Some of you may know that I am a fan of the late Douglas Adams. Some of you may not know this. Some of you may not care and may not know who in the world I'm talking about.

Douglas Adams wrote the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy books. Douglas also wrote Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency, and The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul, a second Dirk Gently book. Douglas worked with the BBC on television shows like Dr. Who and appeared twice on Monty Python. His wit was genuine, unforced, smart, and slightly cynical and hopeful at the same time. When Douglas died of a heart attack at age 49 in Santa Monica on May 11th, 2001, I wept.

In the late 1980s, after globtrotting with naturalist Mark Carwadine in search of some of the most endangered species on the planet, Douglas wrote (and completed) his only non-fiction book called Last Chance to See. It's probably my favorite book on the subject of endangered species, and the brave things that are being done to protect them. It is also a little known bit of trivia that this entire book was presented in CDROM format for the Apple/Macintosh in 1989 by BBC Enterprises. I have managed to get my hands on a copy of this rare collectors item, through no effort on my own. The only thing that can be salvaged from the cds in this set are the audio tracks of Douglas Adams reading bits of the book since the system requirements for the rest of the material are almost twenty years out of date, and there are none to be found anywhere.

The following audio track, then, is a treasure. A gift for any of you, who might be Douglas Adams fans in the very least. This is a bit of the past that you might not have known about, or have been able to experience, were it not for the red tape and the pack-rat-like tenacity of Higher Education. This clip is a clip of Douglas Adams reading part of Last Chance to See, the bit about the venom expert, if you've read the book. Enjoy.



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I wrote this last November, but thought of it today because I heard the song, so I thought I'd share it again. Also, if you can name the mystery man who sits at the table in the third full paragraph (the bar of my imagination), I'll let you download the song that the lyrics come from...that is, if you want it...

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I saw teenage girls like gaudy moths
A classroom's shabby butterflies
Flirt in the glow of stranded telephone boxes
Planning white lace weddings from smeared hearts and token proclamations

I wasn't comfortable with this place. It was smokey, it was dimly lit, and there were women dancing all around. I was only hear because I was the driver. My responsibility was to get the groom home in one piece, that's all. I didn't have the uninhibited buzz my comrades had at the time. I didn't whoop and yell at the table. I just sat, drank one beer, and several glasses of water, and nervously engaged a young waitress in a conversation about her life outside this place, while another, older, and more busty woman, danced on the poll that came up from the center of our table. She smeared the warm wet circles on the table left by our drinks with her stiletto shoes.

Like a mothers kiss on your first broken heart, a warm wet circle
Like a bullet hole in Central Park, a warm wet circle
And I'll always surrender to the warm wet circles

This place was as glamorous as a warehouse, only smaller and painted all in black. There was already a band playing when I walked in, but not one of the ones I'd come to see. I'd have to wait for a bit. So I sat at the bar for a while. I ordered my customary Guinness, the only good imported beer this dive carried, and set it on the bar. The moist air from the cold December night drifted in through the open door, and caused my glass to bead up, sending tears of condensation in rivulets down the sides. The music throbbed, the singer growled. I picked up my drink and turned in my bar stool and looked through to the other room. The musicians were singing to nobody. A smattering of people were gathered, sitting at tables, but nobody was paying attention. A few were smoking in the corners, having conversations with each other. I turned and dragged the sleeve of my sweater across the bar, it came up dripping. I had wiped the warm wet circle from where my drink had been. I set it down, and it worked at creating a new one.

Chalking up a name in your hometown
Standing all your mates to another round
Laughing at the world till the barman wipes away the warm wet circles

I imagine myself sitting at a table, in a corner. It's more like a booth, rounded. The seat is dark leather, the table dark, stained wood. The whole place is paneled in dark wood. The bar fixtures are brass, and glisten in the dim light. To my right, speaking softly, sits Tolkien, holding his pipe as he talks. He's talking to George McDonald, who strokes his long black beard as he listens. To my left is Peter Gabriel, talking to Pete Townsend. Across from me sits Steve Hogarth(H). There's an empty chair next to him, and we all talk together of all things English. We talk about the past, the future, about music. We discuss our religions, our beliefs, or lack of both. The door of the bar opens and lets the fog in, along with a tall figure, who booms out to the barman in his thick Scottish accent as he heads for our table. His height overwhelms the room. He exchanges glances with H as he draws nearer, they look nervous, but then they laugh and smile at each other. He removes his close fitting hat to reveal his shaved head as he sits in the empty chair. The barman brings his drink over and wipes away the warm wet circles from under our own. We talk long into the night about all things before we disappear into the foggy night.

