Wednesday, December 15, 2021

Salud! by Don Taco

 



This is in the category of Painful Learning Experiences (PLE.)  We've all had them. This one happened to a friend, not to me. I was partially at fault, though.

  We were gathered in the college apartment with the great view along the bluffs over the ocean that some of the guys had rented that summer. Times were good. They had one of those giant wooden cable spools for a living room table, a round table, and we were all in a circle around it, and it was party time. Friday or Saturday night, all the chores done for the week. Along with the typical libations and indulgences, someone had brought a pint of tequila. 

  I cannot clearly recall who started it, or what led up to it, but the banter had developed into the idea that we would snort the tequila. Because that should really be a rush. Lots of joking about this concept was going around. No one was taking it too seriously. 

  But, the guy sitting to my right, I wish I could remember who it was, took the bottle, opened it, poured out a capful, held it up to his nose, tossed his head back, and snorted the capful of tequila. Then shook his head with vigor and insistence, widened his eyes in amazement, and let out a mighty exhalation of  breath, shivered a bit, and put the cap back on the bottle.

  Everyone was watching, also in amazement.

  Sitting next to him, though, I thought I saw what he really had done.

  So, being next in line, I got the bottle, unscrewed the cap, made a show of filling the cap with tequila, but didn't actually put that much in it, held it up to my nose, threw my head back, tossing the small amount of tequila into my moustache and across my face, widened my eyeballs, shook, coughed and sputtered just a little, shivered, exclaimed 'Wowsers!,' put the cap back on the bottle, and set it down.

  Everyone was watching.

  Now, to my left, next in line, Becky Ross must not have seen what was actually going on. And, since it appeared that we were all having a little snort, with no obvious harmful effects, she got the bottle, poured out a capful, held it up to her nose, and snorted it.

  And then she exploded. A violent reaction. Luckily, she had set the bottle down, or who knows where it would have been thrown. Apparently, from my viewpoint, tequila in the nasal passages is quite volatile, painful, and shocking. Becky's face turned beet red, tears were streaming, she was gasping and fighting for breath, so much so that she could barely even whimper, and a great deal of gasping and coughing occurred before she was able to calm down and gather herself again.

  People did what they could to help, and after a few minutes, the room was back to normal. Mostly. 

  And so now, me and the other guy, who are getting a lot of side-eye from Becky, can't really admit that we cheated. Because it's bad enough that we made her look like a wimp, but if instead we made her look stupid, I'm pretty sure it would only have been worse. So, we just kept our mouths shut.

  No one else tried it. I guess there are lessons you just don't have to learn for yourself.

  



  

Tuesday, December 14, 2021

The Poor Man's Blanket by Paul Delgado




The Poor Man’s Blanket 

 My name is Agustin and I live in a small town in the mountains of Northern Mexico. I have worked the silver mines all my life, but years of hard labor and old age have taken their toll. My days are coming to an end. Every day I awake to the beauty of the majestic mountain peaks I have loved all my life.  Each morning, I greet the sunrise with a song of joy and every evening I sing a soft lullaby to the setting sun. 

For fifty years, I have wrapped myself in a blanket woven by my beautiful wife Ixchel. She died many years ago and I still love her deeply. I have never had many material things. My life story has been one of struggle and survival, but I am happy. I have children and many grandchildren. My daughter, Araceli is in the kitchen making “un pozole” (a traditional soup) and my grandchildren are laughing and playing outside on the street.  Araceli is a wonderful daughter and my grandchildren fill my heart with joy. My son Ramiro lives in Juarez and is a school teacher. I am very proud of him. 

The evening wind rustles the silver pines and the snow capped peaks are awash in pink and gold. It is my favorite time of the day.  I remember when Ixchel would welcome me home after a long day. We would sit around a small wood fire and talk about our dreams. But that was long ago.  Holding my blanket close, I look down and see her delicate embroidery which memorialized every important event in our lives.  The day we were married and the day each of our children and grandchildren were born. Every baptism. The day when Ramiro graduated from college and became a teacher. When Araceli became a mother. When Ixchel and I met. The day I became a foreman. There is an image of us singing with all the family. And an image of me… young and strong… running free as the wind with my best friends on rugged mountain trails. And the day of deepest sadness when we learned our youngest son Cristian was killed in a mining accident. Ixchel embroidered his image above my heart. Each event she sewed was a milestone in our lives …She was wise and beautiful.  

