Happy Ski Day

I recently celebrated my birthday by going downhill skiing in Wyoming. My new helmet served as a good luck charm, for, not only did I not fall down, I was also not slammed into by any snowboarders. Wicked.

Two days later, I helped celebrate my main man's birthday by going downhill skiing again, this time in Colorado. Again, no spills, wipeouts or collisions. I should have bought a helmet years ago.

Two birthdays are definitely better than one, and any day in the mountains beats a day at work. Not that I was playing hookey or anything.

This year I wasn't feeling too bothered with getting older. I figure if I can still backpack and ski without too much trouble, I haven't gotten old yet. At one point, I rode up on a lift with a seventy-plus-year old man who said his ski poles were older than me. That didn't hurt.

I usually don't put photos of myself on the internet. But I think I can make an exception just once. There I go, shredding the slope....and my chosen slope wasn't even Wyoming crowded!

Iced In

When the temperatures dip below zero, and it's too cold for skiing, and the streets become so icy that everyone's developed a ridiculous shuffling walk, and my fingers turn red and my hair fills with static from the dry air, and the cats look at me reproachfully for ever bringing them to this place and step on me with their chilly paws, and I cannot walk to work without risking frostbite ... at least the windows are pretty.

Please Don't Spear That Poor Buffalo

The other night I dreamed I was feeding pickle spears to a baby buffalo. They were the kind of pickles that often accompany a sandwich and chips at a restaurant. It was the kind of buffalo that one might encounter on a South Dakota prairie, shortly before its mother charged and trampled one for messing with her young one.

I'm not even a huge fan of pickle spears. I only like dill pickles, and sometimes a spear-shaped pickle is merely a sweet pickle masquerading as an edible one. I also prefer my dill pickles whole, so that I can bite a chunk off with a satisfying crunch. Pickle spears tend to be a little lacking in the crunch department.

Don't these poor beasties look like they could use a few good pickles?

The dream bison baby certainly seemed to enjoy the pickles. I was in a kitchen with him, and I had prepared a whole smorgasbord of items to tempt his palate. I was quite concerned that he would be hungry, since his stampeding mother seemed absent.

The dream baby buffalo also wasn't the lighter, tannish color of this photo. He was the dark brown that one usually associates with bison coloring. My subconscious brain must have forgotten the detail that baby buffalo have lighter fur. It just shows that you can't trust anything in dreams.

Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures of pickles. Or smorgasbords. I would take a photo of the kind of pickles that I like if there were any in my fridge, but there are not. The last time I went grocery shopping and thought about pickles, the store did not have the good ones.

The Weather...Again

Yesterday, the world looked like fall. The leaves had turned all sorts of pretty shades of yellow and orange and red and were starting to accumulate on the ground.

Today, it's winter. The first minor dusting of snow fell on September 21st, but today--October 10th--at least 5 inches cover the ground. All the roads out of town were closed for a few hours this morning. Good thing I didn't have anywhere to go.

The University homecoming game kicks off at noon. It's 18 degrees. I think I will have another cup of tea and read a book.

Wear Your Welcome Thin

When I first moved to Wyoming, I took a picture of the welcome sign at one of the borders. With its picture of Devil's Tower and a cowboy riding a bucking bronco, it seemed a fitting introduction to Wyoming.

Then, on one drive to Colorado, I noticed that the Wyoming sign was missing. It looked like it had been chopped down and stolen. Since the Colorado welcome sign was still in place, I figured that it may have been a prank of football fans of the rival Colorado Rams, and expected that the sign would soon be replaced.


A year and a half later, I was still waiting. A large pile of dirt became the only thing marking the Wyoming border.

When friends came to visit, I made sure to point out the state-line dirtpile, which had, in my mind, come to represent the particular attitude of Wyomingites.

Part of the attitude is a feeling of "eh, good enough". This attitude is evident in such cases as a Laramie church, built almost two years ago, that still has the steeple sitting on the ground next to it. I guess no one quite had the energy to erect it after the rest of the building was finished. And you don't really need a steeple to hold a church service.


This Wyomingite attitude seems to hold that that doing nothing is easier that any kind of action. There's a kind of hope that things will work themselves out if they're just left alone for long enough. Most of the streets in Laramie aren't plowed in the wintertime, because the snow will eventually melt when enough people drive on it.

