
—Jack Handy
Some highs and lows on our second trip down to the Land of the Wild West Ghetto. Paul Hutton flew over from Albuquerque on Tuesday and Minnesota Mike and I rode down to Tombstone with him on Wednesday morning. Lots of laughs both coming and going. Quite rude and crude, of course, and a running joke from Hutton went along the lines of, "That’s real tasteful, would you like to be the banquet speaker next year at WHA?" I’d tell you some of the specifics, but Paul still has one year left on his contract and I don’t want to give his enemies any more ammunition than they already think they have. I will say that on one occasion Paul launched off into a rant at his adversaries in which he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white, and we watched with some alarm as his venting grew into a rage as flying phlegm skittered across the interior, until he swerved across the median straight into oncoming traffic (not easy to do on a divided highway). Both Mike and I managed to guide him back into our lane until he calmed down. I imagine the scissor-hold Mike put on Hutton's neck helped to slow the blood to his brain enough so that we could get control of the car. Other than that, Paul was very calm for the entire trip.
Mike Pellegatti got to Tombstone first and began to take over the intersection of Fifth and Allen. He put lights up on top of the Oriental, he took down Stop signs (don't tell the sheriff) and he put dimmer switches on the pan lighting in front of the Crystal Palace Saloon. Our key grip (Melrose) helped him put trash bags over the numerous street lamps ("too much low sodium light").
At about nine in the evening we pulled out the double-barrelled shotguns and went to work, firing off four or five rounds, simulating the shooting of Virgil Earp on December 28, 1881. After each one we expected to hear sirens, but the law never showed.
We quickly "struck the set" and headed for the Buford House B&B where our hosts Richard and Ruth put plastic on a Victorian bed and we poured blood and customized chicken parts and dog bones on Kent Cooksley to simulate Virgil Earp's elbow wound. Jerry from Curly Bill's B&B did a masterful portrayal of Doc Goodfellow and we even sawed the elbow bone in half (actually the dog bone) and everyone went, "Eeeeuuuuuuuuu," and we wrapped at about midnite.
Started drinking beer and fell into bed around one. Got up at 6:30 and immediately began watching Tombstone over breakfast (don't try this at home kids). Took off at 8:30 and got gas in Benson and headed up the Ten to Cave Creek. Got here at 12:30. Paul and I met Bob Brink and RG at Tonto for lunch. Had a good discussion on the footage we shot and how we can utilize it (the Outdoor channel only wants to shoot in high def).
"Sure I felt stupid, but I was also mighty relieved when my doctor told me the burning sensation I was experiencing while urinating was due to standing too close to the campfire."
—Jack Handy
Thursday, November 04, 2004
November 4, 2004
Went down to Tombstone yesterday and we filmed until midnite last night. Big scenes in dark, utilizing chicken parts, a dog bone and a doctor's saw. Stayed at Curly Bill’s B&B. Paul Hutton and Minnesota Mike (as a key grip) joined us. Got home this afternoon. Had a bunch to do to catch up. Totally fried. I’ll write more tomorrow.
"You call this a script? Give me a couple of $5,000 dollar-a-week writers and I'll write it myself."
—Joe Pasternak, movie producer
Went down to Tombstone yesterday and we filmed until midnite last night. Big scenes in dark, utilizing chicken parts, a dog bone and a doctor's saw. Stayed at Curly Bill’s B&B. Paul Hutton and Minnesota Mike (as a key grip) joined us. Got home this afternoon. Had a bunch to do to catch up. Totally fried. I’ll write more tomorrow.
"You call this a script? Give me a couple of $5,000 dollar-a-week writers and I'll write it myself."
—Joe Pasternak, movie producer
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
November 2, 2004
An old man came up to us in line and said, “I remember when people didn’t
vote!” We were about halfway across the parking lot from our Cave Creek
polling booths, and we laughed. The long lines to vote were incredible all day.
Kathy called me at 6:15 a.m. on her cell and said the wait was already over an
hour. I thought to myself, “I’ll just wait for those fitness Nazis to shoot
their chads, and I’ll waltz in at later and breeze through.
Big mistake.
