Swimming With Sharks

I had to admit I was scared. Two days earlier Jill had signed us up for an excursion on a boat trip to feed sharks and rays.

As we got on the boat the weather went from slightly overcast to clear and beautiful. The boat took us from Cook’s bay (named after Captain Cook) back to Opanahu Point just in front of our hotel but about 200 yards offshore.

The captain, a indegneous man originally from the Marquesas Islands slowed the boat down and anchored. Everybody on the boat began to suit up. “Good, they’re already here,” he said as he threw a bucket of chum into the water.

I looked over the side of the boat at the wrong moment. As soon as the fish guts hit the drink the water began to boil with the trashing of dorsal and tail fins, which could only mean sharks.

Major anxiety and the butt pucker factor kicked in. I mean it’s only natural to be fearful of sharks, to fear getting into the same water with a creature that was meant to consume you.

Before I jumped in I noticed that one of the deck-hands was throwing out about 20 feet of rope attached to a large buoy. “Stay to the left side of the rope an you’ll be safe, “ yelled the captain. Ah the rope rule. All sharks know the rope rule. You stay on that side and I’ll stay on this side. Right. Just like on the Discovery channel.



“Get into zee water!” the Cameraman yelled.

“Not so fast Frenchy,” I thought to myself.

Not wanting to be showed up by the Frenchman, the Japanese tourists and everybody else on the boat I jumped in. I could hear a loud repetitive, deep rasping sound along with my heartbeat. It was my panicked breathing through my snorkel. I wanted to just get a bearing as to where I was. I wanted to see where they were at relevant to where I was.

Once I saw the sharks, albeit many of them I was okay. Nobody was immediately consumed upon hitting the water. The sharks did not zero in on anyone and feast. Life was going to be okay.

I’m not sure how the current was running that day but the eau de chum must have wafted our way. Several of the sharks swam at eye level right towards us, but upon seeing us darted away. Mutual respect in nature is a good thing.



Then, one of the sharks disobeyed the rope rule and swam 4 feet directly below me. Once again I puckered, but despite my fear I managed to squeeze off a couple of shots.

We were in the water with the black tip reef sharks for about a half hour. Both Aimee and Jill had jumped in behind me without so much a moment’s fear or hesitation. Jill stayed with Aimee hanging onto the rope, Jill pointing out the different sharks and minions of fish that abounded. Both got back on the boat as soon as they got tired of treading water and had their fill of viewing the man-killers up close.



Shortly after that we headed a short distance to shallower waters and were greeted by a school of rays. Unlike the skiddish sharks the rays were friendly and downright social. They swam directly up to all of us and let us touch and pet them. Aimee had a harder time with the rays because she was not use to them and she thought they looked “freaky.”



Even though we were able to stand waist deep I dove down under to get on the same level as the rays. The rays glided up to and right past me. About 10 feet in the distance I could see 6 sharks, it was time to get back on the boat.

More than just an excursion on a vacation, the trip was life changing for me. Much like my days as a paratrooper I had a fear and without showing it faced it directly. I was able to share part of the experience with my wife and daughter.

It was an incredible day.

Under the Tahitian Sky

Of earth, of sky and of water, Tahiti is a true paradise. Its sights are breathtaking, vibrant colors, vivid hues in every color of the spectrum.



Mists surround green spires that shoot toward the sky, the sides of the islands weep pure spring waters from fern grottos.



Crystal clear waters gently lap the shores as huge rays glide through the waters and swim up to you as if to welcome you to paradise. In the not too far distance waves break on the motu.

Fish greet you as you swim through azure waters. Sharks swim freely around and under you.



Everywhere you look life abounds. Tahiti is truly an amazing place.

Too Much Moleskine?

I’ve been writing in journals for the last 22 years but for the last 6 years I’ve been addicted to the little black book. I started out with the sketchbook as a second journal to keep sketches and drawings. One day in a pinch I switched to using it as a journal and have never looked back. With the exception of trying out the Miquelrius for a short period of time I have been a true user since. The only other deviations I have made have been trying the various sizes of the Moleskine plain sketchbook and un-ruled book. Prior to that I used the standard Canson sketchbooks in the 5x7 and 4x5 formats. No sketchbook or notebook that I have used so far is as good as any of the Moleskines. the quality of the paper, the thickness and tooth are perfect and just work for me.

A new Moleskine watercolor book arrived in the mail today. I now have three different versions in my briefcase, a blank pocket notebook, a blank reporter’s notebook, and now the watercolor book.

So you ask, why would you need three?

I’m going to Tahiti at the end of June so here are my reasons:

Blank Pocket Journal
I normally use the Blank Pocket journal, I have just filled up my last journal and I was in need of another one.

Reporter’s Notebook
Whenever I have covered a story I have used the standard issue J-school, spiral bound, blue-ruled, 4x8 Sparco reporter’s notebook. On my next trip that we are taking I would like to take a few notes about some local industries there in Tahiti and write an article or two for submission. I like to keep my reporter’s notes separate from my personal notes and observations. After an article has been submitted for publication I like to they keep the notes filed with the story for later reference.

Watercolor Notebook
When traveling or just out and about I take my Windsor & Newton pocket watercolor set with me. Finding a watercolor book equally as small has not been easy. As others have already observed the sketchbooks is not suited for watercolor work. The current book that Arches 8x16 book that I have is too large. The new Moleskine looks just right. Plus you can tear out the pages after making a sketch, slap a stamp on the back and presto…instant post card. I know that there will be a moment out there in the beach or on the deck of the over-water bungalow where I can capture the moment in watercolor.

Yes, my Moleskine(s) is my obsession, but they now make a different one for each of my needs.