There's the also the widespread feeling that Wyoming is separate from the rest of the world, and special for being so. When discussing the issue of global warming, one Wyomingite said, "I'm not concerned. I'd like to see the sea level try to make it to 7200 feet."

One day, however, someone got their act together and a new sign appeared, redesigned to match the new licence plates which show the Grand Tetons instead of Devil's Tower.


I think it matches the dirtpile nicely.

I am really sick of that bucking bronco, though. It seems to be the official symbol of both the State of Wyoming and the University of Wyoming and is everywhere: on signs, building fronts, bumper stickers, and even stenciled onto the sidewalks around town.

The symbol, while overused, is not out of place. Rodeos are popular summer entertainment, and there are still working cowboys out here. The other day, driving home from a hike, I had to stop the car to wait for four cowboys to finish their cattle drive.


The cowboys were interesting to watch as they guided the cattle down the road and off into an adjoining pasture. They rode their horses well and looked the part with their traditional cowboy hats and boots.

When I was a kid, I heard George Strait sing a song in which he wore his welcome thin. I thought a Welcomethin was a kind of cowboy hat, because George Strait always wore one.

Laramie is a nice place to live, but I wonder if there might be certain signs that it's time for me to move again?

Ladybug Luck

Is finding a horseshoe in the wilderness a good omen? Horseshoes are supposed to bring good luck, but losing a shoe-in-the-mud sounds more like bad luck for the horse. Consider his uneven trudge home, stepping on sharp rocks with his naked hoof, cursing those lazy humans who forced him to haul their tent into the mountains. He may have become lame by the time he got home. How does his bad luck somehow translate into good luck for me?

I've also heard that for a horseshoe to be lucky, it must be placed like a "U" so that the luck doesn't run out. What kind of logic is that? Luck isn't tangible, yet it can be held in place by steel in the right formation? What if I hang my found horseshoe at an odd angle? What then, huh?

Some people consider ladybugs a sign of good luck, possibly because they can eat some garden pests. But if I see a swarm of any kind of bug, regardless of whether the bugs wear an attractive shade of red with cute black spots, I'd take it as an omen to hurry away from the area.

Finding a penny doesn't seem worth much, but is supposed to be lucky. My man, who scoffs at my blog topic and insists on their being no such thing as omens, refuses to pick up a penny unless it is heads-up. He "doesn't really believe it" but still flips over a tails-up coin anyway. I say, bring on the black cats. Or any color cats, really. Aren't kitties wonderful? They should stop making those worthless pennies, anyhow.

I read that pine cones can be considered a sign of good luck. That must be why I'm eager to hike in evergreen forests so often. I also read that mud is a sign of bad luck (especially for the horse that lost his shoe in it), and my hikes are often muddy from rain or snow melt or stream crossings. I guess the prevalence of mud counteracts the abundant pine cones, or else I would be winning all those lotteries that I don't even enter.

I haven't photographed the mud. Would a mud photograph be considered toting bad luck around, or would taking the picture counteract the bad luck? I just can't keep track of these things.

Weather omens are another tough subject. Initially, one might think that sudden dark clouds looming in the sky could be considered a bad omen, especially above timberline, where one's head is the most evident target to the approaching lightning. But, once back in the protective covering of friendly spruce trees (with cones, naturally, like those pictured...hang on, are my spruce cones not lucky? Is it only pine cones that bring good luck? (Yeah, tell that to all the pine trees dying from the recent beetle invasion. (No, not the Beatle invasion. I'm sure Paul McCartney does not want to ravage the pine forests of Western America. In fact, I bet seeing Paul McCartney would be a good omen (unless he was throwing things angrily in my direction because I put him in my blog without permission (but if he was throwing horseshoes, would that be lucky? Would it still be lucky if my windows got smashed in the process? What if my nose got smashed, too? I could perhaps (luckily) sue him for a large settlement that could pay for my reconstructive surgery as well as a few very nice vacations, and I would always have a good anecdote up my sleeve (Did I tell you about the time Paul McCartney broke my nose with a lucky horseshoe?)))))), the cloud-cover can be welcoming. The forthcoming cool breeze and raindrops chase off the swarms of mosquitoes and may eventually result in a beautiful rainbow: an undisputed good luck omen (unless you're a leprechaun whose gold is in danger of being stolen).

