For a Few Dollars Less

New Blog...

2010-08-24T15:28:00.001-06:00

Please check out my new blog, The Blog of Enchantment!!

It's Blog-tastic!

Our new home...and a grammatical NIGHTMARE!!

2010-08-04T18:53:00.005-06:00

***Well, this is it for Sam in AZ. Now that the move has been completely facilitated, I'm gainfully employed and I'm getting a sweet New Mexico license plate, it's time to end this blog. This will be my last update to this blog. It will still be online if you're, for some reason, interested enough to return to older posts. The new url is samkissinger.blogspot.com and it is called The Blog of Enchantment, New Mexico being the Land of Enchantment. With continuing mediocre writing and mildly interesting tidbits of information, my blogging will continue to be the blip on the radar of you internet experience. You may now continue reading...***

We've found a place to live. Nestled at the foot of the Sandia Mountains, it is a very serene, quiet place outside of the center of the city, we've got a hiking trail a block away and a killer view from our back patio. We feel like we're living on our own piece of property.

It's been 3 weeks since we moved out here. It's funny how the number of keys on my keyring is the gauge for how close to home I am. For a week, all I had was a car key and a plastic hotel key card. Now, I have a house key, a mailbox key, a classroom key and I'm sure there will be more.
Here's what our cars looked like when we were homeless:
This reminds me of George Carlin's "Stuff" bit:

Which segues nicely into why you're a sucker if you pay full price for new stuff. To wit:
After we found our apartment, we needed furniture. Rather than go to Ikea and get cheap crappy furniture, we went to thrift stores and garage sales for cheap furniture that was "broken in". With skill and luck and some negotiating, we furnished our house for less than $200. At a thrifts store's monthly 50% sale, we bought a mattress and box spring, seemingly unused with the tags still on it for $25 (and Lysoled the hell out of it). A nice TV cost $20 there. Plates, glasses and bowls cost $15. Walmart silverware was $3. At garage sales we found a microwave, kitchen table and desk for $35.

Beds and couches are always the most expensive pieces of furniture, when you're poor. So we were relieved when we found a nice, clean bed for so cheap. A nice couch was well over $100 at thrifts stores. Craigstlist had them for free, but you had to haul them away. Renting a U-Haul, with all of their fees and then $.79/mile, seemed ridiculous. Then at a garage sale we found a perfect couch for $85 and the guy would deliver it! However, Jess and I neglected to measure it.

It wouldn't fit through the front door. We got it into our bedroom through the backdoor but it wouldn't fit down the hallway to the living room. Luckily, before we turned our bedroom into the living room, we realized that the arms could be unbolted. After 2 hours of trying to get the damn thing into our house, and another hour taking it apart and another hour reassembling it, we have a sweet couch. Despite this lapse of common sense, I stand by my original thesis that you are a sucker for buying new furniture.

From the Pot Calling the Kettle Black Department:
This is what happens when you use dish soap in the dish washer. This was the most upset I've ever seen Jessica. My shrieking, hyena-like laughter didn't help assuage her dismay either. I feel like I got a bad rap though. It's called dish soap, yet it cannot be used in the dish washer. That's like flammable and inflammable meaning the same thing (Living with me isn't that bad).

My favorite scene from our three weeks in Albuquerque:
And the guy was annoyed we were taking his picture! The nerve!

After a four month job search (around the average length of time), I found one. I will be a one-on-one aide for an autistic student, working in a self-contained classroom. Autism is a very interesting condition and I'm sure to have a lot of eye opening insights to the mind and human condition by working with my student. i'm not going to use his name and I want to meet him to come up with a sweet nickname. This job, while not much in the way of pay, is better than an Americorps salary, with benefits and a school year schedule. What else could I want? It should be fun. I'm sure you'll hear more about this in the coming weeks.

Also, It took me over a year, however, you can all stop snickering. My blog should be called For a Few Dollars Fewer. See here. Thanks everyone, it's good to know who your friends are...

Greetings from New Mexico...

2010-08-04T11:38:00.000-06:00

Well, my time in Arizona came to an end rather unceremoniously, which I'm happy about. I'm not really one for observances or recognitions or culminating activities, I like to fade out of sight and out of memory. However, my Americorps VISTA teammates gave the July crew a nice send off on our last day.

All of us, in October.

Speaking of recognitions I don't like to celebrate, I don't like to celebrate my birthday, which was July 27. But my amazing girlfriend Jessica organized a surprise birthday party. Filled with cake, presents and games. It was tolerable for a birthday celebration and the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. It was really great. I got a lot of camping gear.

My birthday card box filled with presents and me opening them.

Jessica's sisters made the cake, which had oreos, chocolate chip cookies, and a chocolate bunt cake (I like chocolate). And Luke Skywalker on top (I'm a Jedi).

Me, teaching Jessica's family how to play bocce ball.

After that, on the 28th, we set off for New Mexico. Jessica is going to UNM to finish her bachelors degree and I'm going to collect unemployment and become a starving artist. Sorry Mom and Dad. Should I change my blog title to saminnm.blogspot.com? I found out that saminaz.com is a porn site, I'll check saminnm.com, but I'm in a library and they frown on viewing pornography, prudes.

Us packing.

The ride was leisurely and easy. My air conditioning is broken, so the six hour trip was hot and uncomfortable, but enjoyable nonetheless. The cloud cover and light rain certainly helped. I love driving through the vast expanses of open range, scattered with Indian "Trading Posts" (they won't actually trade you for stuff) selling anything that you could associate with Native American culture: moccasins, blankets, jewelry, pottery and fireworks. Lots and lots of fireworks.

The next day, we went looking for an apartment. This is an exhausting and aggravating experience, particularly when you don't already have a place to live. If you have a place to live, you're not driving around with your car filled with all of your worldly possessions. They are safely kept in your current abode. In the beginning of the search, I was frantic to find a place, if only to unload everything, so we didn't have to drag three bags each into our hotel room every night.

Thank god for Jessica. She was a little bit more sedate and realistic. She wanted a home, rather than a storage shed or closet. On the first day we went looking, we found a nice one-bedroom condo that allows cats. All was good in the land.

That was Thursday. We had to wait for the rental application to get approved which meant waiting for the weekend to hear back on Monday. So, the next day, we left our cheap, roach motel rather early and opted for a cleaner, cheaper option. We went camping.

Armed with a brand-new tent, a loaf of bread, peanut butter, hotdogs and smores fixin's, we went up into the Fourth of July campground in the Cibola National Forest. We arrived in the early afternoon under a bright beautiful cerulean sky and a slight warm breeze out of the south. There were those big billowy clouds that look like comfy pillows. The long dirt road to the campground showcased a section of blackened trees, some standing, some felled. A critical reminder and vivid warning of camping care. It was not the kind of footprint to leave.
After that mass grave of timber, we arrived at the camp site.

We took deep drafts of the fresh air, reinvigorated by the blend of fresh flowers and decaying leaves, damp grass and sun-warmed Ponderosa pine trees. We lounged around, and setup our tent, enjoying that we were paying only $40 for the weekend ($20 on the tent and $20 on food and camping fee). We hiked around and collected wood. We noticed that the wood was damp, but figured we had enough dry kindling to start a small fire to dry out slightly larger pieces of wood, making the fire progressively bigger until a large wet log could be sustained. The dark blanket of clouds in the distance put an end to this line of thought.

