2 THE FROG                                           ........5

3 THE FLY                                              ........6

4 MARSHA                                             ........8

5 TAKAHASHI                                       ........9

6 SPRING                                               .......10

7 VIEWS                                                 .......11

8 FROM MY KITCHEN WINDOW      .......12

9 HER DELICATE DREAM                    .......13

10 HUMBOLDT STATE UNIVERSITY .......14

11 DATING-LINK                                 .......16

12 TORTOISE                                        .......18

13 RICK and KAY                                 .......19

14 MONEY                                            .......20

15 BIRDS                                               .......21

16 TIME                                                 .......22

17 WAITING AT THE BUS STOP BENCH .......23

18 TEA                                                  .......24

19 THIGER                                           .......25

20 KAMIKAZE                                    .......26

21 TRAVELER                                     .......27

22 SEIROGAN                                     .......28

23 THE DANCE                                  .......29

24 SUMMER                                       .......30

25 BEING READY                              .......31

26 SPEED                                            .......32

27 SPEED2: REVENGE                      .......34

28 PARADISE                                     ......36

29 MAY-MOON                                .......37

30 MID-MORN                                  .......38

33 SMOKING                           .......40

34 THE SPIDER                        .......41

35 SCREEN-WRITER              .......42

36 FOOT-LOOSER                  .......43

38 FOR RENT                          .......44

39 THE NAKED EYE               .......45

40 THE UP-SWING                 .......46

41 PISS                                     .......47

42 THE STAND-OFF               .......48

43 INDIA                                  .......49

44 CHRISTY                            .......50

45 CHRISTY BEFORE             .......51

46 CHRISTY - BUSTED          .......52

47 ROADS                               .......53

48 FATE                                   .......54

49 DOORS                               .......55

50 Easter cometh                       .......56

51 CARS                                  .......57

52 CARS AND YOUTH          .......58

53 END OF THE BOB SLED  .......59

54 FEATHER THE CAT          .......60

55 THE RIP-OFF                     .......61

56 KNAT                                . ......62

57 DEATH OF MY FATHER  .......63

58 ARTICHOKE                      .......64

59 ATHLETE                            .......65

60 THE DREAMER ALIGHTS .......66

61 DOCTORS                          .......67

62 ATOMIC FIRE BALL CONTEST .......68

63 THE BONANZA                 .......69

64 ECONOLINE                      .......70

65 BIRDSONG                         .......71

66 BURLINGAME                   .......72

I was just in the shower, mumbling to myself, when a young (inexperienced) long-leg spider attacked from the high corner. 

All pissed off about the wet. He'd had it.

I pulled him by his thread to the shampoo bottles, but he tried to rush me on the tub lip. I rebuffed him by tapping the wall. 

Instantaneous charges followed forced retreats.

Finally I loomed over him, allowing the full weight of my overbearing human form to sink in. 

- I got out with the towel. 

He's still commanding the shampoo, AND HE THINKS HE WON!

It was raining. A storm of many days poured, the first storm of the season. 

Raymond had definite philosophy. Held within definite perimeters, Raymond was all knowing.

By self proclamation, Raymond was King. Raymond held court.

King Raymond.

Raymond, with his changing entourage, was ensconced at my house; and like the rain, would be for the season.

This night Raymond would be tested.

During the day we were at the bank. Or maybe the store, or perhaps "over-the-hill." I can't remember. This all happened, -back then.

Twilight gave way to night. The rain came in sheets as the headlights flashed back and forth across the turning country road. 

We huddle in our cocoon, oblivious to the cow pastures passing us in the dark.

Leaping from the pavement, the splashing water is like little lightning bolts. Some are frogs. You know some are frogs because you can see them now and then. We gently careen to miss as many as possible.

What was his name? Forgotten. Anyway, in a creative perk, he pulls over and jumps from the car. His figure flashes in the headlamp's glare like the rain. Disappearing and returning in the light, he darts through the sheeting downpour.

He has grabbed one of those little jumping frogs. 

The little jumping frog turns out to have a body about 3" x 4". Long legs dangle. What girth!

Our large friend is attired in a "Camo" style skin pattern displaying huge red spots. He seems less enamored with us than we with him, being distinctly indifferent to this new scene thrust before him.

Lorraine pops him into a small paper bag, and we proceed down this back coastal highway to our town.

We bump up on "the Mesa", a plateau-like rise which provides most of the residential property for the area, and come before the house. This is the house of "King Raymond, the All Knowing." This is my house but now it's King Raymond's.

We three spring, hopscotch through the puddles to the door.

Our fresh spirit is not dampened by the enveloping warmth. Bright light and good cheer fill the home.

Raymond is in the bedroom, in good form and holding court.

The test of King Raymond flows without plan.

Lorraine holds the bag up before his majesty and begs, "Bet you can't guess what's in here!"

Without the slightest hesitation nor hint of care he returns, "A big red-spotted frog."

Raymond is King.

It was 10:40 in the morning when that bugger started cruising breakfast. He had a wondrous space for his runs. Pre-Victorian. Twenty foot ceilings. Lush green at play out the overly tall kitchen window.

Did he want our breakfast or the patches of sun igniting the table?

Great comfort promised to bribe my past annoyances when he landed in the sink. A flip of the tap ...and down he goes!

When retrieving the plates, I heard it. Over there, - in the sink. Was it a buzz?

Peering down, the dark grid sat empty at first. Then out of the brass poked his little head.

By the time I got my hand to the spigot, he was up on the drain flitting the water from his only hampered wing.

"Too late, buddy!"

Really blasted him. The little black dot flushed high up and around the large basin on a huge tidal. I had to wait while it drained.

There he went. Follow with huge blast. I watch it drain. He's GONE.

Back to the paper. Bright sun streaming on page three.

...What's that sound? A trumpeting from far off?

I stare forward; he's buzzing down in that tube.

Hot water this time. NO SYMPATHY! 

"GONE - SUCKER!"

With a feeling of great rectitude, I strode from the counter. The master of the castle. The righter of wrongs. And, to doting spousal approval, I have healed the morning solitude.

Page four. I read, - listening.

I glance over... she's staring across her coffee, - listening.

I start to re-read. -Woop! There he is.

We leap to the sink. With a half buzz, he pops over the brass lip.

Hot coffee. Hot water. Hot soup. Old spaghetti! - mashed down.

- We watch it drain

- We watch it drain.

