I never met my mom's dad. He died the year before I was born, in 1972. And you might assume, therefore, that he died young. But he didn't. He did, however, marry late, at the age of 34, the age I am now. And maybe that's not late by today's standards, but it seems kind of late for 1932. Now, add to that late marriage the fact that my mom was born last of three children and that she had me late—in her mid thirties—and you can begin to see how it was that I never met this man, my mom's dad, despite the fact that he lived to be 74.

My mom's mom died shortly after my mom's dad, when I was five or six. So I don't remember much about her either. But I do have some dim recollections of a woman that I knew of as "Grandma B" and I can remember the heavy blue nightgown she wore on a Christmas morning in Maryland once. And I remember she was soft-spoken. But with my mom's dad, it's always been different. He's always remained something of a mystery to me. I have no physical recollections of him. And yet, he's always played an active role in my mind, in my imagination, largely through the fuzzy, black-and-white photos my mom has of him.

I don't have a name for my mom's dad. It's weird calling him "Grandpa." Because "Grandpa" is my dad's dad. The "Grandpa" I know was only 51 when I was born. And I knew that "Grandpa" for almost 29 years. And shouldn't "Grandpa" be somebody whose lap you've sat in? Shouldn't "Grandpa" be somebody whose laugh still echoes in your ears? Shouldn't you have a personal memory of somebody in order to call him "Grandpa?" So I'll stick with "Mom's Dad." Or Clarence. Because that was his name.

I've put off writing this post for months. Because I kept wanting to be able to point and say, Look, here is this man—my mom's dad. And here is who he was. Because it felt like I should be able to do that. And I wanted my description of him to somehow shed light on me, too. Because sometimes it feels like I'm really close to him, like a part of me is him. And, through my mom's descriptions of him, and through these photos, I can begin to peel back these layers of a mystery, not only about who he was, but who I am. And I keep thinking that maybe one day I'll peel back that one final layer and I'll be able to see clearly and say with some authority that this, this is Clarence.

But instead of shedding light, the process only ends up casting more shadows. My mom will offer spoonfuls of information, things she remembers about him. And I'll eat them up. But the whole thing only makes me more hungry. And I get discouraged. Because the bottom line is I will never know this man. I will die and he will remain a mystery to me.

And I know what the problem is: the things I want to know aren't the kinds of things you can be told. They're not the kinds of things you can just receive, filtered through someone else's perspective. Because I want to hear Clarence speak. I want to listen to him tell a story. I want to know how he put words together, how he constructed a sentence. I want to watch him get up from a chair and see him walk. I want to know for sure he had the same back condition I have. I want to see exactly how he smoked an Old Gold ... or the way he held a beer. I want to feel what it was like to hear him laugh or play the fiddle or stomp and dance at family gatherings at a lake house somewhere in Michigan. I want to shake his hand. I want to hug him. I want to hang out with him. And when I think about how I can't internalize these things—how these perceptual memories won't ever exist for me—it brings tears to my eyes. Because there's a hole there. And all I have to fill it are the words spoken by my mom and a handful of fuzzy snapshots.

And then it occurs to me that, for me, my mom's dad is, and always will be, her experience of him. And that's kind of a great thing to have, as well. I may not be able to know Clarence first hand and develop my own impressions about him, but I can experience first-hand the person my mom knew and the way she felt about him. And what it meant to her when he'd come home each week from his job inspecting ties for the Chesapeake of Ohio Railroad Company. The excitement she'd feel when he returned after a week away. How he called my mom's mom "Wifey," and how it really was a term of endearment for him. And the way he looked at Grandma B and the way he loved her and would hug her in the kitchen when he got home. How he used to tell my mom she "ran like a deer" because my mom had long, skinny legs. How he rarely went to the doctor, despite his various aches and pains, and how he had a cerebral hemorrhage in his fifties and still lived another twenty years, but was never quite the same. And how one day, when she was a little girl, she waited hours and hours for him at a train station in Battle Creek, Michigan. Because he was supposed to stop there and pick her up to take her to where the rest of the family had gone for vacation. But he had forgotten, or he hadn't realized that this is what he was supposed to do. And when he got to the final destination without my mom, he felt terrible at his mistake.