The Death of Common Sense

“The scone must go on the conveyor belt or it doesn’t go onto the plane!” the TSA agent shouted. I had just placed all of my carry-on items into the x-ray machine and was about to go through the metal detector. “What about the coffee? Is it too a possible weapon of mass destruction and a threat to the passenger and crew? It’s only decaf.” I reply.

This only seemed to agitate the minimum wage federal agent even more. “Just put the scone on the belt!” he shouted.


As I turn I mumble some more acidic comments. “Is this a new plot from al Qaeda? Have the terrorists infiltrated Starbucks and replaced my regular chocolate-chip scone with a Symtex explodie scone?” I could tell that what I had just said was heard by the second agent located next to the metal detector from the look on his face. He shouts at me, “who has the boarding passes!?” “I do and you should consider switching to Sanka, you guys really need to calm down,” I reply. “Just step through the metal sir and hand me your passes.” As I walk through the metal detector I raise my hands above my head and say “I’m an American, hold your fire.” This really sets them off. A supervisor walks over and tells me to put down my arms. I then ask them if my papers are in order. Realizing that their aggression will not get me to act submissive they just give up with their border guard act and send me on my way. For the moment I had won.

“You were in a testy mood,” Jill remarked. Up to the point where the guard had started to shout at me I was in a pretty mellow mood. It was the total lack of logic, the lack of respect and lack of common sense that set me off. Just looking into their sullen, sunken eyes you could see a lack of intelligence, a lack of soul or self.

This leads to the question; Do we have the right people in place doing this? Are they merely a rubber stamp place-holder of a federalized minimum wage rent-a-cop?

...all the TSA really does is serve as a deterrent & take away items from the public...

To be honest we never got it right the moment that the 4th plane hit the ground. We panicked and federalized the airports with the military who were untrained and unable to deal with the public. Problems with complaints began early on about the military and the new security force in place ranging from harassment to inappropriate searches on females.



For the most part all the TSA really does is serve as a deterrent & take away items from the public that are verboten on planes. Most of the time these items that were about to be carried on were forgotten about in the bottom of the bag. The TSA agent merely reminds the passenger that they were there. Many times items make it past the guards and scissors, razor blades and needles make the journey without incident.



What does the TSA do with all of their sharp and pointy booty that they have acquired over the years? Even by modest estimates they should have amassed several metric tons of nail clippers, scissors, and Swiss Army knives by now. According to the TSA website all of the items that are detained or “abandoned” are held for 30 days then turned over to a government surplus outlet.

America for the most part has is in the process of becoming a zero tolerance state. Why is that? A child is suspended for a year for having a bottle of Tylenol at school, another is expelled for having a steak knife packed in his lunch by his mother so that he could cut his food.

I met a salesman some years back, an elder gentleman. Very laid back and easy going compared to the harried mentality of Los Angeles. “Life on the range,” is what he would say about his Wyoming upbringing. He said that his son had recently moved out to LA and just as quickly had moved back. The first time that he got out of his pickup truck with his dog he got a $250 ticket for not having a leash. That’s all it took. “What kind of a place is LA where you can’t even walk around with a dog,” he thought.

What it comes down to is the more people you have the more rules you must have. Think about it. Where that kid came from they probably didn’t have a stoplight in his town. He moves to a town of 10 million or so and sees that just about every move that you make is cover by a law of some sort, including his dog.

I’m not going to discount that the TSA is there to make sure that we are all safe and their ultimate responsibility is to get us home safely. I will not forget the fact that 3000 people vaporized in just a few moments because we lacked the follow through in while pretending to be vigilant. All of these laws, rules and regulation are put in place to protect us. But does that have to come with the price of trust and human respect?
Must regulating ourselves as a society result in the death of common sense?



Once on board I ate my scone after spilling my cup of coffee. I ordered a second cup from the stewardess who was kind enough to show me all of the freedom badges on her apron that she had collected from various military, police, fire and governmental agents since 9/11. I thanked her for the coffee and for sharing her story.


The scone was plain, dry and not very good. Sometimes you have to pick your battles. In retrospect this one was not really worth it. I should have given it to the angry TSA agent. Maybe he would have had a better day.

It’s ironic that they don’t serve food on the plane yet you are subject to an inquisition if you try to bring something onboard.

The Suit of the Future

Back in 1978 I wanted a suit for my 8th grade graduation that was coming up. Even back then I had a sense of style.

My father and I searched extensively but we couldn’t find the traditional style suit.

He tried to make me feel better about not being able to find it.
He announced, “Son, wool, silk, cotton, those things are a thing of the past.

THIS is the suit of the future.”

I am so glad that he was wrong.

But even then I had to succumb to the fashion of the times



I am so glad that the ‘70s and subsequent comeback are now dead.

Burnt Out in Spanish Hell While Dreaming of Tahiti

For some reason I’ve been feeling burned out. Perhaps it's my schedule of work, school, working out for the marathons, and family. I may be on overload. Another issue is that I am not exactly happy at school. For the last 10 years I'’ve been going to school trying to get a bachelors degree, I a’m almost halfway there. Because of all that goes into my life I'’m pretty much limited to one class, two max per semester. For the last two years I have been stuck in Spanish hell. I am in the third semester with one left to go for the two- year language requirement for the university. Because I am graduating on the Arts side of the fence I needed the foreign language to graduate from the Arizona college system. I already acquired an AA from a community college in Northern California, it'’s just that the Arizona system requires more. If I can get through this and one math class I can graduate from the community college and get another AA degree. I'’ll still need some more base requirements to transfer over to Arizona State University (again) but if I can I can enter as a junior. I would just need to reapply to the University and the school of journalism for entrance at the professional level.



Spanish Hell
I picked Spanish not because it would be easier or that I already knew quite a bit of it. I just thought that it would be infinitely more usable than any of the axis languages that I had contemplated studying like Japanese, German or Italian. Despite having knowledge of a great deal of the vocabulary already at the level of Spanish that I am working at there is a plethora of verb conjugations which has stopped me dead in my tracks. I hit the end of my Spanish knowledge somewhere mid-semester during Spanish 102.