It suddenly occurs to us a certain melancholy pervades. It's only natural after such battle. Still, he stood it like no other. What other fly could have survived even the first blast?

No other fly. - I feel kind'a bad.

She's up at the sink, looking down. The steam is settling on the window; the spider plant drips no more. 

I go to the sink with her, two mourners at the wake. 

The soap dish allows another drip. 

When that drop hits the porcelain, an odd ring catches the air...

Her pupils meet mine. "IT'S HIM!!!" 

Will he make it? He must be under the house, below the first story.

We wait, listening to the slow, faint echoes spiraling up the drain. What labors. It must be slimy in those pipes; how does he do it?

Will he do it? He must be utterly exhausted. - I'm utterly exhausted!

Suddenly it's closer. We look at each other, then at the drain. Squinting to see something move in the grid. Finally, he pokes up. With effort, he pulls onto the lip.

He's limp, exhausted. Totally soaked. - Looks like a dead fly.

Spouse looks disappointed. We're both sad.

How can this fly be dead? It just made it up the drain pipe from hell! It came through the worst punishment of the modern world.

It crawled up from the bowels of this building (I have a hard time with the stairs).

I run to the bathroom and grab a roll of tissue. Ripping little shards of paper, I wick his inundated body. He doesn't look good! I surgically daub our friend's privates. Half inch strips are soaked and tossed.

I rest him in a bed of tissue on the warm sill. I gently blow trying to dry him. You can't see his wings, they're still too wet laying up against his body. Is he alive?

I blow until his wings start to fluff.

He doesn't move.

We stop and look at him. He doesn't move. 

We get very close and look right at him. Motionless.

Then quietly, he picks his head up and flicks us a buzz.

About twenty minutes pass before, with appropriate fanfare and much adulation, we release him from the back porch.
 
  

Jim pointed her out. I hadn't noticed her before. Not in any "special way." Not like now.

She was small, dark skinned; a certain gold or red inference in her long, deep tawny brown hair. She had full lips and doe eyes.

She was beautiful.

A mysterious beauty.

She had an energy. She seemed to have one or two closer friends, but all the girls swirled about her.

All under her direction. And all happy to be so. Even the very most beautiful and most popular. All excited by her lead.

She was at the center. The controlling energy. Not at the top, strangely.

Somehow she seemed a loner. More actually, alone.

Alone by group acceptance. Love by common decree, no jealousy.

It had been several days since Jim's affections for her had been confessed, and nothing could interrupt the constant dance of her vision in my thoughts.

It was Wednesday morning. Ten O'clock.

I bolted from conversation and galloped in a wide arc through the thirty or so admiring females in joyous orchestration to the center. My hands slapping my trousers like holsters.

Skipping up, slappity-slap, I kissed her warm cheek; and galloped off.

        I was eight. 

        The void of the Five Elements, Earth, Water, Wind, Fire, Void.

        Void was the aether of the Greeks; and of Europe. It is the Black Hole. 
It is the pull of things not.

        The void was in the crevice of the swordsman's palm. That place between the Five Thousand Places of the hand. That malleable cleft between the Five, each of a thousand, lubricated with the Void. A place of no place.

         "The Void will swallow your opponent. Swallow him up."
                                                                             - The words of Sensei

        The void is also in the end of the sword pommel, the "KASHIRA." What was the butt of the sword handle is now a ring, - opening a hole to the end of the world. 

        "It will suck him in." His words were clear and stood in the air for minutes. 
They are in the air still.

        When that moment of blinding violence comes, in the bright color of crisp morning, your placid mind serene before the ghastly display of scream and steel, power and death, his sword will fall into the Void. - In the pommel of your sword.

             There is no doubt.

        There on the pommel, or on the handle between the pommel and your fingers 
- he will be swallowed up.

             There is no doubt.

        But this is not the point of this form. The point of this form happens somewhere else, and without it, there is no point. - And without it, there is failure. 

        There are the secret words. The secret words that evoke the mind. That bring the secret power.
        What were the secret words? The cadence put, the inference plied in those few mumbled syllables. Mumbled in the moment...
 

        Pulled from the Earth, a universe explodes in a surge before one's eyes. 
        The bluest sky.
        Stretching from the horizon, the whitest little clouds like snow flakes, catch the light. 
        Numbing color cascades. The mind is enraptured. Lives and earth gently caress as time is undone. The vision overtakes all worlds, its simplicity without bonds.
        The rich brilliance of color bears down.
        This is the moment. Only through this "Way," from these words, in this most delicately graceful, and long awaited now.
        Only here can life be this way. 
        A coveted beauty. A treasured beauty. 
        A secret beauty.
        An evocation of greatest human power, lucidity and art; hiding in the words. Awaiting this time. Waiting in secret. 

        - These are the words of Sensei.

I have just tired of many complex issues. - And relinquish the moment, and my word-processer, to the freedom of this spring afternoon, 

- or maybe just a little R & R.

Sitting back, I tap out a quiet rhythm on my thighs. - Quickly a mating call from some anxious bug or bird returns an ardent message. 

Two more calls and returns prove I'm the ~ Object of Romantic Desire ~

Well, of us two

...at least my friend is clearly focused!

        When was the first time? It was long before the three plump sparrows danced on the top of my shoes. Not the time under the sapling, either. With its delicate fronds and spring leaves filtering cool lemon sunshine on my little friends' curiosity, -as they danced on my shoulder. It wasn't then. I was accomplished, then.
        It was when I was learning. When I figured out Sor. When I was sixteen.
        I remember going to Joe Silva's (the one who started me playing guitar) who, by this time, was zealously guarding his hidden sources, the sheet music of the classics. In the middle of practice, he grabbed the paper up, ran and hid it under his bed. All things were hidden.
        Perhaps, if it weren't for this tenaciously forced mystery, I may never have thought music such a big deal.
        But I was driven. All of us were driven. It wasn't a question. The question couldn't occur to us. We were peers in this.
        Correctness of music craft, sophistication of thought, phrasing and technique, all hidden. Guarded.
        But design perfect position, I did. And design perfect attitude, I did. 
        And figure out Sor (the piece thrust under the box springs), I did. I did that this particular night.
        When a sixteen year old is learning a classic guitar piece, the path is fraught with repetition. A process from which, sleep protected my parents.
        The piece is a "Bachesque" thing in which low and high notes displace each other like the rearrangement of a child's building blocks.
        Over and over, conquering mistake by mistake.

        To play it once clear through, just once!

