Deer Prudence

It is with a heavy heart (and, of course, apologies to the Beatles for the title of this one) that I must relate the following tale of true grit in the partially-decomposed face of adversity, and how I came to a fuller realization that the life of a park ranger isn't all trees and breathtaking vistas. There are other aspects of the job that are similarly breathtaking, but not in a good way.

Take a rotting deer carcass for example. Please? Well, okay, I won't make you do it, but someone has to, because the wind has shifted and people are starting to complain. That someone would be . . . wait for it . . . the park ranger!

I won't bore you with every nauseating detail of the operation. I'll just say that, while I was standing upwind babbling about creative—and yes, even bizarre—ways of dealing with the deer departed without, you know, getting too close, the park ranger simply walked over, grabbed one of its feet, then sprinted down the hillside with the putrid carcass in tow, leaving it within easy reach of the Caterpillar I described in my previous monologue.

Aside from reinforcing my already-solid belief in the utility of large hydraulic machines, what did I learn from this experience? Mostly, I learned that there are two kinds of people in this world: those who take the deer by the foot—even when doing so results in retching—and those who do not. One of those types of people shouldn't ever be a park ranger, because sometimes prudence is really nothing but the lesser part of valor.

 

In the Cañon

As some of you have pointed out, it seems no one is at the controls of the Omegaword blog anymore. While this isn't entirely true, it also isn't completely false. It's just that life has taken a somewhat unexpected turn, and I'm fortunate to be spending the summer working for a park ranger in one of the more attractive settings in this part of the world.

Although this new adventure hasn't left much time for writing, I do plan to check in here a bit more often than I have of late. There are stories to tell, and it wouldn't be right to deprive you of those just because I'm a little bit tired from watching my boss carry railroad ties up steep mountain trails while fending off angry bears with his free hand.

During the summer months, vacationers from every corner of the globe seek out the shady tranquility of the picnic areas located throughout the park. Many are situated next to the babbling brook that runs through the cañon, which is an obvious nuisance where tranquility is the goal. Consequently, one of my primary job functions is noise control, which means I stand in the water and tell the brook to shut up.

Another important part of my job is traffic control. Speeding through a narrow cañon creates a hazard, especially during those crowded summer months. As you might expect, a Caterpillar 430D is a highly effective weapon in the battle against renegade motorists. Its turbo-diesel engine provides all the power a guy needs to flip even a large SUV onto its side, while the backhoe is useful for removing the roofs of smaller vehicles.

I can't say I'm an expert at the controls of that powerful yellow machine, as the tree pictured above would tell you if (1) it could talk and (2) were still standing. While I can neither confirm nor deny any involvement in its disappearance, I can say with some certainty that finesse is especially important in the world of large hydraulic machines.

 

An Artist's Life

I have no trouble believing that art imitates life, and if I'm in the right mood I can even wrap my mind around the idea that life imitates art. The third possibility—life is art—lurks outside the boundaries of my modest existence. Although I've been told my ketchup-on-canvas paintings are priceless, no one has offered money or otherwise expressed a desire to own one.

This, of course, brings me to possibility number four: Art Is Life! It makes so much sense, especially when I think about Abe Maslow and his pyramid. I don't know about you, but all the pyramids I made fell down in the first stiff breeze, so I figure Abe must have been pretty good with his hands. A first-rate artist in his own right, he immediately understood that plywood can be painted, thus providing a smooth surface on which to jot down his theories concerning human motivation.

But the concept really burst into flame when I saw what Craig had done on Abecedarian. His graphic representation of the art world perched on an old rug, supported by a trumpeting pachyderm massaging the neck of a large turtle is disturbing, but in a good way. What's good for the goose is good for the gander; sometimes we just need to look life squarely in the eye without turning red, like Erik.

If there was one thing the Vikings cherished it was sturdiness, especially in their turtles. Riding into battle on a turtle is embarrassing already, so the last thing you want to worry about is a stiff neck. But as long as there are elephants willing to help support the arts, life will go on.

I think that's all Craig was really trying to say.

 

Ask Odin

It's an old saw, I know, but twice inspired, once shy holds as much water today as ever. Maybe more, if the beaker is emptied after every squall. But even amid the squalor of subsuburban life there's a place for the shy person, and that place has a name, and its name is mud. Spring showers may come and go, but in the aftermath of that grand equation known as Ohm's Law, mud is a useful balm that soothes away the hours before the medics arrive.

Leaving no unsightly stains on the rumpled fabric of our lives, mud clings like a thirsty leech to the edge of lightning's teacup, hiccupping away the discomfort of many a dull morning on the roof, pole in hand, waiting for the clap of thunder that so often spells curtains, two encores, and a trip to the little green room below the stage.

And so it goes, day after day, night after night, one foot in front and two behind the scrim that hangs, like rain clouds, from the gutters and downspouts that soon will run full of Odin's overflow. To the rooftops! To the rooftops! I hear them still, the little wretches, calling through the keyholes and locks, their mouths filled with bagels and creamed cheeses from the other side of town.

The question, then, isn't so much one of voltage multiplied by current, or which leads to sufficient power for toasting bread before company arrives. Conversely, the answer isn't so much one of resistance, or how many electrons it takes to cover the roof with negative attention.

Go ask Odin. He'll tell you.

 

Knusper the Angry Toast

Knusper was angry. It wasn't bad enough that he was just another slice among slices, pasty white and tasteless, with no more nutritional value than the jelly beans in the cupboard above the stove. He had been watching the calendar himself, knowing this day would come. And now it was here, having arrived with ominous precision at exactly midnight, and not one second more.

"This is bad," said Knusper, scanning the kitchen for omens. "This is very, very bad."

The phone rang. Knusper spun into the crouching position he had seen, day in and day out, in all the martial arts films. The phone rang again. Knusper screamed, and then the world went black.

"That's correct," said the faraway voice. "Paraskevidekatriaphobia. We see it all the time. Well, not all the time, exactly. On the thirteenth, mostly. Worse on Fridays. Quarantine. Quarantine."

Knusper opened one eye. The voice was familiar, yet impossibly smooth. Like peanut butter, Knusper thought as he peered over the lip of the toaster. He couldn't see the smooth-voiced man, but he knew that asking questions would only give him away. Not smart, thought Knusper, shaking his head and opening his other eye.

"I know you're there!" he shouted.

Nothing. Knusper eyed the lever on the side of the toaster. He'd watched the other slices disappear, two at a time, but the pressure had been too much for him. He'd lost consciousness, and when he came to there was no proof of anything. A few crumbs, but crumbs aren't proof. They're just crumbs.

"Well," said Knusper, "I'm toast."

It wasn't at all what he had expected. No angels, no guys with beards and long hair, and most of all, no white robes. In fact, there was no observable whiteness no matter which way Knusper turned. There was only music, and for the first time, Knusper felt the music.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

Knusper nodded. He didn't turn to see who had spoken; he knew the voice was his own.

"No wonder it felt so wrong," said Knusper.

"I know," said the other voice. "It's not easy being white."

"Feels so wrong it can't be right!" sang Knusper.

"Lucky day?" asked the voice.

"Lucky day," said Knusper, and then he danced.