If a pronghorn crosses your path, you will have good luck. They don't wear shoes, either, so your nose should be safe.

An Elk with a View

July marks the start of the real hiking season in the Rockies. Enough snow has finally melted to allow access to the higher elevations, though drifts still remain to add an additional challenge to any trek. I love climbing through the changing vegetation, watching the lush mixed forest become a thinner one of various evergreens, then climbing further until only twisted, windblown spruces and hardy shrubs are left. The fabulous mountain views above the treeline are only heightened by the stubborn wildflowers that spring up wherever they can.

The other day, I enjoyed just such a hike in Rocky Mountain National Park. The trail to Flattop Mountain began at about 9500 feet and rose to over 12,000 in the course of 4 miles. I relished in the fresh air as the wildflowers changed from goldenbean to columbine to rosy paintbrush to alpine buttercup with every mile.

Then, there above timberline, a something emerged on the horizon. It had the golden brown color of a marmot, but was much too large. At lower elevations, I would have dismissed it as a tree stump. I got out my binoculars and discovered a handsome bull elk.

As the trail climbed closer and closer to the great beast, whose antlers were still encased in their protective velvet, I kept expecting him to become nervous at my approach. I thought he would soon get to his feet and run (hopefully away and not at me in an angry charge), but he kept right on chewing his cud, only occasionally flicking an ear at a pesty bug.

Two mere humans were not going to disturb this elk's enjoyment of the fabulous view. The sun was shining. The pika were scurrying, and the marmots were chirping. A ptarmigan hen surveyed her five fuzzy, newly-hatched chicks as they pecked the ground.

My man and I summited Flattop, looked up and saw another peak beckoning. We continued on to the next highest mountain, Hallett Peak at 12,713 feet, where we enjoyed a wonderful lunch of bread and cheese. It was a fantastic day.

The snowy winter and very wet spring have resulted in spectacularly full rivers and waterfalls. The wildflowers are amazing at all altitudes. I don't think you could go wrong with any hike in any direction, as you never know what you might see.

A few days ago, I did a hike of over 14 miles into the Rawah Wilderness in northern Colorado. About 4 or 5 miles into the hike, I noticed a commotion to the left of the trail. Two thrushes were flapping and squawking on the ground. At first, I thought they were protecting a nest, and concerned about my intrusion, but then I saw that one of the birds was trapped.

The poor bird's wing was wrapped around a spiny, dead spruce branch, like the one pictured. He (lets just call him the he...he was flapping around so much I couldn't see him very well) was completely stuck, upside down and panicking. I usually do my best to leave nature alone (except for slapping at mosquitoes), but I just couldn't leave this bird to die, starving to death while hanging upside down.

I threw my fleece over him while his mate screeched at me. He stopped moving as soon as he was covered, but I was concerned that he might overheat or have a heart attack from fear. I gingerly eased the fleece down a tiny bit, worried about an emerging beak pecking me at any moment, and saw that only the tip of his wing was trapped, wrapped tightly around the spiny branches. I quickly broke some of the branches away, then pulled his feathers free, my pulse racing as I hoped I was doing the right thing.

I pulled off the fleece and jumped back. The bird fluttered away into the undergrowth, his wing seeming to work at least partially.

I felt pretty good. The bird was free. Maybe he would even survive.

The glacier lilies were blooming in the snow melt.

Alpine vistas awaited.

Get Your Kicks...

...not quite on Route 66, but off the road a little ways you're sure to find some fantastic cactus trees, and what other reason could there be to travel the great Southwest? Deadly scorpions and poisonous snakes and torturous temperatures? The tacky horrors of Las Vegas or the constant traffic jams of sprawling cities? Definitely not. Only cactus trees could bring me to the desert in the middle of summer (well, and a car with comfortable air-conditioning).


The Saguaro is the king cactus tree, and I'd wanted to see one for as long as I remember, probably since the first time I saw one in a Snoopy cartoon. The Saguaro is emblembatic of the West, with its image used on kitchen decorations everywhere. Yet, I'd never seen one in the wild.