At about noon, I drove up to Carefree to pick up some film at Foothills
Photo and Tom Darlington was under construction so I detoured through the usually deserted downtown. It was packed, with cars. I looked around for festival signs, saw none and then saw the crowd in front of city hall. The town was full of voters! Wow! It looked like an Elton John ticket window line.
After a lunch at China Joy (spicy hot beef, hot tea, $6.25 plus 2$ tip, cash), I coasted down the hill to Cave Creek and cruised by city hall. Every empty open space on either side of the road was jammed with cars. Two sheriff’s deputies directed traffic. It also looked like a concert site (but with more of a Hall & Oates feel). I quickly checked out the line and saw it went out across the parking lot to about fifty yards, so I cruised by, went into Paul’s Barbershop and asked Bev if I could get a haircut. I was going to let the line go down a bit, then walk over and vote. Bev caught me up on all the Cave Creek gossip (a former radio host rides a girls bike by her house every morning in fluffy slippers and red shorts, and a former mayor is being a doo doo head).
At two I walked over to city hall, only now the line was twice as long as it was when I drove by a mere half hour ago. I waded in and the wait began.
It’s funny how much of life you can catch in a slow moving line. A self-described unemployed woman behind me said to the guy behind her, “Did you know Theresa Heinz Kerry gets all of her catsup from overseas and not one American farmer gets a penny?” I wanted to turn to her and say, “Let me guess, you listen to AM talk radio.” But I didn’t.
After an hour and a half and maybe a 50 yard gain, a woman in front of me pulled out her cell, dialed a number and said, “You were right. I should have voted absentee.”
The smokers got out of line and blew their smoke towards the Territorial Bar & Grill across the street, where they had erected a homemade plywood sign that said, “Electoral Special: hot dog and soda $3.” It was a clever, capitalist pig idea but I never saw any takers. And I had a lot of time to monitor their business activity.
By hour two we got up to the handicap parking space (still about 75 yards
from the door), and a voting volunteer came up to the car with a ballot, handed it to an old woman in the front seat and turned away so she could vote in private. Several cowboys behind me taunted the volunteer: “Hey, I’m handicapped too, give me a ballot.”
The woman smiled and said, “We’re not talking about your golf game.” It was clever but I imagine it was a line she had perfected all day.
As the line inched along, we learned more about each other: “So then during my second marriage, I moved from Tucson and had a couple kids.”
Finally, three and a half hours later, I voted. I had lost a half day’s work, but one scene stayed with me as I drove home in the dark. A barmaid from the Satisfied Frog got out of line when she saw someone she knew coming across the parking lot. The guy, who had on a suit and tie was heading for the end of the line, which by that time, was stretching around three sides of the long parking lot. “Hey, why are you here?” she yelled at him. “We’re just going to cancel out each other’s vote.” They walked up close and said something we couldn’t hear. And they hugged. I couldn’t imagine that scene taking place in Baghdad.
”Vote for the man who promises least—he’ll be the least disappointing.”
—Bernard Baruch
An old man came up to us in line and said, “I remember when people didn’t
vote!” We were about halfway across the parking lot from our Cave Creek
polling booths, and we laughed. The long lines to vote were incredible all day.
Kathy called me at 6:15 a.m. on her cell and said the wait was already over an
hour. I thought to myself, “I’ll just wait for those fitness Nazis to shoot
their chads, and I’ll waltz in at later and breeze through.
Big mistake.
At about noon, I drove up to Carefree to pick up some film at Foothills
Photo and Tom Darlington was under construction so I detoured through the usually deserted downtown. It was packed, with cars. I looked around for festival signs, saw none and then saw the crowd in front of city hall. The town was full of voters! Wow! It looked like an Elton John ticket window line.
After a lunch at China Joy (spicy hot beef, hot tea, $6.25 plus 2$ tip, cash), I coasted down the hill to Cave Creek and cruised by city hall. Every empty open space on either side of the road was jammed with cars. Two sheriff’s deputies directed traffic. It also looked like a concert site (but with more of a Hall & Oates feel). I quickly checked out the line and saw it went out across the parking lot to about fifty yards, so I cruised by, went into Paul’s Barbershop and asked Bev if I could get a haircut. I was going to let the line go down a bit, then walk over and vote. Bev caught me up on all the Cave Creek gossip (a former radio host rides a girls bike by her house every morning in fluffy slippers and red shorts, and a former mayor is being a doo doo head).