Neuroscientists believe that memories aren't things that are stored in a brain and "retrieved" like a file in a file cabinet. Instead, they think a memory is constructed from scratch each time it is "remembered." And a memory is never remembered exactly as it happened. Details get added or dropped. And the more you remember something sometimes the less accurate it becomes. And I notice this with my mom. I notice that she'll tell me a story about Clarence one time and then the next time it will be slightly different. And I'll say, I thought you said such-and-such. And she will say, Oh yes, that's right. You're right. And it sort of makes me frustrated. Because how can I be right? She's the one who needs to be right. Because I want the unfiltered facts. I want the truth. Because I feel like somehow knowing the true facts will bring me closer to knowing the true Clarence.

But then I take a step back. And I remember that what I'm coming to understand isn't my mom's dad. It's my mom's perception of him. And for me, this is knowing Clarence.

link to this | comments (7) | File:  Family  Chewing 

You'd think that on its second mow, a brand new mower would be hungry to eat some grass. You'd think it would just be getting warmed up.

Apparently, my mower decided it had had enough of this grass-cutting shit. It died on me yesterday.

My neighbor, Ax (not his real name), was outside later that evening and I walked over to our fence to tell him my bad news. He and I are establishing a relationship not unlike the one between Tim and Wilson on Home Improvement. I'm Tim. Things tend to break when I get my hands on them. I go to him seeking consolation and advice. He's Wilson. He's older and wiser and he just knows shit. And dammit he's got a great freakin' lawn.

Ax also owns a classic muscle car, which he showed me the first day we met. I have to admit, it's pretty sweet. And shiny. Ax works on it in his free time. Also, he drives a Ford F-350 4x4, a truck that continually lobs taunts over at Remington from Ax's driveway. Damn bully trucks. The only thing that's a little pansy-ass about Ax is he's got two Dachshunds. I mean one would be unfortunate. But two is tragic.

As I walked over to Ax, the two "dogs"—a term I use loosely—greeted me as they always do, with furious barking and yipping. Have you ever seen a Dachshund when he's furious? It's kind of like when real dogs are being playful. Because of the commotion, Ax didn't hear me too well when I said, "My mower died." I could tell by the expression on his face and the way he said, "I'm so sorry" that he had misunderstood me. So I bent down and offered the dogs my hand to sniff, which shut them up. Then I said, no not my mother, my mower. God, who walks up to his neighbor, who he's only known for a couple of months, and says with a sort of flabbergasted, aw-shucks, can-you-believe-it atttitude, "guess what, my mother died." Nice weather we're having, isn't it? He must have thought I was crazy. Oh well, it won't be the last time for that. He'd better get used to it.

So I'm not sure if I set a record for killing a lawn mower, but I was going to look into it. I brought it back to Fred, who doesn't seem like so much of an angel to me anymore. He went to start the thing, only to find that the pull-chord wouldn't budge. Like I said, it was fed up. He admitted that this definitely seemed a little fishy. "But don't worry about a thing!" he said. He would figure out what was going on and I wouldn't have to pay for a thing. He's damn right I'm not paying for a thing. It's a Toro. And I bought it last week, remember? I wasn't worried about paying for things. But I do want to get up all this thatch I raked up the other day so that I can get some seed and fertilizer on the lawn before it rains this weekend. I'm on a time crunch, here Fred. I can't deal with mowers that die on me on the second mow, brother.

So if I find out more bad news today, and I can't get my mower back, I'm going to ask Fred for a replacement. And if that one dies, then I'll know God is pissed at me for last week's post. Maybe I should go ahead and apologize now.

link to this | comments (11) | File:  Oogah  Lawn  House  Grunt  Remington 

In lieu of reading novels, which take far too long and are weighed down with useless things like "character development" and "plot" and "meaning," these days I've taken to reading only short snippets of text that can be inhaled in five minutes or less. I believe there's a term for this condition. What was it again? Oh yeah: brain atrophy. Unfortunately, my five-minute-or-less rule tends to exclude even my own blog posts, so usually I have to wait for others to read them and tell me whether or not they make sense. (Often, it turns out, they don't.)