Now, we're not greenhorns, not in the high desert leastways, and we knew what trouble laid in store for us. We loaded up our cars with all of our crap that couldn't get wet and set in for a time. Sure enough, the rain came not five minutes after we got everything loaded. Monsoons start with a slight dappling of rain, like the light spray of paint from a paint roller. Then if you're under it, it's cats and dogs for anywhere from 10 minutes to an hour. It depends on the the size of the cloud.

Well this one started out just the same but soon it wasn't cats and dogs but lions and hyenas for 15 minutes. The wind whipped, the lightning was as near as two mississippi's (two miles) and then the hail started in. It was nothing at first, like a rock kicked up on the highway. But a half-minute later, it was like being behind an uncovered gravel truck on a dirt road. All we could do was root on our poor little Ozark Trail tent. We didn't stake it in, nor did we have a tarp. I thought for sure we'd have a few skylights in it by the end.

Well, as suddenly as the monsoon started, it ended. The sun rejoined us, casting a sarcastic ray of light on our pile of soaked firewood. Our water resistant tent held up. But water resistance is not much use in a monsoon. The water seeped in through the sides at the slightest touch, the oils on our hands providing the conduit. With our rain fly closed to keep out water falling from the trees, our night was wet, muggy and uncomfortable. But it was better than paying $46.65 for a hotel. And it was a lot of fun.

(Our camp sight, the next morning.)

The next day, we left. We knew it was going to rain and we had no room in our vehicles to buy firewood and then haul it back in. The wood was soaked, and WD-40 was not cutting it as fire starter. We didn't want a repeat of the previous night. So we instead, we enjoyed the beautiful drive back. We passed an old church. I love old cemetaries and found this one worth documenting. I didn't look around it though. But I might the next time we go camping.
Jessica is an excellent photographer, and I like to take pictures of her taking pictures:So since I started this post on Saturday, July 31, we've gone another 5 days without a home. We found coupons for a Days Inn for $42 a night and last night we stayed in a KOA which was actually very nice. It was right along I-40, so it was kind of surreal to be cooking over a campfire and sleeping in a tent but at $30 a night, I'm not complaining. We should sign our lease today and finally have a place to live. I'll let you know more, as I know it.

Drink lots of water.

Rodeo...

2010-07-12T16:31:00.000-06:00

On July 4, I visited the Oldest Rodeo in the World. First held in 1888, it claims the distinction of being the first professional and longest continuously staged rodeo in the world. It was fun.

(Just before the start of the rodeo. The opening event is the release of a bunch of broncs and cowboys have to throw saddles on them and ride them around the arena.)

(It's mayhem.)

Rodeo is a mix of circus and sport with some Western Pageantry thrown in. There's a nice opening ceremony with the Rodeo Queen riding the American flag around the arena.

(What's more American than Coke?)

They had some beautiful draft horses pulling a stage coach. There's an obnoxious and creepy rodeo clown telling bad “You know you’re a Redneck if…”, and a guy that parades a couple of well-trained “Wild Buffalo” around.

(The closing music is Money For Nothing by Dire Straits. A great song, but he couldn’t come up with something more fitting?)

And this year they had Hugh O'Brian, who played Wyatt Earp on the TV show The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp, signing autographs. All that was missing was Buffalo Bill Cody presenting Annie Oakley to shoot glass balls.

Now, I won't lie, the rodeo gets kind of boring. There's nothing extremely athletic about some of the events, which is why you have a few Homer Simpsons throwing ropes. After the second or third contestant, you get the point. Hence the term, "This isn't my first rodeo".

A lot of people decry rodeos as despicable displays of animal cruelty, but I say if you're dumb enough to be born as livestock in the US, then shame on you (I know, that doesn't make any sense).

(OK, they might have a point…)

In terms of Pro Rodeos, where there is a governing body, the animal cruelty objection holds little validity. Pro Rodeo livestock is a HUGE business, similar to race horses. No one wants anything to happen to these animals. A hurt or pained animal is useless because animals won't cooperate, or they'll just stand still, resulting in poor scores for the cowboys. The flank strap (not testicle strap) around bulls and broncs makes them uncomfortable, and the release of the strap gives them an incentive to buck, which is what they've been trained to do. Roping calfs and steers are used only once during a competition and they're trained for their event. All the animals are well kept and well fed. The PBR has a section of their website dedicated to the bulls. As a sport, it's better than bull fighting, in which the object is to slay the bull or Kangaroo boxing. I think there's more cruelty in professional human sports, especially in the wake of the whole Lebron debacle. He's such an ass!!

What I love about the rodeo is its utter lack of pretension. There are no egotistical athletes who are trying to fill some void in their lives with a look-at-me spectacle. The venues are not places people go "to be seen" (maybe the PRCA and PBR Finals in Las Vegas). The competitors are regular men and women who follow their passion. One of the team-ropers that competed lives on his family's ranch around the corner from me. The crowd just wants to have a good old time drinking reasonably priced beer and crappy food.

And where else do you hear a grown man in a glittery pink cowboy hat, standing in a barrel during the bullriding say "I think that bull is Mexican! He's got guacamole under his tail!"?

Rodeos transport us to a bygone era. Cowboys are American heroes that enabled the US to settle the West (for now, we'll leave out the Native American genocide). Informal rodeos have been held since the 1830s with cowboys and Mexican vaqueros showcasing their cowhand skills. Rodeo cowboys perform old range cowboy practices that date back to Spanish ranch practices.

For instance, The Bronc riding events are from when cowboys had to break wild Mustangs for use on the range.

The roping events, calf and team steer roping, were shows of a cowboy's proficiency with their most important tool.

Bull riding and steer wrestling were simply shows of bravado and male stupidity.

Then Barrel Racing is there for some reason. Title IX, I think.

The rodeo is a great equalizer. Any man (or woman) can win any event. You cannot say the same for other professional sports, with big market teams vs. small market teams (NY Yankees vs. Milwaukee Brewers), well run clubs vs. poorly run clubs (Chicago Bulls vs. NJ Nets), too many teams diluting the talent pool (NHL), lazy athletes chasing paper. Every man is there because it is what they want to do. It feeds their fire. I'm sure rodeo cowboys have big egos but I have a lot more respect for a man that straps himself on a bull than a man that puts a ball in a basket. All in all, the rodeo is great fun where people come out to pay respects to an iconic American tradition.

Lots of action...

2009-11-19T00:06:00.000-07:00

To all readers:
I know I haven't been there for you like I should be. I guess I just wasn't ready for this kind of commitment. It's not you, it's me. Really. I guess I could've been more attentive to your needs; it was selfish of me. I'm sorry...

Anyway, the last few months have been interesting. Between the few blog updates I've made since the start of September, I've been to Sedona and Jerome, my friend Big Chris came out to visit. Recently, I went to Las Vegas, where my other friend Ashton was on a business trip. I've also been riding mostly every week and will be in a new apartment by December, after I install the kitchen cabinets and counter top.

And lastly, I had a small profile piece about me in the Prescott Vally Tribune. I'm not going to link to it because I find it a little embarrassing. But who am I to stand in the way of my adoring fans: Google it. (Note: There are two errors: I'm from Verona, NJ, not Montclair and I graduated from Montclair State University.) I'm also on a public access show out here but I refuse to divulge any details of that. It was definitely nothing like Wayne's World.