I was already in Southern California. It only took a detour of a couple of hundred miles through Arizona to find Saguaros popping up on the side of the road. Farther south, landscapes completely full of cactus trees emerged, and finally, I found Saguaros that I could get right up to.



These monsters are amazing. It's also quite fun to say "Sa-WAH-ro" over and over again in a gravelly voice. Try it. It even gets the attention of lazy cats.

Saguaro National Park near Tuscon contains not only hundreds of these great Saguaros, but also hordes of other cacti in various stages of tree-ness. It's a cactus-lovers paradise.

I've always been a fan of cacti, partially because they are the only plants I can reliably grow, but also because of their odd ways of growing new bulges or arms on a seemingly random basis. They can produce amazing flowers and fruits and quite a variety of spines with hooks, barbs or piercingly sharp points. I don't even get mad if I have to grab some tweezers after my cacti dealings. After all, it was my own fault for not keeping my hands to myself.

Other very cool cactus trees are the Teddy Bear Chollas, whose acquaintance I met (they are living creatures after all) in Joshua Tree National Park in California. They look like they could even be cuddly, so the government helpfully installed lots of signs suggesting that touching was probably not the best idea. I like to hug trees, but even I'm not about to hug a cactus tree. Cacti seem to prefer that people respect their personal space bubbles.

My favorite trees are still evergreens. I can never get enough of their smell, and their needles make a splendid trail carpet for hikes. I love the giant Douglas firs of Oregon and the red pines of drier climates. I admire the larch pine's funky needles and the massive size of the redwoods. Firs, pines and spruces are the trees I want to live with.

But for vacation, I'll take cactus trees!

Buy My Junk (I Mean, My Vintage Collectables)

An R2D2 postbox near the corner of the historic Plaza in Santa Fe made me laugh. It was worth a picture, and once taken, I went on with my day with no further Star Wars thoughts besides those normal ones of comparing a passing Shih Tzu to an Ewok or perhaps quoting a little dialogue from Return of the Jedi. The droid sighting did not, notably, make me want to sign into Ebay to see whether I could bid on an R2D2 mail box for my Star Wars collection.

I no longer have a Star Wars collection. I never really had a true collection at all, just lots of toys that I used to play with as a kid. The figures and creatures were boxed up half-forgotten in the closet for lack of any takers. My nieces somehow were just never interested.

One day, lamenting the Jabba-sized boxes taking up my closet space, I vaguely remembered someone commenting "some day that stuff will be worth money." With curiosity, I clicked on Ebay, not really expecting to find much.

Amazingly, Star Wars collectibles are big business. The "vintage" stuff from the old movies is highly traded, and some of it is actually bought and sold for real money. I couldn't believe that I could make money from old stuff that I just hadn't gotten rid of because of fond memories.

The more I looked on Ebay, the more I found that my junk included some rarities. I had this weird monster that I don't even remember from the movies. He was in near mint condition because he was so ugly I rarely played with him. However, since I have a meticulous personality, he still had his staff (with skulls? Why would I want to play with this creepy guy?) and even a collectible coin.


This figure alone netted me over $40. No joke. I had never even visited Ebay before, but overnight I became an avid dealer. It was almost addictive to check my bids and see the crazy amounts that people were willing to pay for this crap.

I sold almost all my Star Wars stuff for prices well over any that my parents paid when they bought them new (I ignored parental queries over commissions for their insight in purchasing just the right toys).

The interest in the plastic junk was not limited to dudes in manky basements in Ohio. I made over $25 on this group of monsters, which was bought by a collector in Spain. I had no idea Spain had Star Wars geeks! And I couldn't believe that some guy (yes, the purchasers were mostly guys) would pay another $25 for me to ship it to him over there! I remember buying this Rancor Monster and Wampa at a garage sale for a buck or two when I was a little kid. Now that's a return on an investment!

Then I turned to the other toys left in my closet. My Barbie dolls, it turned out, were pretty worthless. They weren't old or unique enough. I gave them away via FreeCycle to a very excited little girl and moved on.