Through the tears of condensation that'll cry through the night
As the glancing headlights of the last bus kiss adolescence goodbye
In a warm wet circle

Something was happening on the periphery of my vision. In the back. In a dark corner. My cousin, who's bachelor party had brought us to this seedy joint, was in the back, having a heated discussion with someone in a suit. A suit? In here? We needed to leave. We'd been asked to leave. Suddenly the place took on a sinister air, suited men stood at the one exit and glared at us. My cousin owed money, money for a lap dance he was too drunk to refuse. As I went to the ATM, to extract a twenty so we could leave, music started, the lights went down, a dancer came out on stage in only a thong. She danced warm wet circles around the stage as I took the fall, and paid our way out.

Giving it all away and showing no shame
She'll take a mother's kiss on her first broken heart a warm wet circle
She'll realize that she played her part in a warm wet circle

lyrics - Marillion - Clutching at Straws - Warm Wet Circles

I can't remember ever feeling pain like this. It endures, it swells, it prevents anything from passing down my throat. I am hungry, but in fear of swallowing anything but water.

Fear, I tell you. Absolute dread.

I am weak, my colitis flared up at the same time as this bacteria took root. I was certain, or at least convinced, that these were my last hours on earth.

But now, Amoxacillan will do battle with the bacteria. Until it's gone however, I'll have to moan and whine like most men do when faced with any sort of pain.

It's one o'clock and time for lunch,
When the sun beats down and I lie on the bench
I can always hear them talk.

I'm not sure where it comes from, all these English dreams. Perhaps it's too much Monty Python, too much Genesis, or too much Miss Marple. It's definitely too much Dr. Who. But what is it that drives me, causes me to warm to, all things English? Is it the history? Maybe. The richness of the history is a big draw, that's for sure.

There's always been Ethel:
"Jacob, wake up! You've got to tidy your room now."
And then mister Lewis:
"Isn't it time that he was out on his own?"
Over the garden wall, two little lovebirds - cuckoo to you!
Keep them mowing blades sharp...

Perhaps it's the people. They come in all different types, just like here, so what's the difference? Truth is, I don't really know. I've only known a handful of English people, all quite nice on their own. What I get regarding the English temperament I get from television and books. Fortunately, I get it from more than just bad television. Dickens is one source, albeit archetypical in many cases.

Sunday night, Mr farmer called, said:
"Listen son, you're wasting your time; there's a future for you
In the fire escape trade. Come up to town!"
But I remebered a voice from the past;
"gambling only pays when you're winning"
- I had to thank old Miss Mort for schooling a failure.
Keep them mowing blades sharp...

More than likely, it's just a complete fantasy world that I've built up in my head. One that includes such figures as those inhabiting the charming Village of Dibly. A fantasy that is full of tea drinking doctors who disappear into a "Police in a Box". A strange fantasy where grown men wear costumes to make themselves look like famous philosophers and play soccer, or do commentary for a side-table and Victorian furniture derby.

Then again, it could be any of those things, or none. It doesn't really matter anyway, the fantasy persists. I suppose I have to accept the fact that I am a die hard Anglophile, and there's nothing I can really do about it...one of these days, my wife and I'll visit. One of these days, I'll sit in a proper English garden, in front of a small thatched roofed garden, and be able to experience it as it actually is, not as I think it is. We'll travel the north country as well, visiting Scotland, and it's rolling highlands. Maybe I'll die while I'm there, because I'll think I'm in heaven, or that I've finally come home. So strong is the fantasy, that my eyes will likely be clouded with unreality and falsehoods...I'll see things differently than everyone else. But it doesn't matter. As long as the locals are friendly, the bitter thick, the fire warm, and the conversation interesting, I'll let the fantasy persist.