Most recently, depending on when I finally get this blog post finished (Version 3, Week 2) I went to a rodeo and had my first community service project Saturday 11/7. We'll begin here. Cleverly called, "Clean our Campus", I somehow managed to wrangle 27 volunteers: students (13), school staff (4, the Principal, the head Maintenance Guy, the Music teacher and a reading teacher), parents (6 non-school staff) and 4 Community members. It was great; we picked up garbage and did some much-needed yard work around the school.

If you're not familiar with the Southwest, and if you're a frequent reader, it is a failure on my part, Tumble Weeds are everywhere. They're synonymous with the Southwest. By the end of the day, we had amassed a 23'x10'x8' pile of weeds and trash. That's 1840 cubic feet!

A student, Stacey Morgan of the Katie Garber Community Center in Humboldt and Head of Maintainence for HES, Tim Krob, each do their part to make HES shine.

A gaggle of volunteers hard at work, scouring the hillsides for trash and weeds.

Why all this hard work? The results and impact are clear. Check out this picture from October 6:

And this one from November 9:

The kids got certificates that I made and I negotiated free book gift certificates to a local thrift store for each student participant. Here is a student and Tim.

Teachers and students agree that it is much more enjoyable and much nicer to look at.
Checkout my HES blog, which I update less than this: hespandas.blogspot.com.

So, rodeos are pretty awesome. The closest I've come so far is the self-proclaimed "World's Toughest Rodeo". I've learned that anything self-proclaimed, will invariably fall short of it's claim. Is the Ringling Bros.& Barnum and Baily Circus really the "Greatest Show on Earth"? It's really good, but greatest? Maybe the greatest circus, sure. I know that the "Greatest Circus on Earth" doesn't have quite the same ring to though. Anyway, this rodeo while an amazingly fun and awesome experience was not really the "World's Toughest Rodeo". Some of the livestock came out bucking flat and some of the cowboys weren't very good. I think it's more of a proving ground for the big time circuits, like the PBR. Real cowboys wouldn't even call this event an actual rodeo because there were no team roping events.

These are three of the "World's Toughest Cowboys." This reminded me of the beginning of a show at Medieval Times.
Before the rodeo starts, someone sings the National Anthem; we had a 17 year-old kid sing a mediocre rendition while playing the guitar. Could I have done better? No. But that's why they wouldn't have me sing the National Anthem. Still, it must have been a thrill for the kid.
Afterwords, they do an invocation wherein a priest prays for the safety of the Cowboys, the livestock, and our troops overseas. It was the day after the shootings at Ft. Hood. Many service men were in attendance (they get free entry), and at the mention of that tragedy there was an interesting tension that the gripped the large, but largely empty, arena.
Then, before it all, they introduce their best bulls. The only thing they love more than God and their country is their livestock. Preach on!

The first event was bare-back saddle bronc riding. "1200 lbs. of buckin' horse!" In order to receive a score the cowboy must stay on the horse for 8 seconds. The cowboy must come out of the chute with his spurs dug in above the horse's shoulders, called "marking the horse out". This is a fun looking event.

This one of those things that must be incredibly hard but they make look incredibly easy. I wonder who the woman on the back didn't sleep with to get that job...
So, in addition to having my own kill stuffed the plan is to (not necessarily successfully) ride a bronc before I leave Arizona. This is from the saddle bronc competition.
One of the most amazing things at a rodeo is the wranglers. Working in tandem, they must simultaneously secure the rider and guide the horse back to the holding pen. This takes incredible riding skills and a bomb-proof horse. If you have any interest in horses and/or horseback riding, it's awe-inspiring to the see the level of skill and confidence one must have to do this job well.

Who doesn't love midgets, or "little people," on mechanical bulls?

Bull riding is one of the greatest sports on the planet. Strapping yourself onto a 2000 lb animal, while other people are making it furious, and trying to hold on for an arbitrarily assumed time of 8 seconds must be such an incredible rush. It is a primal thing to bare witness to. For a brief instant it signifies man's ability to dominate nature and over come the fear within.

He's looking straight into the camera, stealing my soul. This picture looks like something out of a livestock based "Revenge of the Bulls" or "Bulls Strike Back". I got it, "Bulls: Their Really Pissed".

I understand safety concerns when it comes to strapping yourself onto a 2000 pound animal, but I could never wear a hockey helmet to ride a bull. That seems sacrilegious. Does he have cushioning in his pants too? Maybe an extra soft rope?

A rodeo is part circus, part carnival, but most importantly it is all fun. Some of it is a little cheese ball, like the little person on the mechanical bull. He lasted maybe 2 seconds and threw the ride for sure. But at least he wasn't wearing a hockey helmet.

Here are some scenes from the Arizona fall:

A sunset behind the Bradshaw Mountains. The colors and texture of the clouds looks like something from the metamorphoses montage of 2001: A Space Odyssey.

This is of the Agua Fria River as it passes underneath Prescott Rd in Humboldt. Arizona does have Fall--it gets cold and the leaves come down--but there isn't the same soul cleansing feeling that comes with Autumn. I haven't seen real honest to goodness comfortable looking grass since 1/4 of the way through Oklahoma. It took my shoes of and walked around in it. It was great.

Also from the Agua Fria.

This is Lynx Creek in Prescott on a drab Fall day.

Another part of the Lynx Lake area. More grass!

My apartment is located on the top floor of this building. More on that next time. I'm going to make a real effort to post more than once a month, so check back more frequently. If you're reading this from NJ, I'm going home on December 15.

People, animals and...the Prescottonian Martin Luther?

2009-10-16T02:36:00.000-06:00

We are in the middle of an Indian (Native American?) Summer, it was getting cold the last few weeks, but yesterday was 82. Phoenix is going to be around 96 today, and we should get up to around 84. It plunges down to the mid 40s at night. Sand has a low heat specificity, and low heat retention, thus the 40 degree swing. I don't mind it. Fall here is kind of boring though. There aren't nearly as many deciduous trees here as there are evergreens, so there's not the same intense color change like back home. I'm looking forward to winter though, I'm a cold weather person.

I've been looking at the pictures here and they're mostly of things. Some people have expressed a desire to see pictures of people. See, things are a lot easier to take pictures of because they don't move, also, they don't give you dirty looks when you take their picture. So, it's a balancing act. I don't think Cletus the Slack-jawed Yokel with the sick mullet would be very happy with me taking his picture in the hardware section of Wal-mart, and I'm not going to walk around with release forms. But I will do better next time. I promise. Here are some pictures of people:

This is from a Big Brothers, Big Sisters picnic I volunteered at in August. The Prescott FD came through and blasted these kids with the fire hose. It was, as you might expect, a blast.

These are my friends Stacy, Tom and Ben. I'm not really sure what's going on here, and it looks like Stacy doesn't either. Five minutes later, she'll freak out after seeing a roach run past her Whataburger bag.

These are from some sort of Hippie-fest at the steps of the Courthouse. Take that symbol of tyranny! Your jurisprudence is no match for our..."jumping rude dance"...and circle of love.

Man.