Lately my taste for "short" has dwindled down to one-sentence powerhouses. They're short and sweet, but they really pack a punch. The great thing about these little text candies is they can be consumed in an instant, while you go about your daily routines. The other day, for instance, I was brushing my teeth and came across this little gem:

FOR BEST RESULTS, SQUEEZE TUBE FROM THE BOTTOM AND FLATTEN AS YOU GO UP.

It's wonderful what this author—who, as far as I can tell, wishes to remain anonymous—manages to accomplish in so few words. The great thing here is the ambiguity, how he leaves so much open to interpretation. Is he referring to this tube in particular, or all tubes, generally? And which end is the bottom and which is the top? Ahh. He never says! And when we "flatten" is this in reference to the tube, or to ourselves? Or something else entirely?

The real question, however, has to do with this concept of "best results." Because it's never explicitly stated: best results for what? Should we assume it's only about applying toothpaste to our brush? Or is this about something more? Maybe the author is suggesting we'll actually have better results in brushing our teeth or fighting cavities if we somehow manage to find the right tube and then squeeze it in the right direction. Or maybe it's broader still. Maybe we will be rewarded with better results ... in life. A better smile, bigger muscles, smoother skin, silkier hair, a longer-lasting erection. It leaves us wondering: is this simply an instruction for extracting toothpaste from a tube, or a mantra for getting more out of life? Certainly context would argue for the former. But why not make it clear then? I'm betting there's deeper meaning here.

And I think you all agree with me.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Ho_Hum 

Did you know that birds and aquatic mammals have the ability to sleep with one side of their brain wide awake? They do. It's called unihemispheric slow-wave sleep. It's why ducks can sleep with one eye open and why dolphins don't drown while taking naps. Land mammals seem to have lost this ability, maybe because we've learned to build safe enclosures for ourselves, or we sleep in packs, or because sleeping in water is just so annoying and makes our skin prune.

Okay, here's another: have you ever spent all day trying to learn something—a piece of music, for instance—and you just can't seem to get it and then you sleep on it and the next day you can play it perfectly? One theory as to why this happens is that there is a little janitor crew inside your head that comes in and washes your brain clean while you sleep, getting rid of the garbage and leaving behind the important stuff. And the theory makes sense. Figuratively, of course. Though I really wish it were literal, because I went ahead and named my janitors: Elvis and Bigsby.

Oh! Then there's this: have you spent all day doing something like surfing (the ocean variety, not online), and then find yourself dreaming vividly about it that night, so much so that you can actually feel the water against your body? It's your brain's way of making sense of those new problems it was tackling all day (the waves) and what's really interesting is when it takes those problems and mixes them with other problems you've encountered in your life and creates new situations out of them. Which is why you might have a dream about doing yoga on a ski slope. Or riding horses in the middle of the ocean.

If any of this interests you, you might like to listen to last year's May 25th Radiolab episode on sleep.

But be careful, because you might subscribe to their podcast and get sucked in and wind up listening to every episode, back-to-back until your head explodes. Which, luckily has not happened to me, yet. But I'm skirting a very fine line. Because Radiolab is definitely my new favorite show. And I've listened to a good many episodes over the last week. It's sort of like This American Life in that each episode consists of stories; however, all the stories have a scientific slant. Many seem to focus on some aspect of neuroscience, and how studying the brain can shed light on topics such as Stress, Laughter, or "Who Am I?"—all of which are actual episode titles. But there is also an anthropological and philosophical bent to the discussion. (Is laughter, by necessity a social phenomenon? More importantly, is laughter the thing that makes us human?) And sometimes a little physics works it's way in there too, such as the episode on "Time" where they discuss relativity, and how time can slow down or speed up depending on who you are and what you're doing. Not figuratively, but actually.

