Ghosts of Dead Bikers

The sky filled with black crows this morning.

There were hundreds of them in my oak tree alone, cursing and swearing loudly. I watched them out the window and thought about what I've been told.

I have a good friend who is a biker woman and quite extraordinary. She is talented, beautiful, wild, brave and much more free than most people I know. Her name is Jay.

Jay says that black crows are the spirits of dead bikers. I looked out the window at the gathering crows and I could imagine them slumped over their gleaming Harleys, dressed in traditional leathers, and scowling at each other.

Bikers are unusual people. A lot of what they do is "theater". There are bikers I would trust with my life and bikers who I would never trust with anything.

I watched the conference for about an hour and then by some mutual agreement, they took to the skies and roared off to another location in unison. Theater, indeed! I sat transfixed at the window for another half an hour wondering if they would return, but they didn't.

Thanksgiving Aftermath

Honey's bed is in the dining room, right next to the floor heater.

She has a teddy bear blanket that she loves to sleep on. We've been watching her very closely since yesterday afternoon. In fact, I slept on the floor by her side last night.

Friday, yesterday, we took Honey and Harry to their park and they had a good time. Everything seemed normal. Honey was in good spirits as was Harry. We had a full house on Thanksgiving and both dogs love company, particularly if it includes kids.

Now they don't love kids for the obvious reasons, they love them because they drop food. If you follow a kid long enough, you'll get a snack. Works every time.

About 4 in the afternoon yesterday, Honey had been napping in a spot of sunlight in the office. Harry barked at her because he wanted to come in and she was blocking his way. Alex said, "Boy! She's really sound asleep!" I walked over to look and she opened her eyes.

I nearly had a heart attack when I saw that her eyes were completely rolled up in her head. I then noticed that her legs were at a very odd angle. She tried to get up and she couldn't.

I called the vet and we rushed her right in. They kept asking about toxic substances that she could have gotten into. To our knowledge, there's nothing like that around.

To me it looked like she had a stroke. The vet said that was possible, but toxins weren't out of the question either. Honey is about 11 years old. She's had very bad hips and arthritis since we got her nearly 6 years ago.

Honey has had a good life. She's a great dog and is truly my "forever" girl. I have hired an acupuncturist for her. She gets massages. She eats better than a lot of people. But she's getting old and there really is no cure for that.

The vet told me to take her to the hospital and they could put Honey on an iv to get fluids into her and monitor her overnight. I asked if they could give her some fluids along with doing the blood and urine work-ups and she said yes. I said I would bring Honey home and we would monitor her.

Honey was incontinent during the night so I gently cleaned her and replaced her bedding a few times. At 7 this morning, she couldn't even let me give her sips of water out of my hand. I told Alex I was going to call the "house call" vet to come and euthanize her. We both shook our heads but thought it would be the best thing we could do for her. I planned to call at 9 AM.

About ten minutes before 9, Honey stood and got out of her bed. She walked to the kitchen door on wobbly legs and Alex carried her downstairs so she could "do her business". She walked up the stairs by herself and she wanted breakfast.

I spoke with the vet earlier today. She said that Honey's lab work looked fine and that the probable problem was a stroke or some other neurological event. Further, the vet said that older dogs do have them but sometimes they recover and are just fine. (Of course, the vet also added that sometimes they have more strokes after the first one.) For today, we've cheated death for Honey.

Right now, I remind myself of a frog I had when I was a kid. The frog got sick and his eyes swelled up almost shut and then he died. My eyes look like that today. I hope I don't have what he did.

Sex Scenes

One of my favorite sex scenes of all time (besides my own) was between Marlon Brando and Anna Magnani in a very dark 1960 film called "The Fugitive Kind".

I really don't remember that much about the movie, but I remember the scene. Marlon Brando played a drifter who comes to work at a store owned by Magnani and her somewhat sadistic, invalid husband. Magnani clears out a storeroom and puts a bed in it, saying something to Brando like "You might as well sleep here since you don't have a place."

Brando walked up behind Magnani as she was showing him the storeroom. From behind, he pushed her into the wall with his body and then kissed her neck. They were both fully dressed at the time. I know I moaned out loud right in the movie theater.

This was a film adaptation of a Tennessee Williams play. Williams' stories are always set someplace in the hot and sweaty South. He really is not one of my favorite writers. But this scene made me feel something on an emotional level.