I like the ghostly look of these pictures. It kind of makes me feel like I'm floating down a mythological river of love and the only life preserver I need is my appreciation for all things psychedelic. But the courthouse is totally killing my high man.
On another note, I've been lucky enough to meet some young neo-hippies. They're not as vapid as they're made out to be. The ones I've met have a definite connection to the earth and are not showy about their worldview. It's not about the hipster ideal with them, but a sincere, almost religious belief. However, some just fake the funk; over-privileged students in their parent-owned Land Rovers with peace-sign and "Don't cut down trees unless you're going to smoke them" bumper stickers. And, as obnoxious as those kids are, who am I to judge? I'm walking around with a damn Cowboy hat like I'm Doc Holliday or more accurately Louis L'amoure. Are we--my psuedo-hippie counterparts and I--experimenting with identity? For me, I'm not experimenting as much as I'm indulging a part of me that I'm only now learning about. For these fake hippies, I think that in a world where homogenization is encouraged and being different is frowned upon, it is natural to try and carve out a place for yourself in this world. Being a hippie is a stock character, easily understood and easily replicated. I commend all those that at least try to be something other than the flavor of the month. But they are pretty obnoxious. Take a shower dammit.

Sorry, the formatting is screwy. These are two gentlemen I met one of my trips to In N' Out burger. I was pleasantly surprised to find Justin and Sam working together. Why take their picture? Well, for our uninformed readers, my name is Sam and my brother's name is Justin. When I told them of this fact they were mildly amused and only slightly inconvenienced to stop what they were doing in the middle of the dinner rush and awkwardly pose for this picture. Now, when I go back, they look at me uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact, the way an old flame or girl from the night before whose name you don't remember might.

I'm not sure how else you'd depict the word "Awesome" besides having three burnouts playing country-blues with a guitar, banjo and harmonica, in front of an intense war memorial with a little girl joyously dancing her brains out. The tie-dye shirt stand sort of seals the deal for me.

Now, some animals:

Possibly the most unfair sign I've ever come across. How could I not pet these things? Look at them. LOOK AT THEM! They're begging to be pet. I don't know how the proprietor was able to subdue these little scoundrels into submission but it looks as if he's tying them to a board, or fixing some sort of electric control, which shocks them when they move. Or perhaps pumps them with 50, 000 volts, rendering them immobile, like those stun guns cops use. I thought about logging a formal complaint for unfair working conditions but I didn't know whether to call the ASPCA or the Department of Labor, or would that be the Department of Labrador?
It's tough to question the gentleman's dedication though. He wrote a sales pitch for each pooch. In case you're wondering, they're selling those ridiculous doggie hats. Oh, and Amos is a Pug-Weenie. Diabolical.

These are pictures of my good friend Duke. He's 17, like's hay, watermelon and long walks without some annoying know-nothing city slicker sitting on his back. He's grouchy and grumpy, so we get along really well. We have an understanding: I give him carrots, brush him, pet him, clean his feet and stall, and he farts at me and doesn't like me. If you have an older brother, you know what I mean.
The daughter of the woman teaching me to ride used to show him in Western and English competitions, so he really knows his stuff, so you can imagine how frustrating it is for him to have me on his back. Unless you don't know anything about horses, in which case I will tell you that it is very frustrating. I'm beginning to understand that horses are very subtle creatures and don't need much cajoling as long as you are confident in what you are doing. They're kind of like women, except they don't care if you see them using the bathroom.

Have you been wondering what "Change" equals? Look no further! Not since Martin Luther has this planet been graced with such a groundbreaking, earth shattering declaration of observation! The sign is imbued with such sagaciousness, such sagacity, such sageness. I wonder if, as the sign was planted into the ground, the earth split beneath the sheer weight of the ideas of this remarkable sign! Never before has a sign so shattered my previous worldview in such a profound and mystical way. Except for "We aim to please, you aim too please!"
This reminds me of Mr. Owl's obnoxious response to that weird kid in the old Tootsie Roll Pop commercial.

Mr. Turtle, though useless, was at least straightforward and honest. Mr. Owl's response was devoid of any insight, guidance, or further inquiry. He provided nothing but a self-serving, smart-ass response to the boy's problem. This sign is the smug handing over of the chewed up lollipop stick.

Am I really Here? Pt. 2

2009-09-28T01:10:00.000-06:00

These are pictures I've been meaning to post but could not find a reasonable way of including them in my usual blogging style. So, there's no real stories that go along with these pictures, I just like them:

This is one of the views during my long trek to school. I have to drive up hill, both ways.

This is the "World's Largest Kokopelli," in Camp Verde, AZ. It's a Native American symbol of fertility, agriculture and the spirit of music. The Kokopelli is one of those ubiquitous symbols in the Southwest that has lost all meaning other than letting you know that you're in the Southwest. It is everywhere. It's kind of like the Maryland crab, but crabs aren't a bastardized symbol of Native American culture. I think it's closest relative is the Ankh, or any various Celtic symbols, which have lost their original meaning through Christian usurpation and idiotic tattoos. Considering this latter idea, when can add many hundred Chinese characters.

One of the nice things about living out here is the wide open space. This is perhaps one of the reasons I feel so relaxed out here. But also, without the massive crush of buildings and people, you can see rain storms in the distance, which is also very relaxing. This storm is over the Bradshaw Mountains.

This is a view across Humboldt after the same storm above passed over, the Mingus Mountains are seen here.

Dead cicadas. Their guts dissolve and all that remains is their exoskeleton. Pretty cool.

These two picture are from Willow Lake in Prescott. Really cool formations, like that perfectly round boulder. It has a very prehistoric feel.

I took this picture in Sedona, outside of a new age-y store called Crystal Magic.

This guy must be in some serious need of cash, or seriously believe in this product. Either way, he's definitely got some self-esteem issues.

A black widow in a hole where the wiring of a street light would go. The adaptability of nature. And Ms. Spider has a place to put left overs.

This is one of those places that reminds me I am really here. A drive-thru liquor store open until 2 AM daily. I love Arizona. Upon seeing this I decided to become an entrepreneur. I'll be opening an all-inclusive "Massage"-While-You-Wait Hand gun, Liquor and Prescription Drug Emporium. Franchising information to follow.

Industrial Wasteland...

2009-09-16T17:34:00.000-06:00

Well, it's certainly been a while since I posted something about my Arizona doings. School is going well and I took one step closer to fulfilling my dream of becoming a Cowboy--I was recently a hired gun for a band of outlaws. That's really all a humanities degree is good for these days. Just kidding; I had my first horse riding lesson (that obviously doesn't sound nearly as cool). But I've still been taking pictures like an Asian tourist, which means constantly and of the seemingly mundane:

These days, "Quaint" is bandied about like the word "freedom". But you don't know quaint until you've walked the raised sidewalk of this small shopping strip in Humboldt. Complete with a hitching post, this serves as the town's center (though, I think it is slightly south of the geographic center), with a Sheriff's substation, hairdresser, grocer, Town Hall and a seemingly anachronistic Consignment shoppe. Despite its location on a major route to Phoenix, it is in the middle of nowhere, and gets little business. I like the grocer, Cowboy Bob, and his locally grown produce, handpicked by farmers he knows. It's quality you can count on, that or they're all getting one over on unsuspecting shoppers (it's relatively cheap, so it really doesn't matter one way or the other). One of the few things in town that gets any attention, the store-fronts have been there and maintained since the 1960's.