Or course, this might all sound kind of nerdy and a little too intense for leisure-time listening. But the way the show is done—as this sort of ongoing casual conversation between host/producer Jad Abumrad and co-host Robert Krulwich—it doesn't come across that way at all. Instead, it seems like the hosts are learning (and really struggling with) the topics along with you and you feel a part of the conversation. It's entertaining and—gasp!—informative at the same time. Indeed, Radiolab is helping me to evolve ... in all kinds of ways. Pretty soon, I'm hoping I'll be able to sleep with one eye open again.

link to this | comments (7) | File:  Surfing  Radio  Brain 

O Lord, I give joyful thanks for the lawn equipment you have given me.

After bringing home the shiny new Toro Mower and the Stihl Kombi-System Trimmer yesterday, and putting them in my shed, I could feel Your grace wash over me. And I sat for a moment and basked in this glory and contemplated the fact that the trimmer's engine can actually power a leaf blower along with several other attachments, including an edger, a cultivator, a hedge trimmer, and a power sweeper, and my heart was filled with wonder by all of these glorious instruments and the thought that one day they might all populate my shed and how this hope was a testament of Your love for men everywhere, O Lord, and of Your eternal genius.

And thank you, Lord, for delivering unto me an angel by the name of Fred, who owns the lawn equipment store down the road a ways, and who, in his thick Jersey accent, patiently coached me in the proper way to use these divine instruments of lawn maintenance. When he revved the engine of the mower in the parking lot, I could feel Your power fill my heart and understood that enlightenment was near. I grunted to Fred. And he grunted back. Because in our heightened state of spiritual awareness, language no longer mattered. Words were only obstacles to the exaltation of Your magnificent glory. Instead, we communicated like our forefathers, directly through simple, mono-syllabic sounds. And it was good and it was righteous.

And bringing that mower home, O Lord, in the bed of my truck—it's handlebar raised high and tall and shining in the New Jersey sun—was perhaps the proudest moment of my life. Could a man hope for something greater? And later, as I was filling my new red gasoline jugs at the Exxon, the attendant actually let me do the honors—which I didn't think was legal in Jersey—and I spilled a little on my hand. But I didn't wash it off, Lord, because the sweet smell of it filled my heart with gladness and brought back memories of my childhood, mowing lawns in the armpit wetness of Houston town. And as I drove home I scratched my beard with that hand so that the smell would embed itself there and follow me throughout the day and let others know that I have received this gift of love. And that I had been blessed with Your Holy Mercy.

Finally, Lord, I ask that you keep my neighbor's hearts from filling with envy at the sight of my new powerful lawn-care tools. And in turn, I will do my best not to covet that which I do not yet have and to not be jealous of A---, my next-door neighbor with the amazing green lawn.

Amen.

link to this | comments (11) | File:  Remington  Oogah  House  Grunt 

I sometimes take a break from droning on about my life in order to share with you all some nugget of wisdom I've learned about subjects ranging from grilling to hanging drywall. It's because I'm not selfish when it comes to knowledge and I see the sharing of it as a sort of public service. So in honor of tax day, which is coming up, I thought I would finally publish my time-tested method* for getting my taxes done on time and in order.

Step 1: Plan Ahead

It's important to start your tax planning early! So this first step is crucial, and it's honestly the bulk of what you need to do. Beginning on April 16th, right after you file your previous year's tax return, go ahead and completely ignore your finances until sometime in early March of the following year. This is harder than you think. Obviously, you will still need to pay your bills, and watch your bank balance. You know, to ensure you don't go bankrupt. The trick, however, is this: as you're spending and depositing money, you want to make it as hard as possible to figure out exactly where any of that money came from or where it went.

But how? Well, for starters: If somebody pays you money, just deposit it without making any record as to why you received it or who gave it to you.

Second, try scattering your check stubs and receipts willy-nilly in various locations around your house. The less rhyme or reason, the better. Leave a few in your car glove compartment. Or in the pocket of a coat you only wore once. Or—my personal favorite—the bread-box.