Plethora? What’s a plethora?

With English you change the sentence around the verb. In Spanish it's all about the verb. Instead of saying and would go or I went, the suffix of the verb changes, this is not even getting into the list of irregular verbs or the reflexive. With around 500 common use verbs that one has to memorize you have to understand that there are 15 conjugations each. That's a lot of memorizing. Needless to say, I am having a challenging time beyond the present tense getting into subjunctive, future, past, past perfect, past subjunctive, mandate and so on.


I guess what I miss are all of the journalism and writing classes that I took at the beginning of my studies. I miss writing for the paper and having my own column. Someday if and when I get to the university and the college of journalism I can write again Until then I'’ll just blog. Scorpion Sandwich has provided me an outlet and a means of sanity and keeps me off the ivory tower despite being a better shot than Lee Harvey Oswald or Clarence Whitman combined. At least it keeps me sane, if only for the moment.

Dreams of Tahiti

Over the years we have taken many of a vacation, during some of the trips I have managed to achieve some level of decompression from the stresses of life. But for the most part because of my a type-a personality, years of built up angst and anxiety I often find it hard to find the triggers that allow me to decompress psychologically while the triggers to only make it worse only abound in my life. Of all of the times that I have taken off of work I can only remember a handful of them where I can say that I was able to fully relax. I now know what it takes to get there at the very least it'’s just getting there and allowing myself to relax.

I have a friend that I use to work with when I worked as a supervisor at the Pasadena Production Studios/Pasadena Camera Rental. At the time Danee Hazama was shooting as a freelance photographer and also worked part time at the rental house.



Danee would come up to me on occasion and say
"Hey, I have to go because the President of Tahiti is here along with the Ambassador to France." Usually when an employee has a head of state in town to see them I thought it best to let them go for the day. About a month after that Danee asked me if I could do a favor for him. As a photographer he would usually shoot for the French and Tahitian governments when they needed him to. But in this particular case he needed someone else to take pictures for him so that he could attend to other duties, so he asked me. The event was a US/Tahitian friendship dinner. The evening consisted of dinner, Tahitian entertainers and dancers, raffle and door prizes and dancing afterwards. Little did I realize that at one of the table was seated the president of Air France and several high ranking Tahitian and French Government officials. It was nice that Danee trusted me with my photography skills and let me work the event. I had so much fun that it wasn'’t like work at all. Seeing all of the culture and hearing about the island, I was hooked. I'’ve wanted to visit Tahiti since.



Shortly after leaving EarthLink I was in a bad place in my life. I had lost my call center, my dog had recently died, my life was starting to sound like a country western song. With the new job things only got worse. I was doing 17 hour days, working through the weekends and under constant high pressure from the job, just over all miserable.

One day in the middle of the fray I had to take a moment and take my wife and kid to the airport. They were flying out of town to see her mom in Reno. I had just dropped them off and as I made my way back to the car I passed by the AmericaWest counter. A man was putting up a new sign. "Now Flights Daily to Zihuatanejo." The gate was open, the first passengers were embarking and I had just remembered that I held silver certificate frequent flyer status with AmericaWest, possibly the shittiest airline in existence. I had spent the last three years flying to Sacramento, Seattle, Pasadena, San Antonio, Atlanta, Omaha, St John Newbrunswick, and Yakima. After all those late flights and crappy meals I had earned one free flight to anyplace that they flew. I had a vision at that moment of me standing on the beach in my business clothes with my slacks rolled up and I was standing in the surf as the waves rolled in. Upon seeing the sign I remembered a scene from The Shawshank Redemption.



ANDY: Tell you where I'd go. Zihuatanejo.

RED: Zihuatanejo?

ANDY: Mexico. Little place right on the Pacific. You know what the Mexicans say about the Pacific? They say it has no memory. That's where I'd like to finish out my life, Red. A warm place with no memory. Open a little hotel right on the beach. Buy some worthless old boat and fix it up like new. Take my guests out charter fishing.

I wanted to just get on that plane and leave. I just wanted to get on the plane, land in Mexico, catch a cab and head straight for the beach just long enough to walk in the surf, just long enough to decompress. I didn'’t want to quit or give notice, just be gone until somebody noticed. But I couldn't. My sense of responsibility, duty and dedication that had been brainwashed into my psyche did not allow me to do the spontaneous thing and just run away. I just sighed, dropped my chin into my chest and shuffled to the parking lot to get into my car and go to work.

Jill's life and schedule are no better, She is driven every moment of the day. Somedays she only gets three hours of sleep yet manages to get herself up to exercise, get Aimee and herself ready for school, work an entire day at school as an aide, take Aimee to either piano lesions, Aikido or a Girl Scout meeting,, only to then come home make dinner for the kid, read stories and put Aimee to bed, then have to start work on either the magazines or one of the books that she is working on at any time. She lives by the way of the shark; swim or die. There have been times where she has dropped off to sleep at work and school, once falling asleep while she was standing up.

With all of the madness going on in our lives we decided to take a vacation. Not just a vacation involving seeing family, but a vacation that was just all about relaxing, doing nothing at all. After looking at all of the places in the world to possibly visit Jill finally succumbed to my recommendation and said
'The hell with it, let'’s go to Tahiti."”



Last year was a good year for many different reasons, which is why we are able to go to French Polynesia. But I can honestly say that this is a vacation of a lifetime.

All I can say is the excitement of such a journey was summed up by Morgan Freeman'’s monologue from the last line of The Shawshank Redemption:

RED: I find I am so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it is the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain... I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope.



Tahiti photos used with the permission of Danee Hazama Photography.

The Ultimate Smackdown

SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY!