This post is dedicated to the two servants of Her Majesty who have recently begun frequenting this blog and commenting. Thanks! You know who you are.

Labels: anglophile

I'm breaking with the regular programming on this blog for just a moment here, for a public service announcement.

I have videos of our oldest at his kindergarten graduation concert! Enjoy!

Friday, June 9, 2006




Oh, by the way, if you can't figure it out, he's the one in the solid blue shirt that is in the middle of the frame for most of the video.

At the end of the road, there would be a little quaint village. In it, there would be a dark wood paneled pub where people would gather for warmth, and friendship, and a good long chat on cold rainy evenings by a roaring peat or oak fire. The port or stout would be as thick as syrup. We'd sing songs together, drink each other's health, and walk home smiling and content under heavy fog or drizzle.

There would be the eccentric Lord of the Manor who's family had lived in the manor house in the center of town for a thousand years or more. He would rule as the Mayor of the town. There'd be the town council, holding irregular meetings in the church hall. People would talk and lean against the stone walls that demarcated their patches of grazing lands, raising up their gumboots on the fallen stones for support as they did.

The lovable and young vicar would make his rounds each day, fearlessly working with some on their farms, and just talking with others in their little shops or houses. On Sunday, we'd all let him talk to us in the church built so many centuries ago, about things that happened even further into the mists of time. Afterward we'd smile at each other and invite one another to Sunday lunch in the town square that is encircled by an ancient ring of stones built by our druid forefathers.

The children would have grown up in a fanciful world of Watch With Mother shows like The Flowerpot Men, and Andy Pandy. They would believe in a world of rabbits who squeeze under garden fences only to lose their little jackets and shoes after almost getting caught and put in a pie. They would believe that frogs sat on lily pads in their mackintoshes trying to catch minnows, only to leave after an incident with a fish, and carry on in spite of it all with the dinner party with the tortiose and the newt.

Each little thatched roofed house would have a flowering garden, full of rosemary and thyme, and bright faced daisies. The undergrowth would be covered with thick moss that invited fairies and mushrooms and the occasional hedgehog gathering garments that needed to be mended. The silence of the hillsides would only be broken by the intermittent braying of sheep, and the standing stones and ruins of ages past.

There we are, sometimes. But I'm dreaming again. This place isn't real, is it? Someone tell me why we can't live there?

Labels: anglophile

Friday was the last day of Kindergarten, he is now a first grader.

Friday he gave his teacher a book that he wrote all by himself. He is now a six year old author. With the permission of the author, I'll try to share some of his book with you at a later time. It's called Max and the Dragon, and is quite exciting.

Friday we gave him a card that had a dollar in it. He was excited. By the time he gets the card with the twelve dollars in it for being a senior, however, I think he's going to be nonplussed. Oh well.

Friday we all went to the dentist, and also to the pediatrician. We're all doing relatively fine...finally.

mommy leave the light on
tell me that the monster is gone
one more lullaby to sing
mommy leave the radio on

Fear is vague. Fear is a warning. It is a chemical response. It can be so much more than just a feeling. It can manifest itself in many ways. Paranoia, depression, anxiety...all of these are the minions of fear, it's agents.

In the night he wakes up, quietly whimpering. He isn't fully awake, yet not quite fully asleep. He is three, and this is the time in his life when his mind begins to grow into a consciousness, an awareness, and he dreams. The dreams are unfamiliar to his small and inexperienced mind. They cause fear.

let no intruders make their way into my dreams
so mommy keep it nice and clean
you light a fire and keep the animals away
I'll try to forget that I am afraid

Fear can be debilitating. Fear can kill. Fear can cause misjudgment and mistakes. Uncontrolled fear can cause dementia. But fear is still a warning. It's a warning of something out of place, something out of the ordinary, something unfamiliar. It's the slight smell in the air, a small disturbance in the grass that we first stood up in, something moving in the shadows, just out of our poor human sight.

He remembers the disjointed household, the unsettled routine. He knew something was different, something was wrong. His mind was confused and tried to keep back the fear, but the dam burst on more than one occasion, and he was found weeping at the top of the stairs, looking into the dark chasm of the unknown future.

mommy can you tell me why
there is no way we can escape from dying
mommy can you tell me I get well
I really don't care if you're lying

Fear demands either validation or rebuttal. Fear demands nothing less than complete attention. Fear can drive you over the edge, or it can strengthen you for the fight. We all have fear, it is a part of our human nature. To ignore fear is to ignore a million years of learning, a million years of experience. Fear can help you, just like fear can kill you.

