Tie-Dyed Brain Rays

The One I Love

Good Grooming

Those snappy dressers are me and my groomsmen on my wedding day. "Smilin' Jack" in the middle there is me. The guy on the left is my oldest pal. The guy on the right is my brother. We sort of look like the bouncers at Tony Soprano's New Year's Eve party, don't we?

Fast Away The Old Year Passes

Home For The Holidays

Behold the magic of Christmas as displayed by the Christmas tree that graces our front parlor.

As Sun sets on Winter's Eve, in a little chapel on a hill, I shall take Victoria Rose to be my wife. And as the Sun is born upon the morrow, so we too shall be, born into a new life together.

Talk about home for the holidays-- My first night in May Cottage was Halloween night. Since then we've celebrated Thanksgiving and my birthday in the little place. In just a flurry of days I'll be married, then comes Christmas, then New Year's. I think the New Year holds great things in store for me. As they say in France, "Ba Bak Bennu!"

Now listen, I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past, so take hold of my robe and I'll whisk you back, you miserable Scrooge, to a holiday classic from Tie-dyed Tehuti of yore. Just like Rudolph and Frosty and all those jerks-- we can trot out our perennial Christmas favorite from Tie-dyed Brain Rays 1.0. Please enjoy, "The Worst Christmas Song Ever."

Giving Thanks

That Has A Ring To It

This past Saturday, a little before two in the afternoon, I asked sweet Victoria Rose to be my bride. On this perfect fall afternoon, in a secluded spot on the grounds of St. John's Episcopal church, the oldest and most beautiful church in Brownwood, I gave her a simple gold ring bearing an opal heart and two tiny diamonds as a symbol of my love.

It's Hard For A Trekkie Out Here

Trek Bloke Broke, No Joke

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Not every fan chasing the dream is lucky enough to be a James Cawley, but don't take my word for it...

The Way Out

Helps eliminate voter irregularity

The election has come and gone, yet the political anal-ists drone on. Why? What is left to discuss? Kerry has conceded. There will be no endless recounts. The armies of lawyers have been sent back to their anthills proving that after all the contentious mudslinging even the Devilcrats can lose with dignity. Now we are safe again in the hands of God and George W. Bush. We can sleep soundly knowing that we are protected by the might of the Mighty White Right.

Dick Cheney can be wrapped in tissue and returned to his secure, undisclosed location. The talking heads can be put back in their specimen jars and stored neatly on the shelves until the next election. The pundits can be sent back to the pundit farms for re-education. And you there—sissy boy, you might as well drop the bouquet. You aren’t getting married anytime soon.

My trip through the Underworld has come to an end as well. Halloween has come and gone and I did not find what I had lost, so I stopped looking for it and started looking for the way out. I stumbled through the dark basement of Limbo (where they keep the overstock and close outs) for quite some time before I found a hatch in the floor. It was the kind of hatch one might find on your run-of-the-mill U-boat. After a bit of tugging and yanking I managed to force it open, lifting the heavy hatch cover up on it’s rusty hinges with a mighty heave.

Flames shot up my kilt.

I slammed the hatch shut. It isn’t nearly close enough to Christmas to start roasting chestnuts. That’s when I noticed the wrought-iron spiral staircase, spiraling upward (as spiral staircases are wont to do) into the darkness over my head. It seemed to go on forever. With great trepidation I began to traverse it. As I wound my way up I reminisced about the time my Great Uncle Milty tried to invent the spiral escalator and screwed himself into the ground. (Then there was the time he tried to combine his love of cookies and tobacco and came up with Double Snuff Oreos.)

After an hour or two, a few more pointless reminiscences, a couple of random daydreams, a panic attack, a snack and the odd erotic fantasy, I bumped my head on a manhole cover. Why does everything in the Underworld have to be heavy and rusty? With a mighty shove I dislodged it, emerging into a vast desert wasteland.

This doesn’t look like home. I knew I should have turned left at Albuquerque!

I could see a structure in the distance through the wavering heat. A mirage perhaps? Hey, maybe I was near Vegas! I began to trudge off toward what I hoped would might harbor a cold drink or a hot showgirl. I found that my journey proceeded much faster when I spun the hands of my watch around and around, just like they do in the movies. I was there in no time. Einstein was right. Time is relative.

A trio of glass and steel pyramids surrounded a tower in a central courtyard. The place was in ruins, and seemingly uninhabited. I could not find the entrance to any of the pyramid structures, so I looked for passage into the courtyard with the idea of finding my way to the top of the tower for a good look around.

In the middle of the courtyard, before a long-dry reflecting pool, stood a towering bronze statue of a buxom young woman astride a giant boar. Both were depicted in full armor, the maiden armed with a spear and wearing the kind of horned helmet (with one of the horns broken off) that a heroine in a Wagnerian opera might wear. The boar looked almost like an ironclad rhinoceros, brandishing a large spike on his headpiece, as well as a pair of the most menacing tusks you ever saw. On his flank was carved, “Hell on Hooves.” What a beautiful, fearsome pair they made.