Over the years, I've seen a lot of very "raw" sex scenes in movies. Some have worked better than others, for example, "9 1/2 Weeks" and "The Postman Always Rings Twice" and "The Piano". But none of those films have one particular scene that ever actually become embedded in my mind like the scene with Brando and Magnani.

There was a rawness and an honesty to the scene which was done by two very skilled actors who both "brought it" that day for that scene.

Perky breasts and bottoms don't make a scene sexy. Neither do graphic scenes without any emotion. Now, I like porn for porn's sake just as well as the next girl, but it's not really sexy. It's athletic, (usually kind of funny too!), but it's not particularly sexy.

Many years ago, Alex and I saw an amazing Japanese film called "Realm of the Senses". The movie featured mainstream Japanese actors and was a love story between a prostitute and a man. What distinguished this film from any other I've ever seen was that perhaps a full three minutes of the film actually showed graphic sexual penetration.

It was probably the most honest portrayal of sex in a relationship I've even seen on film. I found it somewhat surprising, but not nearly as stimulating as the sex scene in "The Fugitive Kind". My imagination provides much hotter sex than graphic portrayals on screen.

Going To The Nudie Bar

What a difference 17 years makes!

In the photo, my first grandchild, Cyrus, is shown at about a year old. I was at the hospital when he was born and spent every possible hour with him from that time forward.

Cyrus will turn 18 early next month. I sometimes wonder how that is possible. He and I have been "best friends" since he was born.

He still calls me about 3 times a week and spends the night at "G-ma's" house at least once a month. Cyrus has told me "secrets" from the time he could talk and I hold those secrets deep in my heart.

When I asked him what he wanted for his birthday this year, he was a little cagey. I suggested that we could probably arrange to get him a hooker and he said he had one last year. Then he corrected himself and said, "Actually, it was a couple of weeks ago, but it sure seems like a year!" That Cyrus! His mom promptly covered her ears and started saying "No! No! No!" until he walked out of the room. He was joking (probably).

His dad has promised to take him to a nudie bar for his birthday. I guess they let 18 year old's in these places if they don't serve alcohol.

I still don't know what to give him, but I want it to be something wonderful. For almost 18 years, he's given me something wonderful.

Navajo Shortcuts

My husband Alex is Navajo.

The Navajo Nation is the largest Indian Reservation in the United States. It is also a very beautiful place. Alex has about 200 relatives who live there and we go to visit some of them at least every couple of years.

We usually make Gallup, New Mexico our "base" for the Rez trips. There is a hotel in Gallup that we love called the "El Rancho". It was built during the time that Hollywood was making a string of Westerns and it has a lot of history. We usually get the "Presidential Suite" (named that because Ronald Reagan stayed there when he was acting in Westerns). The hotel's lobby is gorgeous, but the rooms are a little run down. It's owned and run by Navajos.

The El Rancho is a pet friendly hotel. The Navajo hotel manager did comment "Those aren't dogs, those are wolves!" when we walked in with Harry and Honey. It's especially nice because we can eat our meals at a big wooden table in the lobby and let the dogs curl under our chairs while we have dinner. Or we can enjoy cocktails in front of a big fireplace while the dogs snooze.

We always rent a big Hummer because Alex insists we need an off-road vehicle for the Reservation. (And we like to show off; Navajos love Hummers!) Sometimes we pick up a bunch of Navajos going back to the Rez after a night in town and pile them in back with the dogs. These guys are funny and appreciate not having to take the long, long hike back home. They are all very amused at the Navajo guy with the blond wife.

Every time we go, Alex wants to take the unpaved "Indian Roads" and we always get hopelessly lost. It's a very big area and one can get very lost when one insists on taking "Navajo shortcuts". We've run out of road, been stuck in the mud, nearly turned our vehicle over, and pretty much abandoned all thought of ever getting back to civilization while we are visiting the Rez. It's all high adventure!

Sometimes we find Alex's aunts, uncles, cousins, and sometimes we don't. This trip is never really about the destination but about the journey. When we are somewhere else, I am much more inclined to be nervous when Alex starts talking about a "Navajo shortcut". God knows where we might end up. When we are on the Rez, I feel like we can never truly be lost.