Every day is a new fear, a new responsibility, a new unsettling revelation. With each day the level of fear is dealt with, pushed down to it's useful level and turned into motivation, dedication, and loyalty. Fear doesn't drive him now, like it did when he stood at the top of those stairs, so many years ago. But fear is still there, being used. Use your fear, don't let it use you.

Lyrics: Mommy Leave The Light On - The Flower Kings

"Big boys don't cry!" said the six year old bully to his latest victim who lay sprawled on the thick green grass in tears. The bully, Mohawk hair cut, walked away with a look of disdain on his face, and went back to the party as the victim's mother picked him up and took him away and dressed his emotional wounds with spiteful and salty words.

All I could think, upon seeing this scene, was that whoever told that kid that "big boys don't cry" was a jackass. Big boys do cry. Men cry. Men who don't, are lesser men. But in a world where people have children as if they're buying a pet, it's hard to tell who's to blame, if anyone. The father who lives in Seattle, the inattentive mother, the drunk uncle, the television? Anyone, I suppose.

At this party, attended by people fully ten years younger than my wife and I or more, there wasn't one un-splintered couple/family. I overheard everyone saying "he's going to his dad's place tonight" or "I've got her this weekend, then her dad next" or "he's running late because he stayed with his dad's parents last night."

We are rare, my wife and I. We are becoming extinct. This is our thirteenth year together, and I foresee a lifetime of years to come. But for some, for most these days, I suppose, love and marriage is a temporary arrangement at best, something that's expected to crumble. Why is this? Is it that my generation, and the generation coming up in my rear view mirror, was subjected to 1970s and 1980s self-promotion propaganda? "Look after number one," "do what feels good to you, no matter what other's say." A certain amount of this is warranted, I'll admit. However, it seems to me, that selfishness is becoming the death of the future. Selfishness is creating monster six year olds with Mohawks who have less emotion toward their peers than angry dogs.

Marriage, of any sort, is a commitment. A commitment to ones partner. A bond of trust. All of these cliches apply to any conjugal arrangement, it seems to me. This list of cliche's becomes even stronger, when a child enters the picture. No matter how resilient people tell me children are, it always pains me to see them tossed around like so much chattel. They deserve better, they deserve the best a parent can give. They are, after all, human beings, and this is the beginning of their life.

Lest everyone think I'm anti-divorce, I am not. Divorce is a last resort. The final bail out from a lost and hopeless relationship. But, like marriage and having children, it should not be approached lightly or without forethought. When all is lost, and there is nothing left to build on, it's time to move out.

But for me and my house, we will serve each other, love each other, and live out our days in as much peace as we can.

These are my opinions. These are my thoughts. Forgive me if I offend.

It happens every year about this time, it seems. The sun, then the rain, then the sun again, then the happy little flowers, the gardening work, the end of the quarter at the college, the end of school for the kids, the spring cleaning, the schedules and the training and the gearing up for summer projects at work...all of it. It dries up my creative impulses, my introspection, causes me to stop for a while and just do nothing but what is needed and required of me.

This is both good, and bad. Good because letting the ground go fallow for a while makes it more fertile. Bad because I need the creative release, the introspection. If it doesn't last long, and it rarely does, this balance is perfect.

God took a swipe from his color palate and spread it across the sky over Super Wal-mart in Spokane Valley yesterday around noon. I didn't have my camera, but the friend of local blogger, Family Phil, took the picture I've posted to the left.

This was an interesting phenomenon called a circumhorizontal arc. Read more about how this happens, and why, HERE.

But what was even more interesting was watching to see which people in the Wal-mart parking lot took a moment from the mundanities of their tiny little lives, and stopped, looked up, and pointed. Not as many as I would have liked to have seen, that's for sure, but more than I expected. Still, it's too bad so many people go through life looking at the ground, disregarding anything above the level of their own noses.

Keep looking up everybody, you never know what you might see.