One described the other, memorably if inelegantly, as behaving like "a motheaten elk in rut." Oh brother. Pass me another Molsen. It's cold up here in single moose country.
2.21.2007
dinner for three
One described the other, memorably if inelegantly, as behaving like "a motheaten elk in rut." Oh brother. Pass me another Molsen. It's cold up here in single moose country.
2.15.2007
a toast to pepito
"He was the last of the old timers," said Jimmy, when he called to tell me.
Pepito taught Jimmy, and all the other kids in Makaweli Valley how to hunt. They would saddle up their horses and mules (with plenty of Budweiser in the saddlebags), pick up their rifles and skinning knives, whistle to the two-score pig dogs, the trackers and the grabbers, and hele off "up the volcano, into the interior." There they would track the feral pigs and goats, packing out the meat several days later to smoke and eat and make luau. It was not an easy matter to kill an angry boar. One door of Pepito's shack has boar jaws nailed all over it, the tusks long and sharp.
Pepito lived in a shack in the middle of taro fields. You had to cross the Waimea River to get there, thread the dirt paths and make it through the pack of snarling, mangy, dogs and flies. "Get back here," Pepito would shout. "Cut that out." His shack was small, without electricity or running water, and it squatted over thousands of Louis L'Amour and other paperback westerns and war stories. Pepito sat in a lawn chair in the open, a cooler or three filled with ice and meat and beer nearby. He was a wild man in his youth, who once rode his mule into the local bar and ordered him a beer. By the time I was working in the bar, in the 70s, he had been barred.
But he settled down as the years passed. He graciously took me, my husband and in-laws on a pig hunt for Life magazine, mounting us and guiding us and instructing us for free. By the time I saw him for what I suspected would be the last time, three years ago, he had reluctantly given up the cigarettes and beer and was not hunting regularly any more. He tended the irrigation ditches in the taro fields, fed his bored hunting dogs, read his novels and entertained his frequent visitors with tolerance and grace.
Pepito was an ali'i, a chief, and a wise man. Mahalo for your counsel, Pepito. And much aloha for the aloha you shared with us.
Why I can't stop: I have to drink a Bud for Pepite.
Pepito taught Jimmy, and all the other kids in Makaweli Valley how to hunt. They would saddle up their horses and mules (with plenty of Budweiser in the saddlebags), pick up their rifles and skinning knives, whistle to the two-score pig dogs, the trackers and the grabbers, and hele off "up the volcano, into the interior." There they would track the feral pigs and goats, packing out the meat several days later to smoke and eat and make luau. It was not an easy matter to kill an angry boar. One door of Pepito's shack has boar jaws nailed all over it, the tusks long and sharp.
Pepito lived in a shack in the middle of taro fields. You had to cross the Waimea River to get there, thread the dirt paths and make it through the pack of snarling, mangy, dogs and flies. "Get back here," Pepito would shout. "Cut that out." His shack was small, without electricity or running water, and it squatted over thousands of Louis L'Amour and other paperback westerns and war stories. Pepito sat in a lawn chair in the open, a cooler or three filled with ice and meat and beer nearby. He was a wild man in his youth, who once rode his mule into the local bar and ordered him a beer. By the time I was working in the bar, in the 70s, he had been barred.
But he settled down as the years passed. He graciously took me, my husband and in-laws on a pig hunt for Life magazine, mounting us and guiding us and instructing us for free. By the time I saw him for what I suspected would be the last time, three years ago, he had reluctantly given up the cigarettes and beer and was not hunting regularly any more. He tended the irrigation ditches in the taro fields, fed his bored hunting dogs, read his novels and entertained his frequent visitors with tolerance and grace.
Pepito was an ali'i, a chief, and a wise man. Mahalo for your counsel, Pepito. And much aloha for the aloha you shared with us.
Why I can't stop: I have to drink a Bud for Pepite.
2.14.2007
problem of the day
Last night I dreamt that I was smoking. Cigarettes. Which I actually haven't in like a year and a half. Except in my dreams. So this morning when I woke up, I felt like having a martini. Or a sixer. Or smoking a pack of cigarettes. Or something. The sleet and hail and other forms of hard snow, driven by 30 mph winds, were rattling the windows. I rolled over and closed my eyes again so I could listen to it better. And when I finally got up, I settled for coffee.
Why I can't stop: The yen never goes away.
Why I can't stop: The yen never goes away.
1.20.2007
warning
This page to be reactivated soon. Or else possibly whatismyfuckingproblem. Frankly, I'm tiring of the PG thing. Life is way more interesting than that.
8.13.2006
hmm
Actually, this was a very good site. I should probably come back to it at some point when I'm a trifle saner.
5.16.2006
fyi
I probably won't be maintaining this site for a while. i haven't much to fuss about except building, and that's appearing on the other site. Later.
5.12.2006
5.09.2006
5.05.2006
5.04.2006
5.03.2006
the nice town department
PITTSBURGH (April 26) - Police found a dead dog dressed in blue jeans, a T-shirt, socks, tennis shoes and a baseball cap on the rear porch of a home on Monday in the Stanton Heights neighborhood. Police Lt. Kevin Kraus said the dog, apparently a boxer-pit bull mixed breed that neighbors said was named Pimpin', was dressed after it had been killed.
Police on Tuesday were trying to interview a woman who lived at the house where the dog was found. The dog's killer could face animal cruelty and drug charges.
Kraus found the dog, which he first thought was a person, while investigating an argument between two motorists nearby.
The Allegheny County Medical Examiner's office X-rayed the dog's body and determined that it had been bludgeoned and stabbed to death days earlier.
Why I can't stop: I have friends in that town.
Police on Tuesday were trying to interview a woman who lived at the house where the dog was found. The dog's killer could face animal cruelty and drug charges.
Kraus found the dog, which he first thought was a person, while investigating an argument between two motorists nearby.
The Allegheny County Medical Examiner's office X-rayed the dog's body and determined that it had been bludgeoned and stabbed to death days earlier.
Why I can't stop: I have friends in that town.
5.02.2006
5.01.2006
4.29.2006
4.28.2006
4.27.2006
ship of fools
This is the boat that carries the workmen who need the supplies to build the house that's planned for this site if the stuff gets loaded onto the boat that carries supplies not to mention the cranes and the trucks and the brains, the mail and the money that goes in the bank, the gas at $80 the tank to carry the stuff from the boat to the site. . .Why I can't stop drinking: my house of cards is built on ferry schedules.
4.26.2006
memento mori
Why I can't stop: This is all that's left of Tristam Dodge's house, built about where mine is going.
4.25.2006
4.24.2006
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