        "Dah, dah, tah, -dah, tah, dah, -tah, dah, dah, -tah, tah, CLANK!"
Repeat: "Dah, dah, tah, -dah" Fun?
        But I was driven.
        11:30 became 1:30. Do I remember 3:30? It is without matter, I almost had it, several times. But always the "clank" of a mis-played note. Perfection only a flaw away.
        Repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Until the notes and the flow separate in the meld. They are colored crimson in the air before me.
        At last the Dominant comes flawlessly in resolve to the Fundamental, the conclusion of the long, long battle. Satisfaction overrides all discomfort at first attempts to push my back straight.
        When I glance to the window, six feet to my left, the sky is emblazoned ice pink and thirteen large Ravens sit staring, inches from the glass.

        I think that was the first time.

Bright stove light. Two excited eggs greet me from the pan once again. A large woman and her daughter make their way in the clear morning. The waves break silently in the distance.

She is obese. Her daughter (a slip) is 11, wearing glasses, bobbed hair, and plaid print.

She is at an age where her constant gooney expressions are already a frustrating throw-a-way, ready to go.

Their exchanges are banter. Relevant to some common aspect.

Going unseen and unheard, the banner of profoundest austerity transcends their sweet musings.

Mother and daughter. This most ageless sovereignty; here at play.

Is her heritage Spanish or Native-American?

She pretends to have not been admiring the mannequined white satin wedding gown which dominates the front display window.

She is clean and nicely dressed though obviously poor. Her clear skin is marred with the discolor of a large bruise under her right eye.

She is alone in the dark store alcove.

They told me about the printers in Gist. There are Laser Printers in Gist. Printer printers. REAL printers. - In Gist Hall.

They might card you in Gist.

"If they card you, you lie. Tell `em your Student Card is home, you'll bring it tomorrow. -Tomorrow never comes. Maybe change computer labs or lay low for a day. They won't card you. They never card, don't worry. Just watch out for Kate."

-words of Sabrina.

Still Gist is somewhere else and who needs it? Who wants CHANGE anyway. Not when there's comfortable status quo.

Well, there came a time for a printer-printer. A REAL PRINTER.

Once in Gist, though, my program couldn't speak printer-printer. For all the neat lettering, the spaces between words and between lines were mishap. But Gist has the regular printers plus a great variety of new computers and different brands. Newer and nicer (and you can switch between printers). 

So I switched labs - and frequented Gist. 

As warned, there is a large woman in Gist. She runs Gist. She does not look friendly. Something in her gaze tells you it might be well to look in some other direction. Any other direction.

Kate has reddish-blonde, coarse hair and somehow Kate is Viking. Viking blood. Viking braids in Viking hair. A horned Viking hat adorns the preconstructed characterization plainted by those disgruntled few forewarning me of Gist, and of Gist's Kate.

In Gist, I computed and I printed. I was productive and it was happy productivity. The sun streamed; common joy at flower.

Then it came.

Suddenly, Kate was at the head of the room. Everyone would be carded and anyone found card-lacking would be, "ASKED TO LEAVE."

A theatrically blank expression hid my frenzied despair. She had the door covered. No escape.

What about my stories? My papers? MY BOOK! ...MY ...MY?

One moment, warm sun, new equipment, engrossing creation; the next: 

WHIRLPOOL OF AGONIES
 

I had been warned - Sab hissed her prophetic truths. Dire dread fulfilled. 

- Kate cards EVERYBODY in a week.
 
 

I, the thwarted eject. Careerless. Humiliated. What for the nectar of faceless anonymity, I must pace the dirge of public derision. 

Then: the unexpected. When it came time to present myself, she met my free admission with the sweetest warmth. Her cloudless spirit dispelled all apprehension. 

A fine, if sad, parting.
 
 

- READ CONSECUTIVELY -

                               (Our friend still can't get a date)

      I had been afraid to fly, so we found a bus called "The Green Tortoise."
      The captain of the Green Tortoise had long, graying braids falling to his belt. His passengers were long-haired youth - mostly. Fair = $80 to New York. New York via Arizona, Juarez and a Tennessee farm. 
      Four days east for a two week family Christmas. Then back.
      A high platform made the seatless bus one long foam bed.
      I immediately sought needed discomforts to support my intolerant mood, - griping all the way to Geronimo's hot-springs.

      But there's something about hot-springs. 

      Arizona is dry. The still black night with its yellowed half-moon landing on the low hills. The air somehow swollen.
      Story has a wounded Geronimo healing in secret. 
      The springs certainly healed me. The way to the Juarez Mercado, with its brilliant blankets and colorful embroidery was ease.
      We showered in Tennessee.
      After Christmas, the same crew met for the return. Down to Tennessee and over to Juarez.
      The rendezvous in El Paso after another long day at the Mercado was slow. People waiting in the winter sun for stragglers. 
      Pulling their coats off for a stretch in the afternoon warmth were two gals from the trip out. They were probably college and had kept well-bundled and unnoticed, until now - at least by me.
      I had to turn from her long stretch lest she see my struck gaze. She had learned a timid modesty to hide her almost perfect beauty.
       I did my best to forget it.
      When we came to the hot-springs, it was 11:30. Full-moon.
      While others ate, I found my way to the springs.
      These are several pools separated by brook. The hot one is 119 degrees. They fall around on the flat desert in a semi-circle. The final one has a run-off that drifts to a waterfall in a narrow six foot gorge. Its stream falls in a niche with a stone seat, really only big enough for one.
      I don't know where my clothes were, but I found myself gliding through the steaming gorge, the air a glistening moon-lit gauze. Light clothed its walls in white. White rainbows from every point. 
      When I sat in the niche, she sat at the same time. I hadn't seen her until our skin touched. She said we'd share, with a laugh. Her friend stood disappearing in the steam two feet away. We may have said some friendly word or two. Our bodies pressed together under the heat of the foot-wide pour. Only the white steam and the liquid moon shimmering and pressing, like the thundering heat.
      The dance of moments backed away, and the clear now enveloped us.
      She was without pretense, "I feel drunk." I didn't need such an excuse, but we didn't know each other ...and I knew she would have to return to her life. - And I to mine. 
      So we waited, figures in alabaster - in the moon-silver, swollen air.

I didn't drink, so my date and I were in the front. I was driving. Rick and Kay, and Rick's best friend and his date were in the back. We were all dressed nicely. - All dressed up. 

We parked on a dark, empty road and they all got soused. 