I'd watch, but I wouldn't get into the ring.


Aimee, Jill and I were headed to cultural festival in downtown Phoenix and I saw the sign. I had the camera in my lap as I was making a left turn. Sheer luck.

One Step Closer to Paradise, Just don’t Smile About It

About three years ago I got the impending order from my boss, “go get your passport, you’re probably going to India.” I went to a local shipping/mail service-type bureau, the type that are in a strip mall located next to a Supercuts or Radio Shack and got my picture taken. At the time nobody said anything was said when the picture was taken, just a quick click and off I went. I never got to use the passport. I ended up going only to Canada (where you don’t need a passport). I ended up taking a different job.

Fast forward to today and all of us were in the same place where I got my picture taken so that Aimee and Jill could get their pictures taken for their passports. For some time now we have been talking about going on vacation. We’ve been talking about going someplace far away, someplace that there is no cellphone reception no calls from our jobs. We decided to go to Tahiti. In a long list of preparations for the trip, getting the passports for the girls was one of the tasks that we had to get done right away.



Jill was the first to sit. “Smile,” I tell her.

“You’re not suppose to smile for your passport pictures, it’s forbidden,” stated the clerk.

“Will the authorities from other countries see that you are smiling and arrest you for being, happy, healthy and an overfed American?” I ask.

“No, because it distorts your face”

“So does the 50 pounds of fat on my face, so when did smiling or not matter?” I reply.

She giggles smugly half igmoring my reply and takes the picture.



Upon seeing the pictures, I am kind of disappointed that both Jill and Aimee look so solem. Aimee looks like Tuesday from the Addams Family.



I guess that they forgot to read me the rules when they took my picture back in 2002.

Now no one will recognize me because in the picture on my passport I broke the rules, I am smiling and I am grossly overweight looking like Pugsly in a green polo shirt.

The Dog Blanket

By the time his ashes and collar came unceremoniously in a box most of the crying was done. All that was felt was the hole that he left behind. The vet came by to drop them off. I thanked the Vet for all of her care and concern. Placing his ashes and collar on the mantle had just ended a 10-year friendship. Though he is gone I still think about him everyday.

My dog didn't shed, he’d molt. His fur came out in small feather like tufts.
My father was always against having pets and much like the father in the original story " Cheaper by the Dozen" my father thought that pets were useless because they did not produce eggs, milk or meat.



I have heard of people vacuuming their dogs. I have one of those stand-up one-piece vacuums with the rotating brush action on the bottom. My dog would see the beast and always keeps a weary eye on it. While lying on the carpet he’d try to maintain his composure as the Hoover whirred its way back and forth in front of him. As soon as he saw it changing course in the slightest degree toward him he would move out quickly at a brisk pace looking indignant.

I had pretty much given up on trying to keep up with the mess. I would pull out the vacuum right at the point where I couldn’t stand it any more and the house looked like a poultry facility with minions of Sterling's tufts of fur looking like chicken feathers coating the carpet.

I wished that the molt would happen all at once. Sterling would shed in phases. First his back, then his rear haunches, then his chest and tail, until finally his sides slowly began to yield.
The dog shedded twice a year. The first "coat blow" was slow and insidious. His straw-like guard hairs were the first to go. Shortly after his undercoat began to become unglued. This would usually happen just after we gave him a bath. I guess that the dog shampoo washes away the dog hair glue that kept him all together
You can tell where he has walked before because you'll find chunks of dog hair stuck in bushes, lawns & shrubs like breadcrumbs that lead to a gingerbread house in the Bavarian forest. One time we took him to a groomer. While he was being blow-dried so much fur was flying off of him that the groomer had to take him out to the back alley to finish drying him. It was a surreal site to see the voluminous amount of fur flying around. He looked like one of those snowmaking machines coating all of the streets of Burbank.
Sterling’s fur would get everywhere. On a windy day about a mile away from the house a bird’s nest was blowing down the street. I decided to pick it up and show it to my daughter. When I did I discovered that the nest was made from grass, twigs and Sterling’s fur. A few years back I had to rebuild our deck out back. We had lived in the house for five years and I was making some repairs in preparation to sell it. Upon taking apart the deck I had found that dog’s fir was entangled in between the deck planks and serews.



Charlene LaBelle, Malamute breeder and author brought it to our attention that Malamute fur can be collected and that it can be spun into yarn. She pulled off the stocking cap that she was wearing. The cap was soft and pliable. Softer than lambs wool not scratchy like the sweaters that your mom made you wear to school. Malamute undercoat is white or more of a cream color. Sometimes it can be sable or gray in color.
Sterling would know when it was time to be harvested. The brush and zip-lock bag were kept in the same drawer as the dog walking paraphernalia. The drawer pull would make a familiar ka-clink whenever the drawer was opened. For Sterling that either meant a walk or a brushing, and he would scurry over to see. When he saw the brush he’d snap his teeth like an alligator. Sometimes he’d try to nibble on the brush. Jill would sit and brush him for as long as he allowed her to.



If she was wearing a black pair of pants when she was done her pants (and everything else for that matter) would be coated in dog fur. When she stood up she would look like she was wearing a pair of those furry chaps from the black & white cowboy movies. She would stiffly make her way to the trashcan looking like something out of a Tom Nix movie.
My mother-in-law who is an avid knitter knew and recommended a friend of hers from the Coast Guard Auxiliary who spun her own yarn from the traditional sort of beasts like sheep and rabbit. She had never spun dog before and took to the challenge with out hesitation.
I think that she was a bit surprised when she was given 9 bags of dog fur that were bursting at the seams. Over the first two years my wife and I collected and turned in at least 20 bags worth of fur. She called us to tell us to stop collecting.
It didn't take long for all of the fur to get spun. Just like lambs wool Sterling's fur had to be washed and dried. She would put the freshly washed hair into a salad spinner and spin the fur until most of the water was removed. I always wondered if she used her salad spinner to make salad afterwards.