Try putting an uncashed check somewhere you'll never look.

My favorite: Instead of writing down payments you make in some sort of paper-based or electronic register, just file them in your brain, where they are sure to remain for about as long as it takes you to drink a cup of coffee.

I'm sure you're thinking, This is so much info! How am I supposed to remember all of this? I know it may seem like a lot to absorb all at once, and right now it may not seem very intuitive. But believe me, once you get the hang of it, you'll find it gets easier and easier.

Step 2: Keep it Interesting

Nobody likes doing a boring tax return. And nothing says "boring" like staying in one place. That's why I've recently added this step to my usual bag of tricks. I've found you can really spice things up by living (and doing business in) at least three different states throughout the tax year. And if you're really feeling adventurous, go ahead and buy a property in one of those states and then decide to move and sell it. You know, just real quick-like. Just buy it, and live in it for a month, and then sell that sucker. It's kind of a rush. Don't worry that you might be losing money. Just do it! And don't forget to adhere to the principals outlined in Step 1 while conducting all business. I can't underscore enough how important that first step is.

Step 3: Be Productive

Starting in early March, start looking for ways that you can be productive without actually doing your taxes or anything else related to your finances. This will make you feel great about all you're getting done, and will trick your brain into forgetting the important stuff you're neglecting, thereby halting any annoying anxiety that could develop. It helps if you have a real business project to work on, as this will give your procrastination purpose. But in lieu of that, you can also try doing busywork or running errands that are under no time crunch whatsoever. For me, blogging works nicely. But feel free to stretch your creative muscle here. The key is to feel productive while completely ignoring the impending tax day.

Step 4: Stay in Good Mental Condition through Proper Diet

By late March, you may find it harder and harder to ignore the looming date. And your efforts at being productive might not have the same mollifying effect. So at this point, it may help to begin consuming large amounts of alcohol. There's no strict formula here, but basically you want to try to drink more than you normally would. So, for instance, if you consume, let's say, two beers a night, try doubling that. And adding a shot. Or if you're usually a cocktail-with-dinner type of a person, try two cocktails. And a glass of wine. If you don't drink at all, you will need to start light and work your way up. I recommend picking up a bottle of Rumpleminze. It's sweet and minty-fresh and goes down (somewhat) easy, but it contains twice the alcohol content of other liqueurs. Therefore you can be pleasantly shnockered and entirely kissable at the same time. Which brings us to Step 5.

Step 5: If Necessary, Seek Help from Friends

Sometimes alcohol alone is not enough to keep our minds off of an important task. So another thing that can work just as well, or even better, is to engage in as much sex as humanely (or inhumanely) possible. Admittedly, this step isn't for everybody. If you're married, for instance, you'll probably have to rule this option out altogether. But sex can be a great alternative if you don't drink or do hard drugs, or if you do but they're just not working anymore. Depending on your level of anxiety, it may help to have sex with multiple partners, either at separate times or simultaneously. Just don't forget to practice safe sex!

Step 6: Focus

One morning, say around April 10th, wake up in the middle of the night sweating. It would help matters immensely if you could try to have one of those nightmares where you suddenly realize you forgot to study for an exam or you're about to sing the National Anthem at Yankee Stadium, but you forgot the words...and you're naked. Dreams are hard to produce precisely, so don't worry if you can't get this exactly right. The important thing is that you wake up in a panic. Then, you should exclaim several consecutive curse words, forming a sentence that makes absolutely no sense to anybody, and begin rifling through every file you have in search of receipts, check stubs, or hell, anything that has numbers written on it. During this process, you'll want to make sure you know the expressions, "Where the fuck could that have gone?" and "Goddammit, next year, I will be better about filing this shit." Go ahead and pick a room and then throw everything you have found on the floor. With that done, it's time to take a break and grab a bite to eat. You'll need your strength for what lies ahead. Be sure NOT to drink alcohol or have sex. These steps, while fun, are now over. It's now important to maintain a certain level of anxiety to help get you through the next several days.

