bye

Once we took a road trip through Iowa. It wasn't a long trip, more of a jaunt I guess. First stop was a bar where a picture of my dad's college football team from the 1950's hangs proudly on the wall. She snapped a close up on her camera phone and weeks later her twenty-one year old sister came across the photo. In a voice mixed with curiosity and entitlement she asked, "Who the hell is this guy?" To this day that cracks me up.
Anyway, it was a humid summer day in a rivertown on the Mississippi. The early morning seven mile race was long finished and we came for the evening festivities. There were three main areas of interest: A catchy, irreverent punk/pop band on the street between two Irish pubs, an aging metal cover band sqeezed in an alley and what I'd call a corporate stage fronting a woman with a very average voice masked by more than average breasts. We strolled and sweated our way through the crowd, drinking beer from tubs of ice and sneaking whiskey from a small silver flask. Between trips to blue portopotties we talked about observations and sounds and thoughts, always shiny with sweat and humidity. The punk guys were clever, the metal guys were passionate and the woman, who actually garnered the largest crowd, deep down probably wished she had more talent. We ended the night in the alley dancing to Rush's "Tom Sawyer" which I still believe was selected for us because our new drummer friend from the metal band wanted to show off his chops. And he was right; he hit that fucker note for note.
I woke up that night, her unbalanced ceiling fan clicking above and her black hair across my shoulder. Looking into the darkness I realized something about that day: We held hands. In the car, on the street, dancing to Tom Sawyer; we held hands. And we were still holding hands under the fan.
I love that, even though it's gone.

hunt

This was our perch for the big hunt. We sat up there for four hours, silently watching, listening and smoking. Brent brought us hot chocolate, sandwiches and venison sticks. All the comforts of home, really, plus a big damn gun. We quietly watched the sun rise and the forest unfold beneath us. It was amazing, all the things that went on down there. As the darkness gave way to light we gazed down on squirrels, a couple mice and three grouse who came and went at will. It was strange; we watched them go about their business and none of them knew we were up there. It felt sort of god-like, maybe even a tad voyeuristic. As the morning progressed and our patience waned, we began talking openly and moving about more freely. It was a beautiful morning and I was just glad to be watching from above. The plan was one more cigar, then call it a day. At that point I heard it: hooves. Big animals coming our way, crunching in cadence. The doe walked through first, followed by two fawns. A mom and her kids. I'd like to give a harrowing account of leveled cross-hairs and a furious heart beat at the moment of indecision, but I can't. We watched them come through the shooting lanes slowly and clearly. Mom stayed in the brush and the fawns screwed around in the open like dancing bulls-eyes. Brent handed me the gun, but I knew I wasn't going to shoot. There was simply no point. For a second all five of us stood looking at each other, eyes locked in a mix of fear and question. Then, with their power and breath still intact, they were gone. Six strides at most.

squeeze

A special guest photographer today... My good friend Brent snapped this in Montana while Elk hunting. I told him it reminds me of the civil war. What this picture doesn't tell is the fact he also had a .44 strapped to his hip at all times in case the Grizzlies came searching for a snack. He took a big elk down on that trip and field dressed it while his dad stood guard from another ridge, safety off, watching for predators approaching from the blind side. That's pretty fucking cool.
Tomorrow morning at 5 am I'm heading into the midwestern darkness, driving toward the rising sun for my first deer hunt. By 7am I'll be sitting in a stand with Brent, smoking convenience store cigars and waiting for some unfortunate mammal to cross our loaded path. I'll only drink twelve ounces of coffee instead of twenty to keep my hand steady for the kill shot. Brent is very encouraging. His exact quote was, "Get your game face on, we need to get some meat." But can I really shoot a deer? Shit, I can shoot a bird; they hardly bleed. But can I look in those big eyes and squeeze the trigger? Years ago in Virginia I came across a deer freshly knotted in a barbed wire fence. I stood and watched as my brother-in-law untangled her legs from the metal with a long stick and a good amount of caution. She was snorting and hissing in a fear driven panic. She finally broke free and ran full speed down the slope and across the road, gone in six strides at most. It was, to say the least, powerful. That deer did not want to die. I'd imagine none of them do. Which brings me right back to the question: Can I squeeze the trigger?

thanks

Thanksgiving morning, before our 2K run/walk/talk along the Mighty Mississippi. My gratefulness runs deep, but looking at this picture reminds me to be thankful for my small presence in a bigger world.

eye

My sister says the sun is called "the eye of heaven". Actually she probably gives credit to someone else but since I think she's smarter than most, my vote goes to her. Anyway, I've been thinking about that for a while; the eye of heaven. Is it a comforting concept or a little damn scary? Being watched or being guided? Probably depends on what you need at any given moment. Regardless, I'm sure glad that eye is up there. And for the record, I'm terribly curious what it sees on the horizon.

C. Walk

November 16: Happy Birthday C. Walk, a man as smooth and sturdy as a 12 year old bottle of Jameson on a January night.
Cheers

steady

So I bought the new Hold Steady album this weekend and I can't seem to get it out of my head. I've heard it compared to a lot of things, including Bruce Springsteen. It's a strange phenomenon; I don't like Bruce Springsteen but I love the Hold Steady. My friends love Bruce Springsteen but don't like the Hold Steady. A while back I said I love my friends. That's the absolute truth, but in this case I think they're idiots. And they're never going to read this, so fuck 'em.
You can click below and decide for yourself concerning the Hold Steady. I'm assuming all my readers already have an opinion about The Boss, so we'll skip that link.

http://www.spinner.com/2006/10/17/video-premiere-the-hold-steady-chips-ahoy?ncid=AOLMUS00050000000039

Oh, the rhino... I've never taken a picture of the Hold Steady or Bruce, so I thought the rhino was a nice, neutral face.
Rock on, rhino.

season

The squirt season is officially underway. Number 24 for the Fighting Sioux had a goal and assist in a decisive 7 - 2 victory over the Blackbears. Dad spent a good amount of the game filled with pride and a little teary eyed. Yeah, I'm a sap, but I love him.

lips

I started loving this picture today. On the way to the gas station for hot chocolate and donuts this morning he said, "Dad, remember when the Lips played that first song? Man, I'll never forget that." Neither will I.

love

I really love my friends. I love that my friends love their dogs. I love guns and pulling the trigger in the woods. I love cold weather and warming up with whiskey. I love taking pictures into the sun just to see what happens. Yep, I love a lot of shit. I gotta remember that.