I am a napper from way back. As an infantry solider the military taught me to get sleep whenever and where ever I could. Back then I would sleep lightly like a treed caveman constantly being jostled awake by the slightest crackle of leaves fearing for my life reaching out for my rifle. Now that I am a civilian I have take the art of napping to a new height. I sleep just as deeply during the day as I do at night, no fear or guilt involved. Upon returning to school during the day and working full time at night and after the birth of my daughter, napping had become a survival tactic. I have since gravitated from using a camouflaged poncho liner to a any small soft comfortable blanket I can get my hands on.
Over the years my mother in law has knitted a couple of different throws for me. The first was plain and simple. Blue, with a simple repetitive pattern. The second was a rust colored calico design and the third was made with what ever left over yarn that she had. Each time I reminded her that I already have an afghan that she had made for me. Each time she claims that she does not remember ever making anything for me. Since my marriage to my wife for the last fourteen years I have received three Afghans or .21 per year.

With no fanfare or announcement the dog blanket came in the mail in a simple white box with no note. It was a quiet surprise. My wife and I looked at it with a silent awe. Not only at the color and texture of it but at the intricacy that Louise had put into knitting it. I had seen many an afghan knitted by her, but this by far was the best. Sterling took an immediate curiosity to it. He nosed and sniffed and sneezed at it, then retuned to his eight-hour nap.
The dog blanket sits prominently at the end of our bed. We recently purchased a large Mission style bed. Sterling's blanket hangs over the side much like a tapestry or a coat of arms. Every once and awhile my daughter will take a nap on the bed. I like to cover her with the blanket. Inside I feel as if Sterling is watching over her, protecting her.

The blanket is a sort of connection with my dog, a physical momento of my friend of ten years and the skill, craftsmanship and care of my mother in law.

It’s been three years since he has left us . His departure was a long and difficult one. But occasionally I see the blanket and I am caught off guard and I stare deeply into it and remember.

The John Bingham Arizona Distance Classic

I performed almost exactly the same as the P.F. Chang’s marathon and in this case that is not bad. This was a VERY hilly ½ marathon. I didn’t prepare for the hills but I did continue to train right up until the time I caught the flu.

I really wanted to run this marathon, more than the Phoenix ½ marathon. I am a big fan of John Bingham. Reading his books helped me get back into running. The great thing about this race is that it is so small, less than 1000 runners over all (and of course I was almost dead to last). When I picked up my race number on Friday I was fortunate enough to meet John Bingham. We talked for a bit and he gave me some advice on what to do with my particular situation. He’s a very down to earth and genuine person who really cares about others.

It was a cold and beautiful day. The night before it poured rain and had begun to snow. Despite the cold it was a clear and crisp day with the snow-capped Catalina mountains behind us.

On the race I did the best I could, ran on the downhill and sped-walked on the uphill. From mile 10 to almost the finish I ran all the way. Then I hit the wall. My left hamstring seized, totally. I was stuck in absolute pain. It was really bad. One of the runners shouted that he was getting the medic. I shouted back that I was going to make it even if I had to crawl. I stretched for a minute or so and was able to limp and run the last ½ mile in.

Because this is such a small race it is very personalized. All of the race numbers are personalized. All of the volunteers address you by name. As I ran toward the finish line they must have looked up my number because they announced my full name and that this was my second ½ marathon.

At the finish line John was there and gave me a high-five just as I crossed the finish line. Just after running past him and hunched over in pain and exhaustion John came over to me and said. “Good job, you did it, you set out to do something and you made your goal.” To have an author and Runner’s World columnist congratulate me after coming in 66th out of 67 in a race was a big deal to me. I was awestruck.

Here are the particulars:

NO 505
FN Ed
LN Flores
DIVISION M4044
OVERALL 825
DIVPL 66/67
SEXPL 391/407
TIME 3:05:22
PACE 14:09
5K 41:05

Special Thanks To:
All of the supervisors, managers and employees at 2Wire
Alice Pike
Tim Williams
Chris Dorn
Roger McDorman
Kyle Scofield
And of course my daughter and my wife who were there to support me the entire way.


The ritual post-race ice bath

Dog Poop

If you told a person who was looking to get a dog that for the next 12 to 16 years they would be picking up feces one to four times daily, most people would not get one. Most children are potty trained by three. That means that by the time your child is in high school you will still be bending over with a plastic shopping bag to pick up your dog’s poop. Even with a conservative estimate of two doggie bowel movements per day you are looking at bending at the waist to pick up dog waste around 8700 times over the course of the next decade or so. Too bad the dog was not a goose and those 8700 canine bowel movements weren’t golden eggs. As it stands the stuff is not even recyclable by weight, even by this measurement a dog owner might break even over the costs incurred during the animal’s lifetime.

No matter how you look at the task it is not a very welcome idea. The thought of a massive pile of dog excreta warming your hands through a thin plastic shopping bag on a cold winter day as you watch the steam rise from the hot overflowing mass in the early morning sunlight is not as welcoming per-se as, say a good steaming cup of coffee.

It is a disgusting thought knowing that a part of dog ownership is about feces. Dog owners are not preoccupied with the fact, but is does actually occupy a position of notable importance in their relationships.

Most dog owners are keen to changes in their dog’s excreta. Changes in consistency, color and smell are important seeing as it can be a direct indication of the dog’s immediate well being. Many a dog owner has spent their evenings over a stove, cooking rice and turkey meat so their dog can recover from diarrhea. Others can find items that were once thought as missing such as crayons, chalk, plastic and a host of other interesting things that make their way around the second time.