Step 7: Consult a Higher Power

After eating, go back into the room where all the papers are now scattered. Choke back the fear and dread you have swelling in your stomach (otherwise known as "vomit") and while standing among those papers, tilt your head to the ceiling and pray to God to get him to turn all of this crap into something you can actually file to the IRS. If you're Catholic, or just feeling Catholic, you might want to go ahead and ask forgiveness for all the indulgences you've engaged in over the last year. You can try crying if you want, but in my experience, God usually ignores tears in this particular situation. Unless you're Baptist. Then crying is encouraged. But be careful ... this whole step could prove rather risky for you. You might be better off not mentioning Step 4 or 5 to God because he might strike you down on the spot. Keep in mind, this whole process could take as many as five or six hours, and there's only a slight chance God is actually going to help you. Still it's worth a try. Because if he does, it'll keep you from having to complete Step 8.

Step 8: Dirty Work

As April 15th approaches, don't expect to engage in anything resembling rational thought or speak in your natural-born language. For this period of time, you will have to think about these things called "numbers." And you will have to make sense out of them. You will have to dig up records of these numbers and be able to prove that they existed. Chances are you will be un-showered, unshaved, and you might develop a faint stink. You may remain this way for several days, so you should prepare anybody close to you so they are not shocked, horrified...or made ill. Occasionally, you will revert back to Step 7 and plead with God to end your misery. You will certainly cry. But do not worry. This is completely normal and means you've done everything up to now correctly. Throughout this final step, you will feel an irresistible urge to re-visit Steps 4 and 5. But this would be a terrible distraction. And besides, with the way you look now, you would run the risk of being arrested. There will be plenty of time for all that next year. For now, you've got to plow through this shit, brother.

That's it! When you've completed these eight steps, you will be tired and you might have difficulty remembering your name or how to chew food. Therefore, you may want to sleep for a few days...and rest easy knowing that next year you'll have the opportunity to do it all over again.

* Warning: I'm not a CPA or any other form of accounting professional, so any advice I have to offer in regard to matters of finance could actually do you physical harm.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Taxes  Ho_Hum  Finances 

I've decided to stop having the title of these Fiction Friday exercises be the name of the exercise. Because the names of the exercises are kind of boring. I had actually been thinking this for the last couple of ones I posted, and then this week's exercise was called "God." And that settled it. Because I didn't want to call any post "God." That just seemed weird. So here's the gist of this week's number:


I have a confession to make with this one ... I chose it from the book mainly because this week was a busy week of getting caught up and I needed something short. Two-hundred words is pretty short. But then I got even lazier than that. I didn't actually write anything. Instead, I pulled a section of text from the novella I wrote in college called "Riding the Line," which had this quirky, all-seeing, all-knowing, omniscient narrator, because—back then—I wanted to be the next Tom Robbins. And okay, maybe I still do. So, this is the first couple of paragraphs of the first chapter of the second section of that novella. Originally, it was simply titled "Robby." There are several characters in the story, and many of them are alluded to in this passage, though not by name. Just something to keep in mind as you read. Have a good weekend.


Some people see life through rose-colored glasses, others through a shade of blue. Some people's glasses are mirrored, reflecting life back at itself, while others' are endlessly dark, absorbing everything into their murky center. Most people's glasses are clear, but translucency is a strange thing and clarity can be painful. That's why some people prefer to wear 3-D; the distortion keeps them sane.

Drinkers see life through the bottom of their beer glass, smokers over the end of their cigarette; dippers keep it safely tucked away between their gum and lip. Performers on the big stage try to see life, but life can be hard to make out when you're staring in those bright lights all the time. Movie directors look at life through the eyepiece of a camera, creating the scene, telling actors where to stand and what to do. Actors look back at blank lenses. Visionary. Visionless. Vision-fed.

Mathematicians see life as an endless arrangement of numbers, writers, as an endless arrangement of words.