A bit of history: In 1906 the Arizona Smelting Company completed a 1000-ton/day smelter to process copper mined from the nearby Bradshaw Mountains. The town grew around the mines and smelter, the owners envisioning a San Fransisco type of boom town. By 1916, Humboldt had 1000 people, ten saloons, five restaurants, three hotels, various stores and three mining companies. As the Depression took hold, and the mines and smelter closed, the wealthy had their beautiful victorian houses moved to Prescott. By 1930, the population was 500. In 1932, the school house was burned to the ground at 2 AM, following the graduation ceremony.
(This is all that remains:)

With a hefty mortgage and the town hemorrhaging tax-payers, arson was suspected. No culprit was ever found--and I'm sure he was searched for diligently in the upstairs of the saloons. Over the next 30 years, mining stopped and started intermittently, until 1967 when the Iron King Mine closed and the smelter was nothing more than a ghost of longed-for prosperity.

That's probably more history of this small town than you'd ever need and more than most of the residents know. I cut a lot out, but it is rather interesting to learn about the rise and fall and subsequent bottoming out of a small rural town. Stories like this exist all over the country, especially in the West, which is one of the reasons I find this area is so fascinating. Today, the smelter sits on a 6-acre plot condemned by the EPA for high arsenic levels among other toxins. That didn't stop me from exploring what is now the victim of teen angst and small town frustration and boredom (I wasn't worried about inhaling anything, it had rained earlier, gluing dust together like wet sand) (Note: Before the area was condemned, the town had planned to build a park. This plan was scrapped after a community board member was insulted at a meeting and called the EPA on the town):
Who knows how this building got all of its scars. But each brick was hand laid by Italian immigrants.SOAR's name was scattered around the area. If you look at the previous picture, you can see how high off the ground this landing is and the limits our lawbreaking friend was willing to push in the pursuit of local infamy.

No, this isn't a picture of Lego bricks scattered across a classroom floor. I didn't get a good picture of the smokestack's top, but I have sneaking suspicion that while our lawbreaking friend was pushing his limits, he decided to push some of the stack's brim as well. It reminded me of quip at the end of this Simpson's clip (Everything reminds me of The Simpson's [the beginning of which is an allusion to American Graffiti 2]):

"Celebrate your town's history by going out of your way to destroy an unnoticed part of it!" Good for you SOAR! The people in charge of your town marginalize your future with small town politicking and backstabbing, so why should you should regard the town's past as sacred?! Of course, SOAR could easily be some unemployed, middle-aged drunk with nothing better to do than relive his squandered adolescence, but we'll romanticize this scene as a victory for youth.

I'm surprised a gust of wind hasn't blown this behemoth over yet. The crack beginning at the brim of the stack extends at least 10-12 feet down. That is an eagle's nest atop the ladder. I'd estimate the height of the smokestack at 150 feet.

This open foundation is now filled with tumbleweeds. That white thing towards the top-right of the picture is a car frame. It is hollow beneath the concrete slabs and as foolish as I may be for trespassing on a contaminated, federally condemned area (and posting it on the internet), I was not about to go exploring in what could potentially harbor mountain lions or dead junkies. After the smelter was shut down, a sawmill moved in and set up shop. You haven't been sufficiently creeped out until you have been in an abandoned sawmill with corrugated steel flapping in the ominous wind. I was expecting a meeting of gremlins or Gossamer from Loony Tunes to pop out or some sort of horrible Industrial Waste super-villain monster--the Toxician?--to coalesce out of the filth. Fortunately--or unfortunately, I had my camera and could've made a killing with footage like that--nothing happened.

This is supposed to be one of those Beauty Amidst the Rubble pictures. The sky is pretty crappy but I think it does the job well enough. I wish the flowers were pointing more towards the camera but maybe they're just shy because of their shoddy living quarters.

This is obviously some sort of poured metal which cooled as it ran down the side of the hill that you can't tell I'm standing on.

I can't tell you what made these:

but I wonder if I could fetch any money for them framed at the low, low price of $9.99.

This is a loader or dumpster or some combination thereof. Perhaps a loader which dumped loads into a dumpster.

This is when I learned that tumbleweeds are extremely itchy.

Remember some 175 words and 6 pictures ago, when I said you don't know creepy until you've been in an abandoned sawmill, etc. Well, pulling tumbleweeds out of a grave-looking hole will also fill your heart with trepidation. "Grave-looking" isn't meant as a figure of speech, it really looks like a grave. The pile of dirt next to it, the well maintained shape; it was begging me to superficially search it and I obliged. But without a shovel or the desire to actually uncover some horrific secret, I stopped after pulling out the bush as it took with it a large chunk of DNA from my hand.

Despite traipsing through what is essentially a garbage dump, I had a very nice time. It was like walking through an interactive human psychology museum, showcasing humans ability to create pragmatic and industrial works of art, mindlessly destroy, and idly watch hope decay. I felt like I was walking through the collective unconscious of every rural resident that has had to watch their land pillaged. From the mountaintop removal mining in West Virginia to Lake Peigneur in Louisiana to good-old Humboldt, AZ and every place in between.

Hope You Are Quite Prepared to Die...

2009-09-07T12:22:00.000-06:00

We interrupt our regularly scheduled blog update of pictures captioned by annoying quips to bring you a rambling sermon on rambling sermons. Allow us some music to set the mood:

Creedence Clearwater Revival - Bad Moon Rising

Unfortunately, this song perfectly captures the spirit of our times. With the news, which I'm sure has spread through the country like a California (or Arizona) wildfire (check out my buddy Tom's blog for cool pictures of the Taylor Fire near Flagstaff), of nutjob Christopher Broughton carrying a fully loaded AR-15 to Obama VFW speech on August 17th, we find that he is a parishioner of Pastor Steven Anderson. This might not be all that interesting were it not for the fact that Pastor Anderson sermonized on Obama's death the day before the speech.

Pastor Anderson:
"You're gonna tell me that I'm supposed to pray for the socialist devil, [this] murderer, infanticide, who wants to see young children, and he wants to see babies killed through abortion and partial birth -- and all these other things -- you're gonna tell me I'm supposed to pray for god to give him a good lunch tomorrow, while he's in Phoenix, Arizona. Nope. I'm not going to pray for his good. I'm going to pray that he dies and goes to hell. When I go to bed tonight, that's how I'm going to pray. If someone's gonna twist my arm behind my back, and tell me to pray for Barack Obama -- this is what I'm going to pray, because this is only prayer that applies to him: Break his teeth, oh God, in his mouth, as a snail which melteth, let him pass away, like an untimely birth of a woman -- that he thinks -- he calls it a woman's right to choose, you know, he thinks it's so wonderful, he ought to be aborted. It ought to be, `Abort Obama,' that ought to be the motto...Obama is overturning the U.S. Constitution, overturning the Declaration of Independence, overturning everything we believe as a country, overturning 200 some years of history. He is the revolutionary. And it's a socialist, communist revolution. We are the counter-revolutionaries, saying, `No, we don't want change.'"

I think they should bring back Celebrity Deathmatch, to pit Anderson against Reverend Wright. They could call it Celebrity Deathmatch: The Battle for Hell, or Celebrity Deathmatch: My Jesus Hates You More Than Your Jesus Hates Me. They are both snakes in the grass, spewing division when they should be preaching reconciliation, forgiveness and understanding, and all that other "God loves us all" crap no one wants to hear.

But what in the hell is Anderson talking about? In an illogical, rambling, stream-of-consciousness diatribe (the audio, let it load), Anderson goes from decrying Obama's stance on abortion to his non-existent Socalism bend. Huh? How do you connect these? (1/3 of the way through he pauses and says rhetorically "You're not loving!--You talking to me or you talking to God? I'm just reading what the Bible says." This is why religion is so horrifying.)