It was fun til Rick poked me in the eye. I had made some joke about telling Kay some secret. I remember his head behind his rapidly growing finger, "If you do!" - He didn't mean to poke my eye. It was closer than he thought. 

To everyone's dismay, his friend swung the rear door next to him and proceeded to get sick. I guess the idea appealed to Rick. 

Not occurring to him that he sat by the left window, he lurched across both dates to join his friend at the far door. General panic exploded from the backseat. Calls and screams echoed from our rocking auto before the inevitable sound of his enjoined chorus confirmed completion of the threat, and alerted me not to breath through my nose. 

Unfortunately, in their tangled struggle, Kay's hand had become trapped directly under Rick's mouth. 

Ahh, the teenage years.

I was thirteen and had been coerced into my first job, working as a delivery boy at my dad's shop. COPY CATS was a blueprint, photostat, off-set print house in San Francisco. 

Blueprint shops have a pervasive ammonia odor, one never forgets. I was on the delivery bench with older city kids, and adults. You went by bike or foot. Swinging doors allowed us past the order-desk and long entrance way. 

The wide, flat sidewalks were alive with the same energetic bustle as the shop. The smell of cigars and cigar stores competed in the rustle of people, traffic and the constant gurgle of cable-car cables running through rail-slats in the street.

An invisible overhead lantern held the promise of sunshine, but never quite got all the way down. And a stench of hot metal from some hidden somewhere clashed with the echoes of car horns and trolleys.

I spent an afternoon loading technical drawings into the gasping port of a gigantic blueprint machine with a friendly Filipino print trimmer named Gus, who sported a huge pompadour. He confided he used to make delicate little spit bubbles in class and gently blow them off his tongue to drift in the air and eventually soak the pretty blonde ponytail in the seat just ahead. He had become quite an artist at it.

At the end of the first pay period I had earned a check for $29.00 - which I cashed into $1.00 bills. 

This was my first money. I counted it on the rug, over and over. 

What do we do with our first money? 

I took my friends to Spreckles Ice Cream and treated all.

THE BREAD MESS ON THE FRONT PORCH IS NOT MY FAULT 

I took the old sour-dough from the refrigerator and placed it out for the birds. After a short period I heard a loud commotion. Looking out, I saw a mass of little birds in a huge punch-out. Bread crumbs flying.

I went out and, except for two combatants wrestling in the now disintegrating loaf, all heads turned my way. To the dismay of their embarrassed peers, the grimacing pair made odd grunting sounds. A bird foot on one's face, the latter grasping his foe about the neck with an outstretched wing.

Presently, (the sudden silence, a message of unerring import) they realized I was watching, shook off and got up. These two avoided my gaze and couldn't look me in the eye.

They all knew they were caught, but nobody knew what to say. Their nervous glances seemed to offer, "Well, what do ya expect, WE'RE BIRDS!"

All at once, they began looking about in different directions, as if on a train platform, 
awaiting a car. - Obvious pretense.

I didn't want to appear stupid, so, to their relief, I ended my monotonous censure and stepped in. We all looked at each other briefly; and with nothing further forthcoming, I closed the door with a soft click. 

Immediately a thrashing ensued, but now somewhat muted. 

                                                                                                    Bob 

We wish to travel to our children on Mars.
We pack a few things, excitedly, and tell the NET our plan. The elevator takes us to a shuttle. 

Inter-city or inter-planetary travel is very fast - vehicles and occupants are an integrated charge-field. You feel no acceleration. Its just like being in your kitchen.

In this world, you can do anything you want. You can pursue any art. Any science. 

You can do nothing. 

Since you don't need to die, you can stop. You can enter a dream and no dream state and let the present pass on by. You can come back when everything is new. You can have a new adventure.

You can decipher unknown segments of unknown genome. You can pursue skiing. 

Your body looks like a 32 year old. It runs like a 27 year old. Your mind is limitless. Your abilities are limitless. 

Men do not fear women. Women do not fear men.

Women play no games, there's no need. She has no limits. All men are perfect beings. - All wonderful people. 
All women are perfect beings. 

Every relationship is easy. Women are what ever they wish. Men are finally every thing that the masculine gift can give. All talent and ability. And all wonderful people. 

Women are whatever they wish.

You can be sexual. Or not. It's OK. Anything is OK because everything is possible. And everyone is fine. All fine beings. 

No one wastes their time, now that it is limitless. How strange to think that when it is proscribed, people do nothing but waste it.

I am glad our parents took the resolve to grow from the squalor of the dark ages.

        He has a knotted fleece beard and hair to match, poking from under his multi-speckled knit beret. 
        He is sewing some tattered rag, cigarette hanging from his lip.
        His second-hand smoke has just jarred my attention from reading.
        At first, an intrusion, but now something else.
        Suddenly it's Seals Stadium, San Francisco. 1952.

        The odors mellow and coalesce 
                                       ...from another world

The tea master and her guest sit quietly before the lake.

Tailored blossoms cling to a vased sprig, - and young saplings jut from the green slope. 

On the left bank, a clutch of pine stretch over the water. Glistening gold catches each little ripple, and each blade of grass.

                  ...And long strands of silk wave silently from the pines - far, far above. 

A little-one has crawled with her brothers and sisters to the top of the pine, a pilgrimage...
- planned before time.

There, she lets out her silk... In an ageless dance - with old Father Wind

                                                 For the tree and the wind...

                                                                              live together

Her silk and the sweet air know each other well. Demanding Father Wind wants enough, and she holds on

                      Life depends on her strength, on her silk     ...and on the Wind

                      The silk and Father Wind are one, - and always have been
                                                                                       ...And they want her

It is her moment 

An ancient and renewed moment... for her, and all her kind 
                                                ...all that were, and all that will be... 
                                             She is overcome ...and finally tugged from the tree.

She will leave our tea master, and her guest
                                           to their delicate afternoon

She will leave this country

She will ride the jet stream      ...to other worlds

She will meet her lover 10,000 feet above the ground

She will meet animals that have never lived on the earth

She will ride with the lucky...
                               And lonely travelers,

In a sea of pollen and debris     ...and lost ships

High on the misty edge       ...of the Universe

Jeff Thigpen was the star. 
He was the star in Kindergarten

He was the star in third grade
He was the star in 6th

He was best  ...at baseball
                    ...at basketball
                    ...at kickball

After grade school, he was best at football
                              (Park Elementary had had asphalt)

He was the best at studies ...best at math 
He had the best grades. Park: 24 Xs, High School - straight As.
                      This was different from Sheldon, the worst student, with 24 Us.

