Commentary Uncategorized

Hunter Smooshed By Elephant

Briefly, some big game hunters were out of a stroll in scenic Zimbabwe, undoubtedly scouting for rare and endangered animals they could blow holes through. For sport. They riled up a group of elephants, who took exception to the interruption–and almost certainly has some qualms about big game hunters because elephants are smart, they remember faces and scents pretty much forever, and they certainly know what a white guy with a “boomstick” means. The elephants charged, shots were fired, and Theunis Botha, a prominent professional hunter and guide who is credited for developing a hunting technique in which packs of dogs are used to run down leopards, was pancaked beneath the body of the wounded elephant as it fell.



I know I shouldn’t take pleasure in the death of another human, and I don’t. I do, however, appreciate the concept of karma and the sweet, smoky scent of irony on a warm summer day.  In general, like most rural Westsylvanians, I don’t give hunting a second thought. My dad did hunted a bit. My grandfather hunted pragmatically, not for trophies but to fill the freezer. That’s how it has been here forever.

Trophy hunting is a whole damn different thing. Wealthy people traveling around the world, venturing out from posh enclaves and led to optimal positions to squirt out a few rounds at exotic creatures. When the kill is over, lackeys take the skins and heads, usually discarding the meat, to be shipped home for the great valiant hunter to hang on the wall.

The argument is made that big game hunting supports local economies by filling lodges, hiring guides, and employing a platoon of service employees who carry and load the weapons, for example, drive the vehicles, pour the cocktails, as well as perform the butchering and preparing of skin and head.

Along with this comes the reasoning that by allowing a percentage of rare and endangered animals to be shot and killed revenue can be generated to support conservation, which is sort of like arguing that school districts should invite rich foreigners to hunt a certain number of teachers and use the fees to balance school budgets. Well, maybe if it was my tenth grade algebra teacher?

I might be tempted to think better of big game hunters if they were pushed out of the back of a land rover in the middle of the savanna with a knife, six feet of nylon cord, and a compass and left to fend for themselves, but what passes as “hunting” in this context is really just “killing.” The guides know where the animals are, kills are virtually guaranteed (staff will make sure the target dies if the hunter misses or only manages to wound it–no one goes home empty handed!).

Commentary Uncategorized

Monster Gator Caught In Florida

Did everyone see the size of the alligator that was recently killed in Florida–estimated at 15′ long and over 700 lbs, it’s shown at the bottom of the page. That’s just…Nope.

It’s like this:


Real Scary.


halloween Photo I Like

Two Weeks of Halloween: Axe Handle

He’s coming for you.


Photo I Like

The Twelve Days of Halloween 2014: Day 8 & Counting

The Skull-headed dude really freaks me out.  I made certain to follow the scariest vintage Halloween image yet with the most benign, reassuring, traditional, warm image I could find, but as kind and warm as the apple-bobbing lady seems, I think I’m going to see Skull-head in my nightmares.




Coming Soon…with Clowns. And Poetry.

I’ve been hanging around…elsewhere, but will be shifting things over here as opportunity arises.  But wow, isn’t the default background ugly?

Just changed that background…it looked like a clown costume.

I just did a search for a picture of a suitable clown costume.  I needed a sort of plaid, which I didn’t find. What I did find was a lot of sexy clowns. And clowns with knives. Things were so much simpler when I was young.

adult-diamond-dot-clown-costume killer-clown-costume-800553

I started this blog because I found an old journal given to me by a girl whose name I can’t remember, one of those classy blank books with the rough, off-white paper–they probably call it “artisan paper” today–and a paisley cloth cover.  Inside, there be dragons, if by dragons I mean old poems I wrote when I wrote poetry and thought that I’d get good at it eventually.  Dragons probably aren’t an apt metaphor–my poetry period coincided with some fairly debilitating medical issues, namely a a recurrence of an acute humor deficiency.  There wasn’t much fire in that verse.

The very same day, I was out with some guys at the bar and I told them about how I’d spent a good five years determined that my life would be seasonal labor in beautiful places with substantial breaks to roam around the country, the continent, and eventually the world.  One of the guys just about blew an artery laughing–who makes a living from poetry?  Name me one.  I couldn’t. Maybe Rod McKuen, but he had that whole troubador schtick and I don’t think he gets royalties from the estate sales of aging matrons of the sixties.  I would have been content to be the first, I said, but the truth is that I never believed hard enough to really serve the dream.  And I was a terrible poet.

The real irony is the kids are making a killing today being creative on the internet.  I recently read about a girl who writes pseudonymous non-fiction first person porn and markets it like it’s fiction.  Her fake name is Marie Calloway because her parents think she’s a virgin and would be horrified to know, but she must be who she was born to be, which is to say that the show must go on.  Dr. Phil was going to put her on her show, ostensibly as an example of how the new generation interacts, learns about sex, and relationships.  She emails intriguing strangers and propositions them.  Dr Phil cancelled. She said it was because she’s too controversial, and he just wanted to bring her on the show to shame her anyway. I suspect he realized she was just a bullshit peddler looking to broker that shaming into publicity.  But that’s just me.

The point is that creative people are making money like never before, thanks to the internet, and a kid who wants to write has a lot of freedom and opportunity to pursue those dreams, and I think that’s cool.  But what about a codger like me, with a mortgage and kids?  I grew up, for better and worse, but mostly for better.  I have no pretense of believing that a single human being will find, let alone read, what I do here.  It’s not about anything but throwing out some stuff that the kid in me–a guy I barely remember–thought was a kick. Better late than never, right?

And, just for the record–I’m pretty sure my mom suspects I’m not a virgin.

The pseudonym should make sense pretty much as soon as you read the first lines of verse.  If you read this, leave a footprint–I’ll be curious to see if anyone does.  Read this, I mean.