But analyzing a Pastor's rambling sermon isn't what's important. The important thing here is to realize that Anderson's inflammatory rhetoric is the scariest public example of the fear that underscores the generational and cultural gap in this country. This frustration we are seeing now has less to do with healthcare and everything to do with the nebulous future and changing face of our nation. They care about Wall Street but who'll bail out Main Street? Everyone is worried about becoming an unemployment statistic. We have a Latina woman in the supreme court! Our president is black! Post offices are closing by the hundreds! We can watch TV on phones?!

As we saw in August, and continue to see, there is a large faction of people that wonder "Whose country is this? What happened to my America?" There are millions who no longer recognize this country. Which is just silly. In my 24 years, I've realized that this country looks exactly the same as it did 50, 85, even 150 years ago. We should know by now that when there is unavoidable, unstoppable sweeping change in this nation, people become angry and scared but the change comes anyway. Remember the blow back against Labor Unions in the early 20th century? We owe our nation's prosperity (and the weekend) to these "Socialist" groups.

Rather than working to find a solution or strengthen this country when it is at its most dire crossroads, some would rather watch it squirm in the name of "Defending America". They would like drown out reform with a cacophony of red herrings and circular arguments to get us back to where we started. Maintaining the status quo, that is the new Patriotism.

Conservatives are up in arms about President Obama trying to address the children of our nation. Excuse me? Our schools are underfunded and understaffed and their biggest concern is that the President wants to take a few minutes out of his day to motivate the future citizens of this nation? Is this how we keep America on track? I understand that conservatives adhere to a certain way of life, but the calendar will move forward whether you like it or not.

For now, however, we will content ourselves by storming congressional town hall meeting's armed with hate-filled rage, someone else's talking points, and a target that looks different than us. The country is struggling to keep its head above water, but while we flail about, instead of working to save it some would rather stomp on the nation's head and hope to see it drown.

Don't give up, there is a way!

Am I Really Here? Pt. 1

2009-08-18T23:28:00.000-06:00

What have I been up to? As of August 10th, I officially became a proud Humboldt Elementary School Panda:

The school itself is very nice, it's spread out amongst several buildings like a miniature college campus.

The faculty is great. Out of the entire staff of about 36, faculty, custodians, and cafeteria; I am one of nine men. Which, with that ratio, would make for a great college class. But it is not. And though everyone is very nice, it's sometimes a little overwhelming to be around so many women. Many are mothers, and many of the mothers have children my age, so you can imagine how frustrating it can become. I understand your life revolves around your kids and grandkids but what about the Eagles picking up Mike Vick? I'd even talk about the Diamondbacks. Or gardening. Something besides trouble-making students or menopause jokes.

Anyway, on the way out here, as I drove through New Mexico, I plowed over a tumbleweed and marked that as my official entrance to the Southwest. Well, as it turns out, your not an official Southwesterner until you've shot guns in the desert. To wit:
Stacy (a fellow VISTA), Chris, me and Chris' roommate Steve. Now, without getting too complicated, Chris is Stacy's landlord and is engaged to one of Stacy's roommates. He was kind enough to bring me and Stacy out shooting; if the tumbleweed was my welcoming, this was my initiation. Tom, another of Chris' roommates, is the photographer (the guns are not loaded). Stacy was very nervous. Not only had she never shot a gun before but she barely knew any of us. She is definitely in the running for the "Going Out On A Limb" award.

Shotguns are fun. Top form.

I love irony, but when I was deciding on what shirt to wear before leaving the house, one of the things that certainly didn't cross my mind was "Maybe I shouldn't wear a shirt baring the face of a man who stood for peace and justice and who was tragically gunned down by his own father. You know, just in case I go shoot guns in the desert". But life has a great sense of humor.

After school recently, I went to start The Zombie and nothing happened. The starter was shot and needed to be replaced. This was unfortunate because I was stranded 20 miles from home. However, I was lucky because I have a friend who lives a mile from my school, another fellow VISTA, also named Stacey (note the E):
Here she is pictured with what was supposed to be hummingbird food. She left the boiling sugar on the stove too long and it turned into a black brick that almost burned her house down. I don't really know how this happened and I don't think she does either. Not only did she graciously put me up for the night but the next morning, before driving me to school, she took me to her friend's ranch where we met and fed carrots to Lucy the Mule (her companion's name is Desi):
A horse, of course. You idiot.From Stacey's front porch, with unblackened food. this might be the best picture I've ever taken. Certainly my favorite. I had no idea Arizona had hummingbirds--add it to the list.

Monday (8/24), Tom, Stacy and I went to Senator Mine in the Bradshaw Mountains, just east of Prescott. This was very cool. I'm stealing Tom's photo:
This was three exposures layered into one awesome image. Tom's an incredible photographer, check out his blog (after you're done here). I'm laying on a steel beam of what was the roof of some sort of slurry holding tank.

Now, kids come here and make merry. Or more kids--note the couch someone dragged into the middle of the woods. They don't teach you about the diseases you can get from that in sex ed.
Pictured here is Tom's dog Scrappy. He's like a freakin' billygoat. The side of the ravine we were in is covered in a layer of loose rock and this dog just scoots up with nary a slip. And should he come across an area he's not too sure about, he sizes up all of his options and picks the best way. There were a few times we'd leave him on a precipice, thinking that he was too scared and we'd meet up with him later, on our way out. Then he'd appear out of nowhere.

Some cool graffiti:
Skull and bones! I guess he doesn't have to worry about his joints hurting! He's not stoned, he's concreted! Can you add more?

Given all the white supremacist "Pro-American, anti-anything different" which masquerades as "Patriotism" in Arizona and elsewhere, I found this oddly comforting:
I mean, not that I like the Reds, but it was one of those once-feared anti-establishment symbols that has been popularized some much that it is now kind of meaningless and ironic, like the anarchy symbol or Che Guavara's silhouette. This image offered a nice contrast to the plethora of N-words and swastikas scrawled on the walls.

Tom.

This was part of the reason we trekked out here:

Finally: I find this picture hilarious. Can you tell why?

Next: Am I Really Here? Pt. 2

Welcome to Prescott, Everyone's Home Town! Pt. 2

2009-08-18T21:20:00.000-06:00

It's really hard for me out here. I'm not cowboy enough to hang with the cowboys, and I'm not hippie enough to chill with the hippies. So I made up my own group, the Cow Pies (I was reminded to not have a shit eating grin as I type this joke). Waka, waka! Aaanyway...

Thanks to its seasonable climate, Prescott attracts many of Arizona's retirees; the average age is 47.8. But the people that make up the town run the gamut: hippies, skaters, drifters, bikers, cowboys, regular old white men and women, liberals, gun-toting right-wingers (The gun laws out here are nearly non-existent), and everyone in between. I even saw some Mexican gangsters tonight. It has three colleges so lots of students that will be coming shortly. All of this combines to make an incredibly interesting, incredibly charming town. All of these people come together to live in a mostly harmonious fashion, either tolerating or ignoring one another (there is a subtle but distinct difference). It has character. It is totally unpretentious and completely at ease with itself, in a way that is similar to the hippie towns of New England. It boils down to a certain sincerity that I find completely lacking on the east coast.