Jeff was the head of the head clique. The rarefied air.

He taught me three things:

     One - Take up the Nabisco bag in both hands, and crush the Shredded Wheat biscuits within - before pouring into the bowl.

     Two - Put the entire lb. of bacon in the skillet and allow to separate of its own.

     Three - Roast marshmallows artistically by teasing the flame until the candy swells to a softball-size chiffon puff with a delicate brickle crust.

On August 15, 1281, KAMEYAMA-JOKO, the retired father of Emperor GO-UDA, appeared before AMATERASU "The Divine Goddess of the Sun" in ISE asking her intervention on behalf of Japan. 

900 Korean ships with 10,000 infantry and 17,000 sailors had ferried 15,000 Chinese and Mongol troops to rendezvous at IKI Island with the 3,500 ship Chinese "Yang-tze" task-force of 60,000 navy carrying 100,000 soldiers to conquer the Land of the Gods.

Six and half years before, the 150 ship first invasion had thrashed against the coast in a storming November night to the loss of 13,000 lives. 

This was summer - the well-planned, long awaited summer. 

A sea of angry boats and garish streamers imposed hideous clarity to the excited echoes of drums and horn, - filtering over the flat, naked water.

The Japanese had prepared six and half years. HOJO TOKIMUNE's coordinated national muster stood ready but outnumbered on its fifteen foot, 25 mile wall protecting HAKATA from the waves and this vast spectacle painted across everyone's eyes.

Moving effortlessly from the horizon, a small black dot appeared in the cloudless sky. 
- Searching a station just above the throng, it stretched dark fingers without wait. 

A huge and deafening still swallowed their noisy clamor as the ocean and its ships began to leap in eerie silence. 

Then the leaves started rattling...

Foretelling the deep growl that shook trees before its violent thunder hit with howling rage. Flags were pulled from standards. And warriors clung for the moaning earth - just to watch. 

Careening ships were pitched on crags or dragged away. Swamped wrecks rolled over, and over each other in the boiling sea; - grinding the vessels to splinter wood.

The sight made men drunk, some sat numb.

That day, the Hand of God labored for the Japanese just as it had for Moses at the Red Sea.

AMATERASU allowed three lives to return the news to Kublai-Khan.

     Perhaps they haven't looked ...but travelers know.

     The day of departure ...or the twilight before, 
                                                                it hits them.

     They are gone from this place... Gone from their loves, gone from their life. 

     They are gone from this place, and all those they know - or wish to know

     They all 
             are in comfort, 
                       busying after themselves - pursuing themselves, 

       ...while the traveler prepares 

        The traveler will be forgotten 
        So the day for departure is hollow. 
        Our traveler is hollow. The air is hollow. 

How is it then for the soldier? 

Is he forever disconnected?

We have a mild flu. My friend, Yoshi, is attempting his cure with SEIROGAN. SEIROGAN means "Conquer Russia" Drops (or Grains). -Looks like bat-guano. Smells like kerosine-smoked jerky. Every Japanese kid knows this stuff.

I've tried to compete with Chicken noodle soup. Yoshi is un-moved. It cured the 1905 Imperial Army, it cured the boys in WWII, it cured his parents and it will cure him.

SEIROGAN has several ingredients, faithfully adhered to since Port Arthur. Among them, the label divulges plant extracts, common "Naturiums" such as sodium carbonate and main cure-all: Creosote and Root-X!

Yes... the wonders of modern medicine.

Once I hiked up the mountain we lived on, way out in the country. Far up beyond where I had ever been. I found myself alone on the rolling mountain top in golden, end-of-the-year grass. 

Just a couple of bush-sized evergreens and the empty still of the afternoon. 

Suddenly a beautiful whistling drifted in. A dance of many voices piping rich and husky tones filled the air. Large ravens or Canadian Crows were running and circling in a moving, energetic pack that twisted along the ridge.

I knew instantly this was secret ritual and that I might eavesdrop on something not allowed human ears. I hid under the branches as they came directly over.

A whirling symphony of lyrical fluting and joyous excitement sent long, brilliant ribbons of smooth color curling from their wings and a woody, percussive staccato echoed like coconut drums. 

Bright yellow and red streamers strung through the sky...

A blackbird in the peace of cool morning. He is missing a foot. 

He came to me 

Did he know I was taken by him - that this moment was of him?

He raised his good foot & stood on the stump - Is this a learned declaration?

He has jumped to the bench, inches from my shoulder - we, eye to eye

Yesterday, I was visiting a gal-friend (if I can call her that) who owns a small espresso spot under an awning-covered stand on the outer main drag of the down town area. 

The down town, at this time, has its unsavory elements. The unsavory side can weigh upon the landscape. 

But this is a great gal, with a nice place - which draws the brighter, more industrious crowd of people. 

We were attempting conversation between the regular flow of nab-and-run coffee enthusiasts when a newer blue truck stops in about a hundred feet away. A guy jumps out and runs up. The car pulls around to the stand exit. Its driver has nervous, darting expressions but stays in the car.

The guy before us is lean, - dressed in unwashed clothes. His skin seems taut and dark, yet his conversation has an odd, misfitting friendliness. He is "talky". He says he has to watch her, - he must see if she makes cappuccino good enough, as his has to be "just so." He wants to know how her coffee machine is holding up. He asks about business. He thinks she will do good at this location. He is looking around to the right, and to the left. 

I step around and check the license. It's out of state and a steaming cup of coffee sits in the open truck-bed.

He leans over to look behind the counter, to the left and to the right, talking all the while. Something is in his pocket. He puts his hand in and out of his pocket, raising and lowering a small squarish shape that is within. His talk is designed to keep us following some conversational line.

I position myself so that I can try whatever I might have to if he pulls a gun out of that pocket. I will try to crush his windpipe with a quick blow, if allowed the time. Otherwise, it will be wrestling with a gun. 

I look him up and down and think to myself, "this guy will probably kill me." 

He is standing by the door and asks if I'm the guard. I say "no, just a friend..."

Makoto phones. He tells me he's going to have sword exhibition at the Cherry Blossom Festival in Japan Town that next week. He needs an associate for proper explanation to the people. 

I, of course, haven't done sword drawing for about two years and explain I'm completely out of shape, etc. This doesn't matter because he is completely out of shape too. That's why I must help. It's OK because nobody'll be there anyway. Just two rusty sword guys. 