If the stomach pumping imagery of a pile of soupy dog feces creates in your mind is not vile enough, smell adds an incredibly wondrous dimension to it. Depending on the diet of the dog, the waste can be repugnant and rank, full bodied with a hint of meaty effervescence.

Tales form the Dung Zone - The Four Horrors
You see a person coming towards you as you travel with bag in hand down the street. Despite a slick effort to hide the treasure in your bag from view, you still manage to offend as its contents waft invisibly and penetrate the nostrils of passersby who wince at the rankness as if exposed to a smelling salt.

You wrap your hands around a wet gigantor of a dog log only to discover that there are multiple holes in the bag. You must now walk home or to the car with your hand coated in poop juice. Despite the distance whether short or long this quite possibly is the longest walk of your life.

You are mortified to discover that you left your house without any dog bags as your dog is squatting on the sidewalk in front of a high-class eatery with many onlookers.

You come home after work to discover that your dog has giardiasis after you slip and fall in one of the 27 puddles of dog diarrhea that are on the walls, furniture and floors.

Let he who has not sinned throw the first pile
On high average, dog owners are responsible, caring people. They care about their neighborhoods, the areas that they travel with their pets, and just as importantly, how they are perceived buy the non-dog owning public.

Dog scat is a major point of contention amongst non-dog owners and the dog-phobics in general. It seems as if, in their minds, dogs should not relieve themselves in public.

It is this general consensus that has manifested into some of the strongest anti-dog legislature on the books in California. In the city of Santa Monica for example you can be cited for walking your dog if your dog bags are not openly visible. Even if you had several thousand bags stuffed on various places on your body and you looked like Bibendum, the Michelin Man, you would still be imposed a fine of no less than $50 for not having 1 plastic baggie visibly flapping in the wind.

The deed itself carries a deep social stigma in the public eye, even if a dog owner follows the rules of good courtesy and the city laws. The dog is not allowed to go on a lawn if the owner is watching. God forbid that a dog were to crap on a lawn even if the dog owner picks it up. A dog owner can have a bag in hand and appear to be as vigilant as a Yankee catcher on a pop foul ball in the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series. Even then, it is a losing situation. As the dog is relieving himself, the owner will bolt come out of his doorway screaming as if someone were about to set fire to his house.
Another obstacle is where to discard the indiscretion. Despite litter laws and high fines, public trash cans are hard to come by. In most parks trashcans are placed close to the picnic tables. If the picnic table is being used a look of horror can be seen on the picnicers faces as a dog owner approaches the can with a plastic baggie of odiferous brown mushy waste.

Even in residential areas, owners find it difficult to find a place to discard the refuse. You would think that on trash day, when the street is filled with cans that have been emptied earlier that morning, it would be easy to toss out your treasure. But this is not so. If you attempt to throw away rovers gift in one of them you’ll have to make sure that the owner is not around. If they are out picking up the morning paper or getting into their car for their morning commute, you’ll often hear a very adamant, “Not in my trash can, take that someplace else.”

One dog’s pile is another man’s poison
It is an amazing thought to see that dogs and their owners in this society are ostracized despite their earnest efforts to clean up after their dogs and keep their neighborhoods clean. Your dog defecating outside is equal to smoking in public, even though the scientific community has never proven that cancer can be caused through breathing second hand dog poop.

Because we consider ourselves a modern society we have managed to separate ourselves from the natural world. Our transportation has evolved from animal to soulless machine whose insidious invisible waste ruins our lives and quite possibly our future. As we “evolve” we try to distance ourselves from nature. The dog is perhaps one of the last connections that we have with nature and our primitive past. Now that we can start fire without flint, have food without hunting, and try to distance ourselves from the cave are we trying to separate from one of the best symbiotic relationships in our existence? Dog owners realize that the fleas come with the dog, and so does his dung.

Sick

Someone once told me, "Take care of yourself and the universe will take care of you." Although greatly oversimplified as logic, there is a universal truth about it.

Over the last 2 years and 7 months I have not been sick. Let me rephrase that. I have not called out in that long of a time.
I have come in looking like death warmed over on high 5 minutes in the microwave, but I refrained from calling out sick. I don't know why I am so stubborn about it. What am I trying to prove. When I come in sick I just piss off all of the people I work with. I quickly lash out, "where do you think I got this from?' Not that this is the right train of thought either.

Along time ago when I was younger I use to call out, a lot. If I wasn't feeling good or just didn't feel like it I would report to the medic station. Something was always hurting. Why run 6 miles if you just didn't feel good? Then one day I got sick, real sick. I was in quarantine for a week. Later for another reason I was sent away for some further medical tests and looking at the possibility of knee surgery. I had an ephiphany, I felt that being sick was a lousy way to get a day off. I just wanted to be better again.

When I entered back into civilian life I developed a new work ethic, work as long as you can for as hard as you can. You'll never know when it will all be taken away from you. Your work is your identity and you are judged on how you apply yourself. Since that time I have gone the opposite way. I have come back to work just days after a surgery. I have come into work with a fever of 102. For awhile the madness would not stop. In some ways it continues.

Last Friday I got the aches and chills, I started coughing and got a runny nose and a fever, yet I stayed at work. This weekend I was just knocked on my ass by the flu, even then I continued to do chores and do some work from home. When I came into work today I could barely breath without sneezing or coughing. "You look like and sound like shit, " and with that my boss sent me home. I guess I haven't learned yet. I just want to work hard, no matter what.

I'll stay home when H5N1 hits, we all will.

The Manbag

My last briefcase was getting old. It was time to retire it. So the hunt for the perfect bag began.

I remember once seeing the President land in Marine One and thinking wouldn’t it be cool to own the same bag that the nuclear launch codes are contained in? Not the exact same bag (which would be impossible) but the bag from the same company. Despite an exhaustive search which entailed contacting numerous governmental department and several intelligence contacts I was thwarted in my attempt to gain “the football” I was told that a bag that was fire and bullet proof would be out of my price range and was told to look for something more civilian.