This woman reminds me of a cross between Mimi, from the Drew Carey Show, and a Muppet. "Homer, what's a muppet?" "Well, it's not quite a mop, and it's not quite a puppet."

It does get weirder than this around town, but I still can't figure out what's going on here. You have to wonder if this is their only mode of transportation. There isn't a supermarket for a mile, so her ass and knees must be killing her. And where are they going with a shopping cart anyway? Maybe they can't afford a wheelchair? The dog seemed really embarrassed.

There are occasional arts fairs in Prescott, I'm not sure what this guy was painting but I like seeing people in the act of creating. I wonder how many times this guy has heard "Paint Your Wagon" jokes.

Nothing really quenches your thirst like bleach bottles filled with water. MMmmm! That's bleachy!
This is my friend and fellow VISTA member, Hollis, coming to meet me in the park. This is a quintessential small town picture. She could be delivering newspapers or on her way to help Mrs. Smith with her garden.

Some people enjoying the park on a beautiful August day, the same day as the Arts fair:
Two very cute little pooches looking to be friends:
We'll finish off this overdue mediocre update with two people I really enjoyed meeting: Pastor Rodney Burnap and Jerry, the Junk Collector.

Pastor Rodney Burnap aka "Normal T. Joey" is a pastor who tours up and down the West coast on his bike "Pedaling the Bible" (get it?) to hippies. Here are his websites (he gave me his card): www.myspace.com/jesustribesrainbowfamily and jesustribes.multiply.com

This was taken as I drove past him one day, after I had talked with him in town. He was a really interesting man, and you could feel the unadulterated love emanating from him, like the colors of his tie-dye shirt fill your vision. He is what Jesus would be today, if Jesus were born in the 50's and loved the Dead, which, of course, he would.

Jerry collects junk and doesn't care who he gives it to. He literally gives stuff away. He gave my friend Hollis a water bottle he bought from Walgreen's. He explained to us the he buys the $1 bottles and randomly gives them to children playing in the park, "It's hot in the desert," he said, "and you have to stay hydrated". He went on to complain about parents not wanting the bottles. "I can't believe these people! They try and give me money, but when I try and give them something useful, they won't take it!" Then a woman tried to give him money and actually shoved $5 in his pocket. He complained about that too. He's clearly a man of principle. You wonder what he did before he ended up wandering around the streets, inch-worm like, his one leg slowly getting him to where he's going. Why he didn't give a water bottle to the bleach bottle fellow, I'll never know. Maybe that guy was skeeved out too.

He claims to have a 5x7 inch Pre-christian wooden tablet engraved with a Hebrew prayer. I'm not really sure whether to believe him. I'm sure he has an engraved wooden tablet, but over 2000 years old, sitting in a storage room? Excuse my skepticism Jerry. He's the kind of guy that you don't really have a conversation with, you sit there while he talks at you. He is the living Abe Simpson. Jerry's a cool cat who just seems to enjoy the ride. He offered me a bronze bust. That was the only description he gave me. I declined, but it was very nice of him. Yesterday while reading Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends I came across this poem and immediately thought of Jerry:

HECTOR THE COLLECTOR
by Shel Silverstein

Hector the Collector
Collected bits of string,
Collected dolls with broken heads
And rusty bells that would not ring.
Pieces out of picture puzzles,
Bent-up nails and ice-cream sticks,
Twists of wires, worn-out tires,
Paper bags and broken bricks.
Old chipped vases, half shoelaces,
Gatlin' guns that wouldn't shoot,
Leaky boats that wouldn't float
And stopped-up horns that wouldn't toot.
Butter knives that had no handles,
Copper keys that fit no locks,
Rings that were too small for fingers,
Dried-up leaves and patched-up socks.
Worn-out belts that had no buckles,
'Lectric trains that had no tracks,
Airplane models, broken bottles,
Three-legged chairs and cups with cracks.
Hector the Collector
Loved these things with all his soul,
Loved them more than shining diamonds,
Loved them more than glistenin' gold.
Hector called to all the people,
"Come and share my treasure trunk!"
And all the silly sightless people
Came and looked...and called it junk.

This sums up Jerry. He is a strong man that will get himself to where he needs to go. Diabetes took his leg but not his treasure--his pride. And you can keep your $5, he'd rather share 5 minutes of your time.

Next post: Is this really where I live?

Welcome to Prescott, Everyone's Home Town! Pt. 1

2009-08-12T00:31:00.001-06:00

Prescott (pronounced press-kit), AZ is an incredibly interesting "city". City is in quotes because it is called a city but those back East would recognize it more as a town. There is a central business and tourist area, which we saw in my previous post, located around the Yavapai County Courthouse, (Yavapai Co. is comparable to New Jersey in terms of square mileage, 8125 to 8755).
The population of Prescott is 40,360, across 32.4 sq. mi, compared to Montclair, NJ's 38, 977 over 6.3 sq. mi. Here, we'll take a look at the physical aspects of the city, focusing on the area around the square, where the architecture is more interesting. The rest of the city is not as interesting, being either rural or mega-shopping centers, strip malls, Wal-marts and such. There are TONS of fast food places, scattered throughout the city limits. From McDonald's to Taco Bell to Panda Express. Though the culinary experience is as barren as the landscape, there are two gems to be found: In N' Out Burger and the Diamondback Deal at Taco Bell (3 free tacos when the D-backs score 6+ runs). Thumb Butte looming over Prescott. This is from Gurley Ave. State Route 69 (Pheonix to Prescott) becomes Gurley and runs up to the parking area of Thumb Butte. The traffic light is where Gurley crosses Montezuma St.; Whiskey Row is just off to the left.
Whiskey Row composite, the pictures top to bottom run North to South. I love the old school Hotel sign, next to a Saloon. It definitely accentuates the Western vibe. All that's missing is a raised, wooden sidewalk. There is only one saloon with swinging doors, not pictured. All the bars have signs stating "No firearms, knives or other deadly weapons" conspicuously posted at the entrance. However, those signs are no longer required, as Arizona state legislature has approved a bill allowing guns in bars. But I digress.

Prescott has some really cool statues and art around town:
Intense!! Situated on the western side of the court house, the statue is dedicated to those Prescottonians killed in action, the list spanning from WW1 to Operation: Desert Storm. The statue was erected in 1987. Who is the standing man calling to?

These hydrants are hidden in an alley behind a shopping plaza, and obscured from view on the street by the unused square planter, but they are an nice surprise for the unknowing wanderer.

This gorgeous mural is hidden behind the relatively new Granite Street Parking Deck. Apparently, the owners of the store upon which this mural is painted managed to get the city to foot the bill, saying something about beautification. It runs down the length of the shop, which you can see goes several feet beyond where the pillar is.

A killer painting, made to look like the natural grain of ply-wood. The house was run down, so you never know what secrets lie behind that board. Perhaps a struggling band or maybe a band of long ship-wrecked pirates?

Giving a full sense of the diversity of the town, this trailer park lies just 3 blocks from Whiskey Row.

Here are some historic buildings, with plaques so I don't have to regurgitate the information:
And:

Part 2: The People of Prescott.