"Just do some SHOMANs" is how I remember his good-by.

SHOMAN is an IAI sword draw where the blade is brought in a full swing directly over the head. It is the most powerful cut and practicing it makes the most powerful swordsmen. 

"1000 SHOMAN a day" 

"If you do 1000 SHOMAN a day, you are strongest swordsman. This is oldest rule." 

The sword starts from an extension all the way down the back, parallel with the backbone. The shoulder blades splay, your elbows arc toward the sky. Your stomach muscles grab your chest. From the side, the veneer of sword steel swinging a broad swath through the air appears like the shell of a snail. Wider in back and pulling tightly to the front. 

The arms twist the handle as if ringing a towel. You exert full pressure, with the spirit of lifting a Sherman Tank to save your child. - After all, your life's supposed to be on the line.

Five of these and you're wondering when the purple dots 'll stop whirling.

I remember doing many when I did sword, but now I'm out of shape.

(Still, you're going to be on stage, pal. - Time to start hump'in!)

So I practice. I practice all day. I practice all week. I practice so much a certain part of my forearm distends abnormally. - And hurts abnormally!

By show day, my arm is weak. My arm is painful. My form is shaky - literally. 

I have driven into the city. I am in my HAKAMA and GI, sitting dutifully in the mad crush of a vibrant and frantic San Francisco Cherry-Blossom Festival. Bright color and excited children swirl across the eyes. There is no let up.

Finally Makoto arrives. His martial arts gear is different. His friends with the Japanese theater group have supplied him the full bearance of a seventeenth century RONIN. The print of his tattered garment is brighter than these kids'. - Headband. Hair. - This guy LOOKS REAL!

We set up and a crowd gathers. - A large crowd gathers. The old, the young, women with babies; other martial artists. Shop keepers.

I whisper, "I'm out of shape." Makoto whispers back, "it's OK, me too." - I kind of give him a nod, a kind of questioning nod. (I'm kind of questioning all right, - what am I doing here?) 

But Makoto needed my help. He'd have to have gotten up here without any help. Without any support. He started me on sword. - Esprit de corps! We'll make it through this.

Makoto does a long bit to the swelling audience about the Samurai, the martial arts, the martial tradition, modern keepers of the flame, etc. And then turns it over to me for the first routine.

I fumbled my draw and felt my face redden at the close of my first shaky cut. I remember the snicker that crept to an old man's face enjoying the spectacle. 

Lots of fun! - And I only had three more to go. 

One was so-so, the rest... 
                           Lots a fun. 

Finally it was poor Makoto's turn. I tried to tell myself the pressure was off a little, maybe we weren't actually there. Maybe there wasn't this sea of faces. Maybe they would all watch him now. 

Makoto may have said something. His body disappeared into a small metallic ball. He did three or four, maybe four or five cuts - and a clean return within one second.

The old man's face lit with pride.

I was stunned. 
                ( - I was pissed!)

POOR MAKOTO!?!! 

                 - I didn't want to be here anyway!

We were to trade places. And as we passed, our eyes glanced right to each other and I heard the whisper, "Three hundred a day."

Continued from previous story

One of the fun things you can do at sword demonstration is offer to cut an apple off the head of a three year old. To prove the mother's fears unfounded, I'm supposed to stop Makoto, suggesting we first use a styrofoam head as a test. Of course, the styrofoam head eats it.

We didn't have styrofoam at this Cherry Blossom demonstration but a total stranger took the toddler's place in stiff seizan and full confidence. Makoto'd been great but this was mind boggling. Makoto and I just looked each other but kept straight faces. This demonstration was proving full of surprise. Makoto declined the man's kind offer, but what with enough bananas and apples, and Makoto's - HEIGHTENED SKILLS - we trudged through. 

       (Three hundred SHOMANs...)

Makoto had told me we were to appear twice. The second was to be in two weeks at the Festival finale.

       (Two weeks... in two weeks, there, buddy)

We bid smiling farewells. In two weeks. We'd see each other in two weeks.

Two weeks...

Did I practice? 

Luckily I had the perfect place, a pre-Victorian church with twenty foot ceilings. Built in 1868 by the Druids, it had two floors, each a large room with a large empty floor.

- Two DOJOs! 

I only needed one. 

Two weeks. Night and day, flashing steel and KIAI. A slapping of the floors. A great slapping of the floors. The air pulsated, the windows shuttered. 

Spouse gained resolve but the cats left. 

...And spouse started shopping alot.
 

But I got good. I got REAL good. 

I could smear the horizon with both hands. Clean returns with both hands, - smooth as glass.

I cut a candle so both sides were left burning. 

...And I got fast. I got REAL fast.

I worked up three KATA. Two were carefully tame. But the third...

In the third KATA, I am attacked by eight opponents. This of course requires two swords. 

         (- Eight opponents require two swords) 

Let's see, how did that go... I'm attacked from the front but a second attacks from the right. This doesn't require two swords, but a third comes from behind. His sword gets clasped by the guard of my short-sword and he is led through with his own momentum, pulling him further than he allowed. While pushing him, sword guard to sword guard on a line at the left, I step around to the right and cut his back. Then the rest of them attack and of course that's when the action really begins. The audience will be impressed. The audience will be REAL impressed.

Makoto WILL BE impressed. That old man will be impressed.

I'm impressed. Spouse is impressed ...but the cats - are gone.

Nothing matters, for the day of SWEET REVENGE has arrived. 

My mind is calm. My spirit is boundless. My energy - contained. Smooooth. Ready.

We drive to the city. 

I wait again in the still festive but now noticeably exhausted wane of the yearly party. Paper and liter stroll on marble walkways while people chase after voices and echoes. Through the clutter and clatter I see Makoto running up. 

N-O-W. Now, IT'S MY TURN.

He's dressed in a suit and bounds the stairs.

"Ah, so sorry, called off." And runs away.

and care-free happiness...

Driving through the city, on our way home, we found a new and special delight insisting, for us, a regular stop to the stand of "Gelato's San Francisco Italian Ice Cream" on Parnassus. 

                  ~ Coffee Mocha ~

A deeply rich, espresso ice cream - with chunks of semi-sweet, cracked chocolate.

Gelato's teases you with samples proffered in miniature spoons and one-inch cups.

Their full array of flavors and colors included the multi-hued, Italian spumone, which was of course, marvelous...

          but the ~ Coffee Mocha ~ 

          ...this was heaven. Truly heaven.