Last Christmas I received a briefcase from my wife, rather nice briefcase I may add. It was the newest version of my old Tumi bag that was old and tired.

She agreed to replace my last bag that she got me that lasted about 15 years and went and got me a Tumi fold-over computer brief for work.

As soon as I stepped into the office that week after the holidays the comments from colleagues, subordinates and supervisor started.

“Nice purse” a coworker commented

“Metrosexual tool bag” stated my officemate

“What does exactly one put into a man-bag?” said my boss.

The last comment led me to think, what should I start putting in this thing?

As soon as I got it I transferred everything from the last case into the new one.

Tumi of course makes a fabulous product and has some features that are both convenient and handy for the use.

As a bonus my wife got some small stocking stuffers that would go along with the theme of the gift. A small mini Mag flashlight with biteplate, a small LED keychain light and a mini micro tool that includes pliers, a file, tweezers and a knife. I added a Surefire G2 Nitrolon flashlight, the beam cuts through smoke, it’s waterproof and the body is virtually indestructible (one can never have too many flashlights).

Some of the features on the bag that I observed:

A water bottle pocket – the pocket is lined to protect against leakage to other compartments and has a drain hole in the bottom in the case of a water bottle or thermos blowout. This feature merited a quest to find the perfect water bottle for the pocket. After searching high and low I selected the Nalgene 16 oz bottle. Normally the 32 oz bottle is the standard fare for most outdoor types but the pocket would hold nothing larger that the 16 oz size bottles. Captain Tippy Cup was the latest comment received at the office as a result.

An expandable umbrella pocket – despite living in Phoenix, Arizona last year had proved to be quite a wet year comparatively speaking thanks to El Nino and the Pineapple Express from the Pacific. Having an umbrella handy has kept me looking civil unlike my wet-rat counterparts at work and school. However this year it has not rained here in Phoenix for over 120 days, so for now, it’s just extra weight.

Business Card Pocket – seeing this prompted me to immediately order some business cards. My wife some years ago had given me a sterling silver business card case with a Frank Lloyd Wright design on it. The case now sits proudly and snugly in the briefcase. Occasionally I remember to hand them out.

Headphone port – There is a small opening that allows you to thread your headphones through so you can leave your MP3 player in the bag. Despite owning an iPod I really don’t use this feature on the bag. When I use the iPod I just take it out of the bag.

The Office Group
I don’t use a laptop at the moment but do keep a large 9 x 11 organizer with me at all times. It’s large enough to occupy the space where a laptop computer would go. I use the large organizer and the Franklin Covey system to organize my work and personal life. Even though I really advocate the use of computers and technology, nothing out there can beat go old analog type organization for day-to-day tasks.

The List:
In the Main Compartment:

Full size day planner/organizer
Prescription glasses & case
Sunglasses & case
Compact folding umbrella
(Three band ham transceiver)
4 X 5 Moliskine journal & Fisher Space Pen
Manual for Ham Radio

Tumi Pencil Case consisting of:

Glue Stick
Collapsible scissors
Tiny stapler
Small inkpad
Date stamp
UFO eraser
Black Sharpie
Red pencil
Micron pens .01, .02, .05 & .08
Black warrior pencils
#3B Staedtler Mars pencil

For some strange reason I went on a bent to fill the bag with things that I may need in the case of an emergency. This really prompted even more comments from coworkers.

The Survival Group
Being the ex-paratrooper and eternal Boy Scout I carry a few survival supplies with me at all times. In my travels they have come in handy on occasion.

I carry two different kits in the bag, one for survival and one for first aid.

The first aid kit is made by Adventure Medical and contains the following:

1.Aloksak® waterproof bag, US Navy certified to 200ft
1 Splinter Picker Tweezers
3.Safety Pins
4.Motrin®
2.Antihistamine
2.After Bite® Sting Relief
4.3X3 Sterile Dressings
4.2x2 Sterile Dressings
1Non-Adherent Sterile Dressing (3x4)
1.Conforming Gauze Bandage
2.Butterfly Closure Bandage
3.After Cuts & Scrapes® Towelettes
4.1x3 Adhesive Bandage
2.Knuckle Adhesive Bandage
1.Tape ½" x 10 Yards
1 Moleskin (7x4)
1.Tincture of Benzoin
2.Antibiotic Ointment

The survival kit was inspired by The SAS Survival Handbook by John Lofty” Wiseman. It’s a comprehensive survival kit that has come in handy over the years on travel, in the city or in the wilderness.

The survival kit contains:
Duct tape
Button compass
Knife
Matches
Pencil
Purification tablets
Snare wire
Candle
Flint & striker
Hacksaw blade
Fishing kit
Whistle
Sewing kit
Safety pins
Wire saw (with finger loops)
Condoms (non-lubricated, for water storage)
Survival instructions
Signal Mirror
Tinder
Water bags
Single edged razors
Butterfly sutures

What’s even more amazing is that all of this fits into an Altoids tin

I also have an emergency space blanket in one of the pockets just incase someone around me should go hypothermic.

Kenwood TH-F6A
I get quite a few strange looks for carrying around a ham radio. It hangs on the outside of the bag and is conspicuously placed with 2-meter antenna sticking up. But when I saw this one it really did an impressive amount of things. Kenwood really did a great job on this radio. Aside from being a three-band transceiver over 144, 220 and 440 the radio has wide receive capabilities. Police, aircraft, television, regular radio and emergency weather can all be monitored from this little 2 x 3 x 1 package. I’ve used it at work to get severe weather and tornado reports and while traveling. One day as two supercells merged and approached overhead one of my peer managers said. “Maybe that isn’t such a bad idea” as the NOAA report about the impending thunderstorm and possible tornado spewed out of the tiny speaker.