It has been lonely since she passed away. But despite a humble life that many would consider impoverished, I have been happy. I have loved a great woman and have a beautiful family. I have played guitars with my best friends and have run beneath a star filled sky in my beloved mountains. I feel a golden glow as the setting sun bathes our house in its warm embrace. I want to tell the children I will miss them and always watch over them. 

I feel myself slipping away.  In a moment, I am outside my body and am once again a young Tarahumara runner …vibrant and strong…The trail lies ahead and I can hardly wait to set out.  Ixchel and Cristian are there and illuminated in a beautiful light…I can hardly wait to get started…I look back at myself, aged and frail and wrapped in a poor man’s blanket. Ixchel and Cristian take my hand  I look back one last time and smile… For I died a rich man.

Don F. Austin, Sr. by Don Taco

Donald F. Austin, Sr.

     We didn't have any kind of deathbed vigil over my father when he passed. No rites, no gathering, no advice, in either direction, no last words. He was in the hospital again, and a nurse called my mother and said, "I think you should come. He's breathing calmly, which isn't normal for him, and it looks like the end." And it was. A dozen minutes to midnight the evening before his youngest's fourth birthday. My mother liked to say that he was too much of a gentleman to pass on his child's birthday, and so he slipped away. Dad was 39, Mom 34, and the kids 13, 11, 9, 7, 5, and 3. I'm the oldest. We were two boys, two girls, then two boys, so none of us ever had a bedroom to ourselves until we became adults. 
     My family is now scattered across the country, although still mostly on the West Coast. Val is outside of Washington, DC, Ginny and David are off the edges of opposite sides of the San Diego sprawl, Steven never left Orange County, our mother was still in the same house we grew up in, half of the OC wasteland away from Steven, until her last few years, when she moved to a granny cottage at Ginny's, I live in Oregon, and Bill was in Phoenix, Arizona, until his own untimely demise. Our clan, though, has a family reunion every three years, hosted in a new location by someone willing to attempt all the prodigious logistics. It's not uncommon to have eighty to a hundred of us meet there. 
     And so it happened, a couple decades later, that all seven of us were in a hotel room, all together for the first time in quite some time, and the topic wandered onto that terrible nine months between the cancer diagnosis and Dad's death. And, as one memory triggered another, and we all told our stories, I realized for the first time how much more I remembered than anyone else, just because I was older. Down the line, each of the kids had fewer tales to tell, fewer neurons jogged by the current story, less of a clear picture of the events of those last days. I had never considered that. To a greater and greater extent, the memories that they did have were of the stories we had repeated about those days over the years. 
    This was an eye-opening revelation for me. We had all been there, we had all gone through it, but I had not understood that each of us had carried away less from it, simply because of our different ages. And our mother contributed some, but mostly listened to us share our memories. And at some point, told us that she was unexpectedly fascinated by all this, because her husband's death, at such a young age, was a terrible event that had happened to her. She had never before realized or seen that it was a deeply personal event that had happened to each and every one of us. It loomed so large on her personal horizon that she had never imagined its effects on anyone else, not even us, especially since we were so young. 
    She was the unanticipated young widow with six children to feed, she had a mortgage to pay, she had to keep up the car payments, she had to cover the cost of braces and the private school tuition, and it was such an overwhelming proposition that she had never looked past it. The evening was an eye-opening moment for her, too. And, of course, her revelation was a surprise to all of us. 
     Dad's physician, our family doctor, Dr. Floyd Miracle, and you know, I don't have to make this stuff up, for me this is just normal, Dr. Miracle had been diagnosing Dad with a 'nervous stomach,' when Mom and Dad finally decided to see someone else. Dr. Someone Else, whoever he was, sent him for some tests, and the tests immediately and conclusively said, "YOU HAVE CANCER!" And he did. In all caps. An all-day exploratory sugery was scheduled. They sewed him back up after twenty minutes and said, "Fuck! It's everywhere!" The cancer was in his lymph system, and was, literally, everywhere, and spreading. Radiation was tried. It was a science in its infancy. This was 1967. It was experimental. It was inconsequential. Chemotherapy was tried. It was a science in its infancy. It was experimental. It was inconsequential. At some point, he did go under the knife again, to remove a testicle that was grossly invaded by a tumor, but very little else was possible. While they were trying to re-balance his medications after that, he began to grow breasts, and he was very proud of them. Apparently, he was very fond of breasts, even if they were his own. The tumors progressed until they began to interfere with vital organs, and when they filled his lungs, that killed him. 