I found that I had some My Little Pony's from the 80s, which were also considered "vintage". I'm not sure if twenty years is old enough to earn that label, but what do I know? Most of the ponies were only worth a bit of cash (which I was happy to take), but Internet research soon revealed that I had three rare boy ponies. Boy ponies were made one year only, so there weren't that many of them (I wonder if it was controversial at the time for the all girl pony herd to suddenly have a bunch of stallions added. I just remember wanting them because they had cool Clydesdale hooves. And hats.). Most of the boy ponies for sale had lost their hats, bandannas and special combs or had been the victims of unfortunate haircuts. I, being me (and no disparaging comments on my picky personality, thank you), still had all the accessories.

Doesn't he look nice? He earned me almost $30, and his two buddies brought in even more. $30 for a plastic horse from 1987. My man, with a new appreciation for My Little Ponies, asked, "Have you got any more of those ponies hidden anywhere?" Alas, I never had that many in the first place, so this was a one-time-only bonanza.

The women who bought the ponies (yes, the purchasers were all women) responded giddily to the arrival of their packages with comments like, "Thank you, he's perfect!!!!!" The ponies obviously weren't going to be given to children as toys, but were going to be added to a display case in very weird houses. I didn't belong in this Pony World, so I sold quickly and got out.

In one month on Ebay, I earned enough cash for numerous concert tickets and ski passes, and I much prefer those experiences to a collection of plastic toys that I haven't touched in fifteen years. Although I will still smile at a R2D2 mailbox or other Star Wars reference, I think I've outgrown much of all that. Except that I have a cat named Wookie. And I can use the Force to make people do my bidding. That's the only rational explanation for my recent windfall.

You Couldn't Have It Any Better

There aren't many bands that I would drive two hours to see, especially on a work night. In 2002, I drove to Portland from Eugene to see Paul McCartney on his solo US tour, but he's a legend. He was worth the trip.

So is Franz Ferdinand. The band, not the dead archduke.

The Scottish (what else?) band's concert Wednesday night at the Ogden Theatre in Denver was the best concert I've been to. Better than Sir Elton who I just saw a few weeks ago. Better than the Smashing Pumpkins jamming at the Richmond Coliseum. Better than front row center at the Counting Crows at the Paradiso in Amsterdam. Franz Ferdinand just rocked, and they looked good doing it.

I don't know exactly why I enjoyed the concert so much. Maybe it's because I like all the songs of the band's three albums, so there was no chance of a bad set list. Maybe it's because I had the perfect seat directly in front of the stage, but one level up so as to be above the bulk of the crowd instead of surrounded by it. Maybe it's just because the band seemed like they were having fun, so I had fun, too.

Lead singer Alex Kapranos danced and jumped around in shiny red shoes while I tapped my dark green Doc Martens, my concert footwear of choice. Steel toes don't matter if they're stepped on. And my Docs look cool.

The evening started off on the right note when I got off work early enough to head to Denver to grab some dinner at a hip brewpub and still get to the theatre in time to snag prime seats. The opening band were the entertaining Canadian goofballs "Born Ruffians". Though I'd never heard of them, they were a fun start to the night. The lead singer moved like Buddy Holly, and the bassist was dressed like a lumberjack, but I particularly enjoyed watching the drummer Ahmed Gallab. He had great stage presence as he twirled his sticks.

Turns out the drummer was a new addition to the band, who had just joined for the tour. Good timing!

But the Canadians were no match for Franz Ferdinand. They kept the crowd going with upbeat songs and matching background lights on their slick stage set. They chose the perfect starting song, "Jacqueline", with the lyrics I particularly agree with: "It's always better on holiday, that's why we only work when we need the money." From there, they moved on to fun songs from their new album--"Bite Hard" was particularly good live--as well as my favorite song from their first album "The Dark of the Matinee." They played a good mix from all the albums and changed up some of the songs just enough to keep it interesting. "40 feet", a short song from their first album, became an Event.

They even played the version of "Lucid Dreams" with my name in it. I gave them a shout when they mentioned me.

At one point all the band members played on the drum set together. It both looked and sounded really cool... and then they threw out the drumsticks to the audience, which was a fun ending.

I tried to find good concert footage of Franz Ferdinand on YouTube to link to this blog, but most of the video and sound quality on there is really poor. I guess you'll just have to take my word for it that these guys put on a great show and are a blast to listen to.