The Shootout on Whiskey Row

2009-08-02T22:53:00.001-06:00

The adjustment for me moving out here was easy. The hardest part was the first 20 minutes I arrived (7/19) and walked around the Courthouse Square. Meandering around, shaking off the dust from the road, people would walk by and said "Hello". Or people sitting would say "Hi" as I passed. This really freaked me out. I knew it was clear that I was an out-of-towner but I didn't realize I had a target on my back. Were these people sizing me up? Mocking me? I was so shaken up--which is a rare occurrence--that I had to call my brother to help me make sense of what was going on. In the NYC metro area, you're lucky if people notice you enough to get out of the way when you're walking, let alone acknowledge your presence by speaking to you. I didn't know how to handle friendly people. But once I saw this poster:
I knew I was home. Sorry New Jersey, but cowboys and In 'N' Out means our relationship is no more than dust in the wind...
The Shootout on Whiskey Row, takes place, of all places, on Whiskey Row, a small stretch of South Montezuma Street in Prescott (pronounced Press-kit). For two days the block is open only to pedestrian traffic checking out street vendors selling art, jewelery and Southwestern wares and paraphernalia. The above view is of the "stage" where reenactments of famous Western scenes take place. Below, the man on the left wants the woman to quit prostitution and marry him but she likes the attention and money. Doc Holliday has come out into the street upon hearing their quarreling.
Doc Holliday, after a scuffle with the concerned would-be suitor, busts a cap in his ass:Communication is the backbone of relationships; I bet she regrets not talking to him: Video of the shootout at the OK Corral, the most famous gun fight in Old West lore. They did a good job of reenacting it, considering it's what the avant-garde might call "Guerrilla Theater":

There was also a contest in which Old West acting troupes staged original plays. These are context-less photos from some:

"Whoooo-eee! We got ourselves some prescription-grade stuff, partners!"

"Listen old-timer, I don't care how many stars that flag has! I say it's still 1880!"

The naked cowboy's cousin?Let's play a game. Post a caption for this picture:

What was great about this day was that it gave a chance for everyone to get into the spirit of the Old West. It's just like Civil War/American Revolution reenactors:
"Well, Ma, I guess you didn't listen when I told you I'm drivin'..."Next post: Welcome to Prescott!

Birthday Hiking expedition...

2009-07-29T22:06:00.000-06:00

For those that missed it, my birthday was the past Monday, July 27. I was surprised at the amount of love I got, I don't have much regard for my birthday, and don't expect many others to either. As such, I didn't celebrate my birthday, per se, though I did manage to finagle a free lunch from my VISTA coordinator (several of us went to lunch at a cash-only place, I only had my credit card, so she paid for me). On my birthday, I try to do things that remind me that I'm alive, for instance I hiked Mt. Washington in 2006, a 6,288 ft. mountain. It was a feat that required the most amount of sheer will I have ever expended in my life.

On this birthday, I had intended to go for a hike with some of my fellow VISTAs but they backed out because it was 104 during the day. So, undeterred, I waited until 7 PM, when the sun and the temperature were beginning to subside. (The northwestern approach, looking south, taken Saturday 7/25)Thumb Butte (pronounce byoot) is a 6,514 ft peak, which sounds high but you start out at about 5400 ft. The hike up is steep, I'd say averaging a 50 degree grade, but obviously it gets flatter or steeper as you ascend.

The view from the base, looking southwest. You can see the path beginning on the bottom right:

I never knew that I didn't know what dead cactus looked like until I saw a dead cactus along the path. It's the stuff that looks like tree roots (I hope you people are clicking the pictures to enlarge them):I would say that this is a Common Earless lizard, but I don't really know for sure. He darted away before I could ask him.This is a view of Prescott, looking Northwest:
This is a view looking Northeast:
The previous two pictures were taken not from the summit but from this point below:
At this point I realized that there is no path to the summit. To reach the summit I would have to climb. This seemed a lot easier down here than when making the attempt. Look at the top of the rock line, slightly left-of-center. There is a small tree and to the left of that a triangular, beak-like rock protruding out.
This is how close I came to the top. About 100 feet. The orange glowing tree, seen through the brush in the foreground is the tree mentioned in the previous picture and of course the triangular rock is the same beak-like rock mentioned above. The boulders are sturdy and smooth but with some handholds, however without equipment or good shoes (the ones I was wearing had barely any traction, a fact I didn't realize until I tried scrambling up) this would have been a disaster.

Another view from farther down:

I was lucky enough to watch the sun sink behind the mountain. While watching the sunset I discovered that increasing the shutter speed to the highest speed makes an image like this:Very dramatic!
This was taken by fully zooming in on the moon. I took three such pictures and this was the best, if you look closely at the shadow line of the moon you can see a line of craters. All-in-all, my birthday was a pretty nice day, some cake would've been nice, but my new roommate bought me some In 'N' Out, so I can't complain. Next post will be pictures from the "Shootout on Whiskey Row".

Total Douche Bag

2009-07-28T21:39:00.000-06:00

This is why our country is in shambles. Beyond our inept, self-interested, status-quo-keeping bureaucrats, our nation's citizens obtain their knowledge of current events from tools like Sean Hannity, Keith Olberman, Rush Limbaugh and their ilk. Observe the latest farce in journalism: Glenn Beck.

He takes something that is--although corny--a pledge all American citizens should adhere to, and completely degrades it, for no purpose other than trying to cut Obama's domestic agenda at the knees.

He might as well have said, "Oh you care about our country enough to help fix it? Nice job, pussy! Why don't you and your queer friends go hug a tree!"

What alternatives would this this fat mongoloid propose to fix the nation? Tax cuts? Been there, doesn't really work. Economic deregulation? Tried it, financiers worked the system and plunged us into recession. What about war? That always strengthens economies, and the American military is run so efficiently, that our victory will boost morale! That's got to be the answer! Wait a second!...I don't think that is...ok, never mind.

He recently published a book called Common Sense--and perhaps it is my own bias speaking--but it seems a very common sense solution that a government run organization would use volunteers (not taxes or exorbitant government handouts) to strengthen communities and teach them how to become self-sufficient and self-reliant. But, as I said, I'm biased.

I understand that he doesn't really care about the future of our nation. And he's certainly not in this for journalistic integrity. The man clearly has none; he is a (poor) showman, cutting others down, trying to make a living and a name by parading around the three-ring circus that is right-wing punditry. He sits in his bully pulpit and assails others for suggesting ways of innovating a stagnant, stuck-in-the-last-century nation. Our old ways don't work!

At its heart, this is the same pledge Boy Scouts take. Do you mock them? Please, Mr. Beck, don't take something that strives for good and make a mockery of it. You probably ratchet up the incredulity when people mock religion (and I'm not equating Americorp to religion but making a point that in their purest forms both try to empower others).

I don't even understand the point you're trying to make. Is it that you're scared some people want to change things? That people will try to get things done for America - making our people safer, smarter, and healthier? That some want to bring Americans together, to strengthen our communities? That some, faced with apathy, will take action? That some, faced with conflict, will seek common ground? That some, faced with adversity, will persevere?

What a horrible vision for the future, you putrid, blackhearted accident. Do you worry that harmony will make your soapbox irrelevant? The GOP has already beat you to the punch. Ratings mean nothing when you're preaching to the choir, which is really the only thing a talking-head does. So go on, pray for the day when you and your loud-mouthed, politically-motivated brethren of self-righteousness can stand forth and claim "We told you so!" Because with no culture of community, when our country is engulfed in the flames of disillusionment that you helped ignite, and YOU need help, I hope you choke on your words, like a sword-swallowing gone wrong. You total douche bag.