     Now, don't get me wrong. We had nine months to accept this. That is a gift. Not many are given this gift. You can be struck down by a bus. I was on stage with a 45 year old friend, waiting for the curtain to rise on opening night, who fell over dead of a heart attack. There are many ways to go. Knowing it's coming can be a blessing. 
     Towards the end, breathing was often difficult, and we had a giant oxygen tank in his bedroom. One bad afternoon, he ran it dry, and was struggling. Mom called the doctor, and the doctor, knowing how long it might take the supply company to deliver more, called the paramedics. So the EMT vehicle and the big fire truck showed up, as they do, and all the neighbors gathered around, and Mom took the medical folks into the bedroom, and they looked things over and got another O2 tank set up. In the meantime, the police arrrived, and I led them outside the now-crowded room, and answered their questions about what was happening, which satisfied them, and they left, but not before I asked them why police got dispatched to a medical emergency. They told me that it was because it might be a suicide attempt, which was illegal. That really struck me as odd. Quite some time later, in some conversation, this came up, and my mother couldn't believe that the police had been there. She had not even seen them, preoccupied as she was with the emergency at hand and a roomful of strangers. And, she was also surprised that they listened to a thirteen year old, and went away. 
     Especially towards the end, with the breathing difficulties, Dad was in and out of the hospital numerous times. The local hospital, St. Jude's, had a policy that no one under seventeen could visit. I never could fathom this policy, other than that it was such a conservative repressive culture at that time and place that children had no rights. At that time, women couldn't even get credit cards. 
    Now, of course, my mother was not the kind of person who allows people to tell her what to do, and make stupid rules for her to obey. She judged it unacceptable that her children were not allowed to visit their father on his deathbed. So we ignored that rule. We would walk in pairs, oldest and youngest, and if anyone said, "You have to be seventeen to be in here," we would respond, in unison, "Together, we are seventeen." Our instructions were to calmly continue to Dad's room no matter what, and let Mom run interference when necessary. And there were times when it was like the National Geographic shows where the mother lion, or tiger, or bear, was protecting her cubs. You did not want to have my mother lecture you about the unacceptable stupidity of her children being denied a visit when every day could be the last one. The staff quickly learned to just look the other way. And we were perfectly well-behaved children. In solemn circumstances. There was no valid reason for us to be excluded. We didn't run around or get into things or make noise or disturb others or cause any trouble.      There was one particularly hide-bound nurse who truly believed in strict adherence to the rules. She tangled with my mother a time or two, did not enjoy it, and could not muster support for her position. When she saw us coming, she would excuse herself, and take a break or go to another floor or another workstation, because she couldn't stand to see a rule broken, but she had learned that she wasn't going to shut us out. 
     Mom didn't remember telling us to 'be seventeen, added up by pairs,' which I found especially amusing, because that sort of clever thinking is exactly what I remember her for. 
     One of the oddest and saddest twists in this whole story is that my father was a fan of the tv series, Bonanza, which was the king of Sunday nights, and had he lived, that's what we would have watched. This was long before recorders, cable tv, and as least as far as our budget was concerned, a second tv set. We were fans of the Smothers Brothers original tv series, in which Tom played a hapless apprentice angel. A derivative of Topper and a precursor to My Mother The Car. So we were glued to our set for the entire run of The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, which I still feel had the greatest influence on me of anything ever. And we wouldn't have seen that show if Dad had been alive. We'd have watched Bonanza.