You Tube did have some spliced together footage of "Doctor Who" set to Franz Ferdinand songs, such as "I'm Your Villain" showing images of ultra-bad guy The Master and "This Fire" with clips from the episode set around the explosive eruption of Pompeii. I'm enough of a geek to find this amusing, especially since David Tennant (the current Doctor) is an attractive Scotsman as well.

The concert left me still in a good mood the next morning. I walked to work, cranked up Franz Ferdinand on my I-pod and sang along with a smile.

Elton John, the Laramigo

Last night, in the midst of an April snow shower, Elton John played an almost three hour concert in the basketball arena at the University of Wyoming. I went, because how could I pass up the chance to see someone so famous and entertaining in a venue that I could walk to? Laramie hardly packs in the stars. And a Commander of the Order of the British Empire, too--you know how I like those Brits. The ticket fees all went to charity, so that was even better.

While Sir Elton's voice was clearly showing the strain of his years, his piano playing was beautiful. He played without a band, with only his piano and some synthesizer back-up. He showcased some pretty instrumental bits and vamped up the playing quite impressively on some of his famous songs, which made up for the screechy aspect of his voice when he tried to hit the high notes. "Get Back Honky Cat" was a bit painful, but he could still carry the deeper, calmer tunes like "Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word" and "Candle in the Wind" with no trouble.

When he played "Tiny Dancer," making me cringe a bit as he had trouble hitting some of the notes, all I could think of was Pheobe from "Friends" and her misheard lyrics. It would have been cool if Tony Danza had appeared to dance on the piano or something. I also wanted George Michael to come out to duet on "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me," but I guess Laramie was no big draw for a cameo.

I was a bit disappointed that he didn't play "Sacrifice" or "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road". I mean, really, "Philadelphia Freedom"? Anything with Philly in the title should be given a pass immediately. I guess he was pandering to a red state crowd. The glittering pictures and lights on the back of the stage took on a red, white and blue stars and stripes motif.

And that song about Levon with the lyric "Jesus wants to go to Venus"? I never liked that one. Too much of a David Bowie fascination with spacemen. "Rocket Man" is enough of that, and a better song.

He also chose to do a song about Roy Rogers. Well, we are in Wyoming. He made it a point to mention being a childhood fan of Hop-a-long Cassidy, whose saddle happens to reside in the University of Wyoming Art and Heritage Museum (or something). I've seen it. It's terribly exciting. Hop-a-long Cassidy used to order milk at bars, instead of whiskey. That probably still wouldn't go over well at a cowboy bar in Wyoming.

Sir Elton made up for some of these dubious choices by playing my favorite song of his, "I Guess that's Why They Call it the Blues." I can play that on the piano, but, for some reason, his version sounded a lot better. My man suggested that perhaps I am too beholden to the written notes. This is indeed a huge flaw in my playing, but Elton had none of that, which was fun to see.

Sir Elton appeared a bit subdued, in black tails and sunglasses, because the concert was benefiting the Matthew Shepard Foundation after the tenth anniversary of his death. Elton talked of tolerance and his hopes for the Obama administration and got cheers from the University audience (a lot of people who seemed to be up from 'bluer' Colorado--he mentioned Boulder, which is like the Portland or San Francisco of Colorado and got huge applause). Although most people seemed supportive of the cause, when he played a sad song about Matthew's murder and sang the word Wyoming, to indicate "a place where a boy got lynched", a few idiotic people cheered, in a "whoo-hoo, I'm from Wyoming!" kind of way. Some people really are clueless.

It's too bad it took a tragedy to bring such a big star to Laramie, but, regardless of the subtext, Elton was still a showman. The back and one arm of his dark outfit was decorated in stones in a shiny, silver design, and you could see his enjoyment of the crowd's excited reaction when he slowly played the first bars of "Benny and the Jets".

The walk home in the snow was pretty nice, too.

Spring Break

I know I'm no longer a student, but I still feel entitled to a spring break. I also feel entitled to a summer vacation, a winter vacation, a Christmas break, a long Thanksgiving holiday (both American and Canadian Thanksgivings), as well as various other times of not having to work. As Franz Ferdinand (the Scottish band, not the dead Archduke) says, "It's always better on holiday. That's why we only work when we need the money."

That said, it's not really a spring break unless I get on an airplane. Or two. So I flew to Hawaii. The Big Island, with the erupting volcanoes. I'm a big fan of volcanoes, especially the Cascades, although they are slightly too quiet.