Slowly, in the midst of our euphoria, a disagreement emerged which revolved around this singular, and most highly crucial, question: Was the coffee ice cream, - as presented in the beloved, Coffee Mocha, a better coffee ice cream than that of store bought
                                                                                                              Hagen Das Ice Cream - ???

This battle raged with continuing frequency at each of our many Gelatos' stops. Accompanying friends were drawn in and occasional strangers would find delight in voicing their often absurd opinions. 

The gauntlet thrown, a bet was staked and a date set. We picked up a Hagen Das on the way in.

Fully fifteen people grouped in the twilight before the famous sidewalk ice cream bar.

I can tell you, in all of my life, I was never so fully confident of such an obvious outcome as on the corner of Parnassus and Stanyan, San Francisco, that evening.

Everyone was dished their appropriate ration and all eyes fell together 

                                                                       as we tasted, first the one 
                                                                                      ...and then the other

The sun had baked a hot pillow for one of those full moons where everything just floats. 

At the height of spring, it's the fulcrum of the whole year - and the evening is made of syrup.

Everything moves slow... no reason to think, it's useless. 

Dreamy old moon's happiest smile, swells across the sky

___________

That day you walked through gun-show madness, 
      building after building. 
Each as big as any in the country. 
      It's just like Disney Land, only it's Gun Show - times 6. 

Six exposition buildings plus the Great Hall, 
      people and stall-packed broad-walks and boulevards. 

Different music and sounds blend 
            as bands play and food vendors try to keep pace. 
      Melting ice cream, soda pop, beer, hot dogs, 
            sandwiches - Mezco food, 
                  German food, Indian food, hamburgers.

You couldn't walk three steps in one direction. 
      Packed. Lines for food, lines for the john, lines for the phones, 
             while fanning spouses on recess, and smokers 
                                                         compete for the shade.

Gunslingers and cowboys, Rebs and Yanks with stars and bars and union jack. Doughboys and GI foot-soldiers walk between tanks and stagecoach, cannons and anti-aircraft.

Endless displays in towering racks and glass cases, stacked and spread, piled and hanging. Every possible collectable: stamps, coins, ivory, American Indian, cowboy, Old West, militaria of any era from every country, Civil War; tables of dueling pistols and six-shooters. Pocket knives and Bowie knives. Secret Agent weapons from past or present, swords from any era - any place; pirate stuff, ship and marine. Brass; ancient clocks and watches. African spears and shield, European armor, Japanese armor, Persian daggers. Roman swords, swords from Polynesia; Chinese weapons, halberds, spears, axes, bows and cross-bows; glassware, Korean ceramics, ancient Egypt. Samurai swords and religious relics, a mummified hand, a sultan's armor; the dagger of a Caliph and his turban, too. A jeweled sword stolen from the tomb of an Asian king.

Loads of stuff. Loads of stuff.

It's her girl friend. She's rushed and excited, and blended perfectly, her surprise at this unexpected find. Instantly, they poured uncontained delight and whispers into the bedroom. Besides the BIG question, and where did she meet me, they took a moment exchanging their other news and their day's planned adventures. 

Her charged excitement unwaned, we were introduced and the three of us finished our toast and strawberry breakfast.

I'll tell you one. I was in this college sports bar. I was still 39, - this was right before I met "The Blonde." I went there to play pool (I was good at that - that was another of those "Natural" deals). Anyway - there was this guy in there. He had long hair drooping forward from each side of a blue knit cap and a long, full, soft brown/blonde mustache. He quickly showed a smooth, easy humor that you just have to take right to. He seemed to be two or three years older than I and had some great jokes in between the little observations that come into your head just as he is pointing them out. This guy, you like. Immediately. We played pool back and forth for about an hour, all the while having an all around great time.

Suddenly a smiling gal is there, very friendly and talking at a rather high rate, but pleasant. She seems to know him. They very quickly acknowledge having seen each other at the bank where she works. He would see her when she helped him at the "Commerce" line. He's a professional fisherman. 

We three were talking and friendly - she flirting, not too much, and generally giving us both an obvious approval. It began to appear conspicuously that more was condensing from the earlier informalities. 

Amidst the bar clamor and chaos, in a closer and closer triangulation, I saw her, close on my left, ask over to him, close on my right, "How old are you?" He replied, "27" - to which she said, "Oh great! I'm 26!" And then both, in perfect concert, swung their smiling faces around in to me, saying in unison, "And how are old are you?"

Something about this vision made me know, to decide carefully, as my mouth began to open, "thir-rty... - two."

To which her whole countenance darkened and a wintery cold fell across her words, "Oh-h-h... I-I- did-n't kno-o-w - that... " He looked surprised but was following her - their figures seemed to break up like ships leaving a tie-up in high seas.

So you know I was LOOKIN' good, anyway!

I was smoking cigarettes when I was at camp with the other boys. We would go out into the forest.

Once, they called an unprecedented: "Count! In three minutes!". This was a 'never before' and we knew we were busted. We ran as fast as boys can run. Through the trails and behind the tents. We charged into our respective domiciles and grabbed for the nearest toothpaste. Pulling the tube from the shelf, I squirted it into my mouth just as the counselor came into the dorm. 

It had no taste.

I looked at the print: 
         Brylcreme - "A little dab will do ya"

I was sick. My home, at the time, was a converted step-van with a blown engine and a skylight above the bed. 

This was many years ago and not unusual for the time, as anyone who could live in our artist's community, lived there anyway they could - but that's another story.

I had been sick for weeks. In a crevice between the insulation and the sky-light glass, a wolf spider retained its abode. One could argue just who is the master in such quarters.

He was black with slight red spots across his back. He hunted flies like a cat hunts mice. Wolf spiders do not make webs. They use silk to anchor themselves when they jump. 

The flies would land up around the window and he would head out. 

Just like a cat - he'd cautiously dart from one frozen position to another. Wh-whack! The ensuing 'last-struggle' was a buzzing-ball, swinging from his single line about two or three inches from the roof. 

He'd drag them up into his crevice.

These were great entertainments from my vantage point directly beneath. He didn't get them all, so these were tense contests. And, having become my friend, I was his admirer and greatest rooter. (How is it, my number of friends remains steady so? - Nevermind)

I noticed his spots were slowly and steadily becoming more. More red spots, and bigger. They grew until, slowly, the spots took over his entire back, becoming a full field of red velvet.

He was now a red-backed wolf spider.