The Meaning of Life Explained by Don Taco

The Meaning Of Life, Explained 

 I was casually meandering across my college campus one afternoon when my friend Danny, headed the other way, stopped purposefully, shoved a small microphone in my face, and asked pointedly, "What is the meaning of life?" I hadn't noticed it, but he was doing this to everyone he met. Little did I know that this encounter would actually lead to me discovering the answer. The answer that has attracted, mystified, provoked, puzzled, tempted, eluded, taunted, haunted, and flaunted itself in the face of uncounted generations of scholars, pundits, mystics, misfits, and philosophers since the beginning of time. I was unprepared for the question, which was Danny's intent, and stumbled out some lame response. Not only not profound, but not even worth repeating. Or remembering. Danny was assembling data for some class assignment. A Philosophy or Social Studies or Communication or Religious Studies or I don't actually know what assignment for some class he was taking. He was expecting to compile results that showed a spectrum of responses, and, I believe, the depth, or lack thereof, of the average responses, as well as the range of responses. Little did he know what he would also reveal. He had one of those very 1960's household tape recorders, with a leather case and a strap, so he could sling it behind him and catch people unawares. The microphone had a slim cord long enough to allow him to thrust it in front of you unexpectedly as he asked his question, and it had a switch on the side he could start the tape rolling as he did. To conserve tape, he wasn't recording himself over and over, just the responses. This was a tiny reel-to-reel, long before cassetes, among the earliest generations of portable recorders. He probably couldn't even afford to own it. It probably was checked out, like a library book, from the college's audio-visual department. I'm sure he had to supply his own tape, though. He gathered hundreds of responses, many hundreds. I don't think he got into the thousands, as that would have required attacking every one of the 1600 students and going out into the community beyond, which was Malibu Beach, and would have been more or less evenly distributed between surf bums and people too rich to talk to you. And that's a good way to get arrested. The overwhelming majority of the responses was, "Uh. To live." Over 90 percent. Perhaps 5 percent of those actually were, "To live," but "Uh. To live," was the hands- down common response. I think that's what I said. I'm not proud of it. 90 percent of the rest were slogans, lame aphorisms, and other pat short answers of no depth or consequence. The overwhelming bulk of these were religious, which was no surprise, as we were at a small bible-belt-baptist type of college. Most of these young folks had not yet been exposed to critical thinking and other analytical skills, and hadn't ever delved into this question any deeper than repeating what had been spoon-fed them. That left a dozen or two respondents who didn't blurt out the first phrase that popped into their head. Some took their time, and gave it some measured though. Some had answers more or less prepared. Most were insightful, thoughtful, meaningful. Some were tidy, some were open-ended. Some were religious, some not at all. Some said there was no answer. Few of them overlapped. But. But but but... But then, there was this one guy. This one guy, when asked about the meaning of life, answered without hesitation, without pause for reflection, without clearing his throat. He answered with complete sincerity, with utter conviction, with the clarity of truth. I heard the tape. He knew the answer. He knew. He knew the meaning of life. It could not have been any more clear. Or any simpler, really. I was instantly convinced. Without even a pause for breath, yet with breathtaking conviction, he replied, "The meaning of life is to eat as many cheese enchiladas as possible in twenty-seven minutes." As quick as that. As simple as that. As clear as that. And ever since the day I heard that tape, I have not had to to ponder the meaning of life, nor search for it, consider or reconsider it, engage in discussions regarding it, worry about it, or spend time on it in any way. I have no need of any of that. I know the meaning of life. It was gifted to me, quite by accident, when I was still quite young. I have always been grateful for that. When I consider the countless hours, years, centuries, aeons, that men have spent pursuing this imponderable, I am simply astounded. If they only knew. To eat as many cheese enchiladas as possible in twenty-seven minutes. I offer you this gift.

Book Reports Round Up




 

1.  List of favorite authors
2.  List of favorite books (top 3,10, 20 whatever you like;  rank in order if you want.)
3.  Most recent books read (past year, or years;  order if you want)
4.  Books that you are planning to read, or would like to read.  
5.  Books you have reread.  How many times?

Extra credit:
List of your favorite movies.