I soon discovered that the best thing about Hawaii wasn't the lava or the beaches or the Pacific Ocean. The highlight? Cactus trees!

That's right. Cactus trees. I love cacti, and they are just about the only thing I can grow. But my happy cacti are teeny tiny things in pots. Cactus trees are something else. They are so cool. As I drove around Hawaii, I kept shouting, "Cactus tree!" and pointing, like I shout "Prong!" and point to the antelope on Wyoming drives. This prickly pear kind of cactus tree was only one of the many different giant cacti that I saw all over the island. I've decided that I simply have to get to Saguaro National Park this summer.

Sometimes it's the unexpected finds that make travel so great.

While I kind of expected to see some lizards on a tropical vacation, I didn't think I'd see one with such great colors and such an inquisitive expression. Turns out this Gold Dust Day Gecko shouldn't even be in Hawaii. His ancestors were native of Madagascar and Comoros and other African islands, but were released by a student on the grounds of Hawaii University in the 1970s. We were kindred spirits. I didn't belong in Hawaii, either. Too big of a water to land ratio.

Even with the ever present thought of being surrounded by water, I did enjoy visiting the tropics. The weather was warm, but not hot, and even the rain was a pleasant change from dry Wyoming. I also enjoyed odd sights like this driveway guard goat. Tethered just like a dog (and having a little bowl of water, too), this goat looked like he was sleeping, but when I approached his glare turned menacing. I think he would have attacked if I tried to get to the house behind him.

You also have to watch out for the quick growing vegetation in the tropics. This pickup was being reclaimed by the jungle in a "The World Without Us" kind of way. I wish more of the ugliness of neglected structures would be overtaken in this aggressively vegetative fashion. Or covered with lava.

Get Outta My Face(book) - The Internet Part 2

I’m not a member of Facebook, but nevertheless, I can be found there. A good friend of mine, who does have her own Facebook profile because she couldn’t escape the peer pressure, directed me to the page of a former classmate of ours.

“She’s put on pictures from high school,” my friend said. “You’re on there, too.”

Me? First of all: I am hiding from all things Facebook and MySpace and Twitter. I agreed to do this blog only if I could remain safely anonymous (like Princess Leia being hidden from her evil father (that's Darth Vader, fem chick)…but more on Star Wars and the internet in my next post). I do not want to put my pictures on the internet. I will put my kitties pictures up, but that's just because they are really funny and cute and they have no idea what they look like. No matter how many tricks Wookie learns, he still can't recognize himself in the mirror. So I don't feel bad exploiting his image.

Even if I wanted to put my latest Glamour shot up, I still don't want to discuss what I do for a living ("so what do you do, anyway?"). Jobs are boring. I don't want to let everyone know where I live ("how did you wind up in Laramie?") because they're probably not invited into my living room. Very few people would care to read a list of my favorite music, books, and movies.

*TWITTER* WooHoo! I’m going to see both Franz Ferdinand and Elton John in concert in April!

There are certain people from my past that I wouldn’t mind reconnecting with. I did know a few interesting people that I lost contact with, and I wouldn’t mind knowing what they're up to and what they look like now. I know, however, that the ones who I would likely end up “finding” on the internet would be those that I never had much to say to in the first place. It would turn into, “Hi, how are you, where are you, no I don’t have any kids, ok talk to you in another 10+ years….”

Even if I gave in and joined (this would certainly be a feat, since I’m no joiner), it wouldn’t occur to me to scan and upload pictures from the olden days. Why would I? Pictures and high school shouldn’t go together. I mean, who wants to see proof of former gangliness and bad fashion and acne? I don’t want to think about being fifteen, and I sure don’t want to look at evidence that I was as dorky as I imagined back then.

Apparently, though, I don’t get a say on whether my image goes on Facebook. I was never even friends with the owner of the page. We shared a tiny class, but we never had anything in common. We were even on the same sports team, and traveled internationally together, but still barely had two words to say to each other. She was popular and rich. Her family was friends with VIPs (ones even I had heard of). I thought she was snooty and boring. I’m sure she thought I was a geek.

But I’m represented on her Facebook page.