As I stood marveling, the silence was broken by the sound of a human voice. I nearly jumped out of my skin and spun on my heels to see an old man with a flowing white beard approaching me. He wore long tattered robes emblazoned with a crest. The Greek letter Omega sat atop the letter Tau. Taken together they formed the Crux Ansada. He hurried toward me excitedly, pursued by hideous, wee beasties that tugged at his robes and battered his shins with sticks. He looked like something out of a Schongauer painting.

 

“Are you here to rescue me?” He asked hopefully.

“Actually, I’m lost,” I answered, apologetically.

“Naturally,” He said. The poor fellow seemed crestfallen.  He lifted his robe and tried to shake loose one of the little monsters that had latched onto his leg.

“What are those awful things?” I asked.

He sighed. “Those are my angels of chaos. They manifest out of my dreams at night. They are a real pain in the ass.” He turned to reveal a hairy gopher sized creature clinging to his hind-parts by a mouth full of pointy teeth. “See?”

“My God!” I grimaced.

He pointed toward something, which darted behind the statue of the warriors. “That spiny bastard is the worst,” he said. An evil giggle emanated from the shadows. “But they are the only things to eat around here.”

“Blech!” I exclaimed, wrinkling my nose.

“Eh, the Duken is pretty tasty,” he said, gesturing to a small campfire I hadn’t noticed before. Roasting on a spit was what appeared to be a brain with rooster's legs and leathery bat wings. “Care for a drumstick?”

I declined. “How long have you been here old-timer?” I asked.

He scratched his head, counted on his fingers, and took a deep breath. “It’ll be One thousand, four-hundred twenty years, six months, three days,” he said. “Come next Tuesday.”

I eyeballed him dubiously. “Who are they?” I asked, pointing at the sculpture.

He looked at the maiden wistfully. “She was the love of my life.” His eyes began to water.

“What happened to her?” I asked.

He shrugged and turned away. “I was just her companion on the first of her adventures,” he said sadly. “I heard once that she died rich and lonely, the name ‘Rosebud’ lingering on her lips.” He paused. “Or maybe I saw that in a movie once. I forget.” He began to usher me toward the tower. “She might have run off with a poet, or a circus freak… Who knows? I don’t guess it matters much anymore.”

He swung open the tower doors and we entered into a great library. In the center stood a magnificent ten thousand year clock. It rose majestically up through the center of the tower, rockers and gears slowly grinding out the advance of centuries. There were hands to mark the passage of the ages, dials to chart the rise and fall of civilizations, and a cuckoo that chirped but once a millennium.

 

“It’s ten minutes fast,” he said.

Hundreds of thousands of books lined the tower walls. “The sum of human knowledge,” he whispered reverently. “There are even one or two by you,” he said smiling. Before I could ask him anything else he shoved me toward a turnstile. “You’ll find that is your way out,” He said, slapping something into my hand. “You’ll need a token.”

“Hey!” I protested. “I have a few more questions. What is this place? Who are you? What’s up with the pig? Where is the girl now? And do I really write a book?”

“You’ll find out,” he said slyly. “In time. Now go. And if you see that damned brush elf, give him a swift kick in the pants for me.” Then he turned and walked away, whistling the Gary Owen and swatting at the angels of chaos that surrounded him once more.

After one last glance I deposited the token and passed through the turnstile. I emerged into the sunshine, surrounded by the familiar buildings of my hometown.

“Hello movie house!” I gushed. “Hello gas station! Hello building and loan!” I rushed down the street, past the places of my youth. It felt good to be back in the Overworld, back among the living. I guess I really will have a wonderful life after all.

Expect No Mercy

Someone sent me a link to a news story yesterday. The headline read: "Iraq's PM Says Saddam Depressed, Begs for Mercy." Hey Saddam, save your breath. Take it from someone who knows, begging for mercy doesn't do any good.

Just look around the world today. In your old stomping grounds bound hostages beg for mercy each day until the sound of their prayers is drowned by gurgling terror, then silence. Perhaps the pleas for mercy in their many languages were drowned out by their captor's glee at the glory they bring to merciful Allah.

In Beslan three hundred little voices begged for mercy to no avail. If innocent school children can find no mercy what makes you think that there is enough in the world for you? Perhaps if you had been a nicer king we wouldn't do a thing, but you were bad you must admit. How much mercy did you extend to the poor unfortunates who lived and died in your shadow for so long?

Even God doesn't seem to be in much of a forgiving mood these days. It seems that part of his divine plan consists of scouring the Earth with tornadoes and hurricanes. Toss in a few earthquakes, a volcanic eruption or two, a little global warming, a plague of locusts, and let's not forget that killer asteroid, shall we? It all makes for a rich frosting of chaos on this crazy world.

You never know when a house is going to fall on you (just ask the Wicked Witch,) or some nut with a bomb and a cause wants you to share his headline. The best we can hope to do is cling to each other and show our loved ones the mercy that the world will not. Yet we hold onto grudges like gold and fear forgiveness as a rash decision, as if mercy might be misapplied to someone who doesn't deserve it. But giving out what we deserve is the purview of Justice, not Mercy, which is measured on the scale of compassion. Feeling a bit low on mercy? That's alright, you can have some of mine.

You don't even have to beg.