Some little red-heads see life in the reflection of a full-length mirror and some big-bellied raw-looking men see it through banana peels, grass clippings, and cat claws.

Robby Plum saw life through the tailpipe of a 1973 Buick.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Fiction  Exercises 

I've had this misconception about roosters. And that's not something I ever expected to have a misconception about. But, holy crap, I really have. And I've had it for about as long as I can remember. I think maybe I got it from watching cartoons. Or possibly from reading books with colorful drawings in them where all these animals live together swimmingly in a big red barn. And for a kid growing up in the concrete, strip-center sprawl of suburban Houston, life in and around the big red barn seemed pretty damned great and idyllic. Because farm animals were awfully considerate and well-behaved and all these creatures did their part to contribute to the cycle of life on the farm and they just played and slept and sometimes worked, but even the work they loved. And they also loved each other and were a team and never disturbed anybody. And from this early education I acquired about farms, I understood that roosters were vitally important for getting the whole operation going in the morning. And they did this by crowing once at dawn. Just a cock-a-doodle-doo. Just one. A friendly message to the people on the farm who might still be sleeping that ... Hey everybody, so sorry to interrupt your restful slumber, I'll be brief ... I only wish to inform you that the sun is indeed up now, its rays just became visible over the horizon there and it looks like we're in for another day of blue skies and no rain ... so if you want, it's safe to go ahead and get up, have a shower, take a whiz, stretch a bit, you know ... but if you're still tired, if you were up late drinking and you just now discovered you'd actually forgotten to take off your clothes and your sleeping diagonally across your bed and your arm is asleep under the weight of your body and your cheek is laying in a wet pool of drool, and your head is just a great big god-dammed boulder, and the sun isn't something you want to see until sometime next week, well, I apologize ... I'll just shut up now and you can go back to bed ... I'm so very sorry for the intrusion ... unfortunately, it had to be done, because it's my job ... and yes, I'll be back tomorrow at the same time, but I'll try to be quick about it.

Well, I was set straight about roosters in Mexico. And I'm sorry to break this to you all, but Margaret Wise Brown lied to us. And it's been perpetuated by other kid-media throughout the years. By cartoons. Probably even by freakin' Sesame Street. Believe: this shit goes straight to the top. And I don't understand the cover up. I really don't—why nobody ever told us that roosters sometimes liked to crow, you know, at two in the a-m, for instance. Or three-thirty for that matter. Or five. And really at just about every time leading up to, and including, dawn. And then frequently throughout the day. This would be useful information to have. Because if you're going to be staying anyplace where there might be a rooster living next door, then you might make plans. You might call ahead and find out if there's somebody who can procure a shotgun, for instance. Or a flame-thrower.

Here's some more truth: Cock-a-doodle-doo doesn't even come close to describing the hell-scream that is the rooster crow. And the one single crow at dawn and then back to sleep schtick is ... crap. Roosters have a small brain. They forget they just spoke. And so they repeat themselves. Over and over. And over. And over. And each time, they seem surprised by their remarkable profundity, and ... sheer volume. And at their uncanny ability to render horrifying and dreadful the peaceful calm of an early morning in a sleepy coastal town in Mexico.

Here's a video, to give a feel for things. It's 3 am. I'm on the balcony across the hall from our room. Note the waves crashing in the distance. So peaceful. And that big light in the corner ... that's the moon. Because—did I mention this?—it's three in the morning. The recording doesn't do justice to just how loud were those cock-a-doodle-doos, but you get the idea. Imagine these calls echoing around in a house interior made up of marble floors.



I'm sure, just like with the fire-engines that used to go up and down Mass Ave in front of our building in DC, we would have eventually gotten used to the rooster crows, but after the first couple of nights with the windows open and waking up to that screeching, we caved and closed them up and ran a fan for white noise. It was an unfortunate but necessary step.

Despite the rooster, or maybe because of him, the trip to San Pancho was quite great. And a wonderful reprieve from a New Jersey that's still having temperatures in the 30s and 40s.

The pics are here. Or check 'em out below:



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