So, I logged onto Facebook, using my friend’s password, because she’s nice and she knows that sharing her info would be the only way for me to get online to see this stuff since I refuse to sign up. I am pretty stubborn.

I found the group picture, in which I have to admit that I look totally awesome. That backward baseball cap and Stonehenge t-shirt were pretty rockin’. I mean, if I had to share any picture of me in tenth grade, that one’s probably the one I’d pick. It helps that the photographer was standing a good twenty feet away.

In the photo caption, I’m identified only by first name, un-capitalized at that (further proof of my classmate’s complete disregard for me--I’m not worth capitalizing…). I should enter her name here and see how she likes it.

*TWITTER* Dude!! I totally ripped you-know-who on my blog today!!!

A few people in the picture had their names linked, so that I could theoretically click on them and visit their pages to ask them to be my friend (since I was posing as my real friend, I didn’t do this. She obviously wasn’t so keen on re-friending all these ghosts of the past, either, since they were not on her 'friend' list—well, except for the Facebook page owner, but my friend was always much more tolerant and charitable about the snooty girl than I ever was. And yes, I know I missed an opportunity here of emailing old teachers with questions like "Hey, remember when we held up that liquor store? Good times..." but my real friend doesn't deserve that.) Anyway, as I suspected, the linked names were mostly people I would have trouble finding something to say to.

Why would someone put pictures of tenth grade on the internet? And why a group picture of people that haven’t been spoken to in at least ten years? Is it just to show a unique history? To say, “I’ve been here and been popular and done fabulous things and you haven’t?” To further the middle school/high school popularity contest of knowing the most people and having two hundred Facebook “friends”? This snooty girl would probably accept me as her Facebook friend to boost her numbers, as long as that meant that I didn’t intend to show up at her house for a visit.

As if. I spent the whole time I was in high school dying to get out of there. No way do I want to revisit that social awkwardness via the internet. I would still find these people boring, and they would still roll their eyes and think, "nerd!" when I opened my mouth. I'm not going to purposely go there again.

In the immortal words of Tom Petty: "You can look back, but it's best not to stare."

*TWITTER* Tom Petty is the coolest (even if he is from Florida). I wish I had his collection of top hats. Rock on.

The Internet

I love finding new ways to waste time on the internet. There's always email, and I can spend a good twenty minutes changing my Netflix queue around or looking at the snow reports from ski areas. I don't know what I would do without Google and Wikipedia for finding answers to random stuff.

But the true beauty of the internet is the craziness that people come up with. The latest one my man found was: Name Your Band

My personalized album creation (minus the actual music) worked out much better for me than that old gag about porn star names. By combining my first pet with my first street address I got Super Cat High Point. That just didn't cut it.

My band is rockin' though--

Smoky Pocket Gopher
"Dang Near Royalty"


Smoky Pocket Gopher actually sounds like something I would come up with for a band name. You know I'm all about cute rodents. I didn't cheat, either, and keep clicking around for funnier results. I would never have picked a quote from Jeff Foxworthy. Regardless, I see "Dang Near Royalty" as a alternative album, heavy on the bass, with a kickin' beat.

My man's band turned out pretty funny, too, although the dew drop art work is a bit much. Heavy metal, perhaps?

Baron Harlech
"Funny How That Works"

New Year's Prong

This year, I'm going to write "09" and like it. Years ending in nine are more exciting than others, anyway, because they foreshadow the end of the decade. I've always enjoyed foreshadowing, even though in literature it's usually in the context of imminent death or chaos. I'm not feeling any foreboding yet, (what could possibly go wrong?) except for the imminent psychological trauma of the big changeover of the second digit. That change can be a bit anticlimactic (remember Y2K?), so it pays to enjoy the "---9" year. I, for one, am going to party like it's 1999.

So, in the spirit of newly inaugurated President Obama (and I must say I mentally joined the happy dance that my colleagues did at work when NPR announced that Dubya was no longer prez) and his call for change, I have decided to no longer paint boring pictures. Who wants accuracy anyway? And watercolors? So 2008. No, 2009 is the year of the bigger and better pronghorn. One that refuses to blend into the prairie, who will no longer be upstaged by the sagebrush. I give you a vibrant, powerful new prong who isn't ashamed of being done in pastels.

Happy new year.