One day he failed to come out. You can guess my concern, and worry, as my favorite friend did not come out to play. All day and into the late afternoon - which then became night. 

He didn't come out the next day.

Nor the next.

- I had lost my friend.

On the forth day, in the midst of my morning meal, ten thousand babies swarmed from the opening. My euphoric cheer climaxed when, after some moments, SHE came out resting on the ledge - babies darting everywhere. She looked down, exhausted and happy, her eyes shining while I looked up, exhausted and happy, my eyes shining too.

Two cry-babies in the woods.

I think if I shoot myself to save on food costs, I might then make the rent 
                                                                           - if I sell my video camera. 

But I have to wait on shooting myself until I sell the camera. 

Kind of a Catch 22. 

We talked about being foot-loose...

I was just sitting on the can, thinking about explaining the techniques of buffaloing a foot-loose-er of the female persuasion.

Ya sneak up from behind. - She's looking off somewhere, maybe up to the left, or maybe the right. Ya kind of say something unobtrusive. She's on guard, of course, but you're unobtrusive, as I say, and otherwise kind-of pleasant - and you start whispering in her left ear... -but immediately kind-of reach around and make little movements with your right hand, out there to her right just a bit.

She glances to the right to make sure she knows what's going on and you keep talking in her ear and perhaps touch her gently, - consolingly, with your left. Remember to shake your right fingers just bit.

She'll kind of recoil from your right - into the comforting support on her left... 
                                                                                                 and fall into your arms.

It's easy.

I remember hearing about a place for rent - "Go out to Lagenitas, there's an empty place just up the back road"

We drive out to Lagenitas, drive into the small main road that follows around and up the hillside.

A house appears on the right. We get out and walk down to the empty porch. There's an odd smell, an old smell. The door is open.

She starts poking around in other parts of the house while I poke around in the kitchen.

There are few things left. We join up in the front room where a once nice dresser has intricate fret-work coming apart over its surface. It had been artfully made and seems completely unique. 

We turn and walk together down the hall. A chair sits directly in the way. On the chair, a mirror is propped to face it's reflector to the back. A bullet sits upright in the center of the seat.

We walk around it and come to a small bedroom. There is a small spring mattress under a large, open window. The fall leaves have been blown in across a full set of women's under-clothes that are laid out as if having been worn. The garter clasps hold the stockings which stretch away from the limp panties. There are some kind of wadded and ritually burned material filling the bra cups. 

The air was stale and dank.

We just walked out and drove off. I don't think we talked about it right away. 

Yoshi said he made it through college by doing pencil sketches.

"Hey, that's great, Yoshi."

Yoshi says he's gonna do something for me to see.

"Hey, great."

Yoshi gets a drawing pad, several pencils and hand-held pencil sharpeners.

A couple days later, I see the vague form of a woman. It might be a face and torso - and are those wings on her back? -(!) 

I'm doing important computer-art for our up and coming Newsletter, so this stuff, whatever it is, doesn't matter.

I notice, in passing, the woman's face has a 40s look to it. Full lips, swept hair. But as I say, I'm doing important stuff and this is just something Yoshi is piddling with.

Later, Yoshi gets risque by adding rather voluptuous breasts - (but hey, - whatever!)

We all fly off to some city and return - time passes. I notice the drawing-pad on the kitchen counter. I open it.

She could be a dream. 

It's not just the twist piping and machinery she has for internal organs, seen through her transparent ribs like some MC Escher drawing, it's the other-worldly textures and nuance of light from impossible dimension. Graphite lays like spackle.

Artist and window reflect at sweeping angle from each eyelash. Curved reflections create the pores of her skin and each delicate hair of her cheek. 

Her mysterious eyes are jewels - of hidden worlds.

- Yoshi doesn't wear glasses.

I phone the bank, they say I got "zero" in checking! 

                      - So I bleat: "Wh-y-y-y" 

- They say: "You forgot about all the secret charges we've been counting up on you since you went below a $1000 daily-balance (convulsive snicker)"

(They got me for phoning them - using the ATM card for purchases - and breathing too much.)

I snivel something about not knowing they charged me to tell me I was out of money. She said, "Well, I'll give you back $7.50. -But you won't actually get it - ...til tomorrow."

While praying knee-prone from the kitchen floor, I go: "Thank you, thank you!" 

With the $10 in my pocket, I put $5.82 in my empty tank. (this keeps the register kids thinking I am merely topping it off)

I'm thinking, "They're shutting the electric off on the 29th, the phone on the 5th, -the internet is due on the 1st -but hey! - I will have to have given my notice by then - so what the hell!?" 

When suddenly I get an email which says "Dear Mr Cole, my boss says he'll send the funds next week, in full. Thanks for waiting..."

Wow!!! -Back for another round!

Small animals hate us. Spiders and bugs too. They hate all animals larger than 30 lbs. 

We don't piss right. We can't just piss, like your everyday rat, or mouse. We have to go piss "somewhere." - We always have to go piss on a tree, or thicket, or against a house; or somewhere. Always somewhere. 

Every somewhere is also a perfect place to have a wonderful home. Trunk of a tree, the corner of buildings, under a beautiful leaf-cover...

Life would be perfect if it weren't for - us.

It was the last day in December and there had been a fight in my apartment-complex. Police cars filled the parking lot like beached tuna. 

The combatants were corralled separately. Different groups of officers arbitrating their guy for peace. 

After endless negotiation, the antsy moment for the obligatory hand-shake finally arrived. The two were pushed into proximity. 

Just as palms clasped, scores of individuals exploded from every neighbor door rapid-firing guns into the night. The cops hunkered to firing positions. Barrels leveling across every hood. 

The whites of widening eyes noticeably studded all silhouettes as the neighborhood froze before this sea of law enforcement. They all scrabbled back inside. 

One cop snickered, " -It's New Year's..."

Ran into the worst Monsoon on record. We walked out looking for my friend's 6 1/2 year old son, stuck in the missing school bus. It got chest-deep in 30 minutes. Through the din, a few submerged headlights showed the surface carpeted in a forest of five inch water-spouts. We struggled up onto the porch of his good friends and watched the water rise. -Didn't know if his son or wife were ok until 3 in the morning.

1200 died; and as many cattle, which litered the streets for a week.

I had seen her before - but this was really the first meeting.

I think it was Barbie she had asked for - but it was an introductory present and could have been anything. I said it was in the box on the floor in the next room. 

This was an empty box that would be my cleaver tease. 

I peeked around the