At two I walked over to city hall, only now the line was twice as long as it was when I drove by a mere half hour ago. I waded in and the wait began.
It’s funny how much of life you can catch in a slow moving line. A self-described unemployed woman behind me said to the guy behind her, “Did you know Theresa Heinz Kerry gets all of her catsup from overseas and not one American farmer gets a penny?” I wanted to turn to her and say, “Let me guess, you listen to AM talk radio.” But I didn’t.
After an hour and a half and maybe a 50 yard gain, a woman in front of me pulled out her cell, dialed a number and said, “You were right. I should have voted absentee.”
The smokers got out of line and blew their smoke towards the Territorial Bar & Grill across the street, where they had erected a homemade plywood sign that said, “Electoral Special: hot dog and soda $3.” It was a clever, capitalist pig idea but I never saw any takers. And I had a lot of time to monitor their business activity.
By hour two we got up to the handicap parking space (still about 75 yards
from the door), and a voting volunteer came up to the car with a ballot, handed it to an old woman in the front seat and turned away so she could vote in private. Several cowboys behind me taunted the volunteer: “Hey, I’m handicapped too, give me a ballot.”
The woman smiled and said, “We’re not talking about your golf game.” It was clever but I imagine it was a line she had perfected all day.
As the line inched along, we learned more about each other: “So then during my second marriage, I moved from Tucson and had a couple kids.”
Finally, three and a half hours later, I voted. I had lost a half day’s work, but one scene stayed with me as I drove home in the dark. A barmaid from the Satisfied Frog got out of line when she saw someone she knew coming across the parking lot. The guy, who had on a suit and tie was heading for the end of the line, which by that time, was stretching around three sides of the long parking lot. “Hey, why are you here?” she yelled at him. “We’re just going to cancel out each other’s vote.” They walked up close and said something we couldn’t hear. And they hugged. I couldn’t imagine that scene taking place in Baghdad.
”Vote for the man who promises least—he’ll be the least disappointing.”
—Bernard Baruch
Monday, November 01, 2004
November 1, 2004
Went over to Brad and Carol Radina's last night for halloween trick or treating. Grandma Betty was a crack-up. She came as a "Gay Blade." Pink ruffled shirt, fedora, spangly shoes. She was so fine. Carol and 'Cedes had the vampire deal down cold and I do mean cold. Brad was a big, bad wolf. Kathy and I came as ski instructors (which was a really lame outfit, except it kept us warm). Brad and Carole set up a table in the carport so the kids don't have to knock on the door, they can just come up and get the goodies. Kind of cool. Saw a whole bunch of witches, dirt bike riders, Spidy men, but not one Martha Stewart. Kind of disappointing.
Speaking of disappointing, today I got one of those subscription cancellation Dear John letters that I hate to get. But this one was kind of funny. A Texan named Roy Clowers scribbled across his subscription form, "My sub has run out, that’s good! These mags are hard to burn." I had to laugh. He's upset about the new format ("old Hosstail would turn over in his grave."). I'm not upset with him, I consider him part of the family, so I wrote him a nice letter.
"When in doubt, have two guys come through the door with guns."
—Raymond Chandler
Went over to Brad and Carol Radina's last night for halloween trick or treating. Grandma Betty was a crack-up. She came as a "Gay Blade." Pink ruffled shirt, fedora, spangly shoes. She was so fine. Carol and 'Cedes had the vampire deal down cold and I do mean cold. Brad was a big, bad wolf. Kathy and I came as ski instructors (which was a really lame outfit, except it kept us warm). Brad and Carole set up a table in the carport so the kids don't have to knock on the door, they can just come up and get the goodies. Kind of cool. Saw a whole bunch of witches, dirt bike riders, Spidy men, but not one Martha Stewart. Kind of disappointing.
Speaking of disappointing, today I got one of those subscription cancellation Dear John letters that I hate to get. But this one was kind of funny. A Texan named Roy Clowers scribbled across his subscription form, "My sub has run out, that’s good! These mags are hard to burn." I had to laugh. He's upset about the new format ("old Hosstail would turn over in his grave."). I'm not upset with him, I consider him part of the family, so I wrote him a nice letter.
"When in doubt, have two guys come through the door with guns."
—Raymond Chandler
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