The other day I came under close scrutiny from a gas station attendant. He fired off questions quickly and expected answers quickly as a test and gauntlet of truth.

Gas Station Attendant: “What’s in the bag?”
Ed: “Stuff”
Gas Station Attendant: What kind of stuff?”
Ed: “Guy stuff”
Gas Station Attendant: “You mean that’s a guy purse”
Ed: “No”
Gas Station Attendant: “Then what kind of stuff?”
Ed: “Business supplies, survival equipment and a few electronic toys, still a purse?”
Gas Station Attendant: “You keep your cash in there?”
Ed: “No”
Gas Station Attendant: “Credit cards, coupons or any kind of hair product?”
Ed: “No”
Gas Station Attendant: “Okay then.”
Ed: “Fill up on number 3 please.”


Son of Manbag
But if the manbag were not enough, there’s more. Now there’s schoolbag. I’m back in school during the day and because we don’t get lockers I haul all of my textbooks and resources in a rolling pilot’s chart bag.
There is a pass through pocket on the manbag that the handle from the schoolbag fits right through. As I roll along on campus people think that I am either a teacher or a well-dressed homeless person.



Man Sporran
Now on the weekends because I spend most of my time in running togs I often get sent on a random chore to the supermarket or the hardware store. But because my running clothes do not have pockets I had to buy the equivalent of a modern day sporran…a fanny pack. It’s just large enough to fit my wallet, keys, flashlight, Fisher Space Pen™ and a small knife. Nobody at work has seen me so other than the strange looks that I get from people in the market and Home Depot I have not received any comments, yet.

Hmmm…maybe I should get a real sporran. But as my Scottish actor, kilt-wearing friend Scott Cleverdon has told me there is no such plaid as Hunting MacFlores.

The One that Got Away

As most of you know I use to work in Hollywood as a Post Production Supervisor for a music video production company for about 4 years. I had done quite a bit of work in that time but there were very few projects that I was really ecstatic about saying that I worked on. I think that the “Don’t Treat Me Bad” video for Firehouse and “Forever” for KISS were two highpoints because they were both popular songs and at the time they were my favorite on the radio.

Our sales Director one day ran around streaming that Geffen wanted to redo the music video that was shot while Aerosmith was recording “Tell Me What it Takes.” I was in absolute amazement, finally a song that I liked by a group that I liked.

Mark Rezyka (he also directed Girl School by Brittney Fox and C’mon Feel the Noise by Quiet Riot) went into the standard procedure and wrote a concept to be passed on to the group, manager and record company. It was reviewed and rejected in short order.

I went into a depression afterwards. I liked Aerosmith and had been a fan since the 7th Grade (1976).

Wayne Isham of The Company went on to direct the video for “Tell me What it Takes” shortly after the bidding process was settled. While the video got some rotation it seems like the original footage that was compiled for the original unofficial video got more airplay on MTV so in a way there was never really a music video that was made.

A couple of days later Mark Rezyka stopped by my desk and dropped off his backstage pass. He had it signed by Steven Tyler and Tom Hamilton. I sat and stared at it in a quiet amazement. It was an unwritten rule in that when working in Hollywood that asking for autographs and pictures was strictly forbidden. Despite working with a plethora of musicians, directors, actors and such It’s one of the few signatures that I have and I treasure it to this day.

Letters from Moe

Imagine being 12. You write to your favorite TV personality. He writes back. You write a second letter. He writes again and for the next 6 years you correspond with 28 letters and multiple phone calls ultimately leading to a visit to the stars house.

Well for Bob Burnet that dream came true. Over the years he corresponded with and got to know the #1 stooge, Moe Howard.

You can see all of the letters and photographs collected at his website

http://web2.airmail.net/willdogs/index.html

It’s an amazing story.

Don Morris, I Kicked you in the Head and for that I am Sorry

I’m usually pretty honest about things. I don’t lie because I think that it is wrong and I’m pretty bad at it. However omission is something entirely different.

About 17 years ago when I was in the Army we were returning from a field exercise from Germany. We were set to jump back in a small-scale tactical airborne operation. As most of you know some years back I was a paratrooper.

I was normally nervous or scared on all of the jumps, but on this jump in particular I was more nervous than normal. It was my last jump and I was scheduled to end my tour of service with the military. Nobody wants to die on their last jump.

Troops are placed 64 at a time onto the C-130s, half on one side and half on the other. I was the last man on my side of the plane, which meant I was going to be the first to jump. Looking across the ramp I saw my good friend Don Morris was also the last man on his side of the plane.

Standard procedure is for the person on the right side of the plane to exit upon seeing the light and the person on the left is to be slapped on the back of the leg by the jumpmaster.

The light went green and out of my excitement and nervousness I just jumped out into the void. I was on the left side of the aircraft, I was supposed to have waited.

Mid air it felt like I slammed into a car. Something hit me on my lower back and I felt the back of my boot ricochet off of something. The main chute then deployed and the noise and frenzy of the fall transitioned into silence as I floated to earth with an easy landing.

When I looked over my good friend Don was sitting up, hunched over and bleeding from his nose and mouth. His rucksack was still attached to his reserve parachute. He failed to deploy it prior to the landing, resulting in an even rougher landing than usual.

“Dude, are you okay, what happened?” I knowingly asked having just put everything together in my mind.

“I don’t know, something hit me up there.”

“Sorry about that, ” I said as I slinked away.

Unfortunately Don was the first man out of the right side of the plane. He did the right thing and jumped as soon as the red light turned green. Because I was overly hyped out in the moment I did not do what I was suppose to do. We exited the aircraft simultaneously and slammed mid air underneath the C-130.

I feel bad. I do feel sorry. I never told him.

Maybe someday he’ll just read the blog.