Is That A Gun In Your Pocket, Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?

This is what shows on a TSA screening x-ray.

I don't think I want an x-ray like that. Oh, I think it's probably not that intrusive, but I still don't like being exposed to any radiation as I doubt it's good for me.

I don't like being hijacked or killed either, so I'm not knocking the use of extreme measures. Still, I'd rather be patted down.

I've been patted down by a female police officer while assuming "the position" on the hood of a car. It really wasn't that traumatic in itself. The part that was a little traumatic was being on the side of the freeway when it happened.

Short story. Guy I was carpooling with was black. We were in an area where Driving While Black is suspect. Got pulled over for expired tags. The car was impounded. We were both searched for contraband and weapons, but the Highway Patrolman who pulled us over had to call for a female cop to pat me down. It was a queer experience actually.

My husband had been deployed for a year to the Middle East at the start of the Iraq War. I was not in the mood to put up with this kind of nonsense. Eventually, after filing a formal complaint, I got an apology. Well, no harm, no foul.

Still, being patted down in private would be okay with me, particularly if she's cute. But, on the side of the road, not so much.

A Walk On The Wild Side

When I was nineteen, I was married and living in an apartment complex in Mountain View, California. I met a girl at the swimming pool one day, and we became friends. Cathy wasn’t married, but she and I had a lot in common. We were the same age and we both loved to read. We both worked in sales, and were both from San Francisco.

Cathy told me she was going up to the City to see a friend the next day and asked me if I wanted to come along. It was about an hour’s drive from Mountain View to San Francisco, and she said she’d love to have company for the ride. I quickly agreed to go along. My husband worked long hours and I was usually bored if I was home alone. Cathy told me her friend was a girl she knew from high school who was now working as a prostitute. I absorbed that information slowly and then thought, “Wow! How cool is this?”

I decided that I wouldn’t mention the details to my husband John. I was fascinated and intrigued and really looking forward to meeting this amazing person. My only ideas of prostitutes were from movies—Belle De Jour with Catherine Deneuve, or Irma LaDouce with Shirley Maclain came to mind. I really wasn’t sure exactly what prostitutes did exactly. I mean, yeah, they had sex for money, but was it just normal sex like my husband and I had? Or for that matter, did we have normal sex? There was just so much information that could come from this nineteen-year-old girl named Melissa who was working in the absurdly adult field of prostitution!

I dressed very carefully the next morning and applied my make up with an expert hand. I wanted to look my best! I wanted to make a good impression on the mysterious and glamorous Melissa. On the ride to the City, Cathy told me that Melissa had a black pimp named Joe. (Oh my God! This just gets better and better!) I was buzzing with anticipation over the whole escapade!

We pulled up in front of a run-down looking apartment building in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco. This was not a nice neighborhood. When we went up to the front door, it was open and various people were loitering in the lobby. They were not people I wanted for neighbors. As I followed Cathy up the two flights of stairs, I began to wonder if coming here was the best idea I ever had! The place was so run down and dirty and the people all looked like the dregs of society. What in the hell were we doing here looking a little like a team of Jehovahs Witnesses?

Cathy knocked at the door of Melissa’s apartment. A fairly heavy-set blond girl in a dirty babydoll nightgown opened the door to us and said to come on in. She had apparently been sleeping when we arrived and had smeared mascara around her eyes, and her face was puffy with sleep. I was having trouble getting my mind around the fact that she was nineteen. She looked a bruised forty, literally and figuratively. Her arm was badly bruised as was her leg. Cathy asked her what happened to her and Melissa told us that a cop had raped her and beat her up the night before. I was looking at her dirty feet with the chipped polish and thought that no cop in his right mind would touch this girl. (Yeah, I was naive all right.)

We stayed about an hour and then Cathy asked Melissa to get dressed and we’d take her out to lunch. I am embarrassed to admit how much I did not want to be seen in public with this person. I was so relieved when Melissa declined and said she just wanted to get back in bed. I was somewhat taken aback when she said to me, “If Joe saw you, he’d snatch you up in a minute!” Oh God! Get me out of here! I no longer wanted to meet Joe the pimp. I didn’t want to be “snatched up”. I wanted to go home!

What I expected to be a fascinating adventure was nothing but a terribly depressing and sad situation. It’s nothing like the movies.