MARK FARENBAUGH 


(Some) Most influential books or documentaries 


Malcolm Gladwell – Outliers: The Story of Success, Blink, The Tipping Point 

Morris Massey:  “What you are is where you were when” 

Niccolo Machiavelli:   The Prince 


(some) Favorite Authors & Books ( I don’t re-read books) 

Tom Clancy – Hunt for the Red October, Without Remorse, The Sum of All Fears 

JRR Tolkien Trilogy 

Malcolm Gladwell 

Charles Krauthammer - Things That Matter

Patrick Rothfuss – The Name of the Wind, The Wise Man’s Fear 

John Irving - A Prayer for Own Meaning 

Miguel Cervantes - Don Quixote

Candice Owens

  

(some) Favorite Movies 

 

All - Predator series 

All - Mission Impossible 

All - Bond 007 

Collateral – with Tom Cruise 

Casablanca 

The Recruit

Tom Clancy – Hunt for the Red October, Without Remorse, The Sum of All Fears 

JRR Tolkien movies 

Safe House

Deadpool

6 Underground


* * * * * * *

DENNIS WATSON

 Books

Catcher in the Rye,
 Franny and Zooey
All quiet on the Western front
Great expectations
All Ian Fleming
All Dick Francis
Soul on Ice
All Le Carre (tinker, Taylor, three or four times)
All Dasheil Hammet, Philip Marlowe, Ross MacDonald, Robert Parker, Carl Hiasen,
Cannery Row
Sweet Thursday
Tortilla Flats
All Martin Cruz Smith, Jane Austen
Anything by Harold Bloom (Lit)
Anything by Paul Johnson (Hist)
All Jack Reacher
The Overstory (cf Dr Tom H)
History of the American People (Paul Johnson)
The Stories We Tell (Dave Molina)

Movies 
From here to eternity
MASH
Kurosawa:
7 Samurai 
Hidden Fortress
Stray Dog
High & Low

Cousin Vinny (for sure, Bruce!)
Major League
Ferris Bueller
Napoleon Dynamite
Most of Mel Brooks
The Stalker (very strange)
Wim Senders’ Wings of Desire
Krystof Kryslovski’s Blue, The Decalogue 
Roma
The Shape of Water

TV
Ted Lasso
Endless Brit rural crime shows
A whole lot of sports




* * * * * * *

DON TACO

  Favorite authors.
    Tommy Smothers. I know he doesn't write books, but there is no greater influence on me.
    Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
    Ray Bradbury.
    Roger Zelazny.

  Favorite/Most Influential books.
    The Last Unicorn.  Peter S. Beagle.
    Player Piano.  Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
    Slaughterhouse Five.  Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
    The Once And Future King.  T. H. White.
    The Metamorphoses.  Ovid.

           Coincidentally, these are all some of the few books I have ever re-read.

  Recently Read.
    An Illustrated History Of Country Music.  Very thorough, well-organized, and quite sensitive to genres. Although there was
      little new info, it was interesting to see it organized chronologically, and the not always obvious connections and influences.
    Lake Wobegon Days.  I expected this to be more interesting than it was.
    Christmas At Pemberley.  A playscript. I designed the set. I've never had any love for the Victorian Romanticists, and I found
      this dreadful, mawkish, and boring.  But I just have to build it, not sit through it.
    A Pirate Looks at 50.  Half travelogue, half memoir. Interesting but not earth-shattering.

  What's waiting to be read?
    An Encyclopedia Of Modern American Humor, 1954, edited by Bennett Cerf. 
    The Silent Gondoliers, by S. Morgenstern, who wrote the book that grandpa reads to the boy in William Goldman's The Princess Bride.
    A John LeCarre book is on my desk at work to chip away at during lunch, but I don't recall the title.


  I haven't been reading lately as much as I did when young.



* * * * * * *

PAUL DELGADO


Favorite Authors & Books 

Frank Herbert

  • Dune

James Clavell

  • Shogun

  • Tai Pan

  • Noble House

Leon Uris

  • Trinity

  • Exodus

  • The Haj

Ernest Hemingway

  • Farewell to Arms

  • For Whom the Bell Tolls

Dominique La Pierre

  • Is Paris Burning

  • I’ll Dress you in Mourning

Fredrick Forsyth

  • The Dogs of War

  • The Odessa File

  • The Shepherd

  • The Day of the Jackal

Trevanian

  • Shibumi

Alexandre Dumas

  • Count of Monte Cristo

JRR Tolkein

  • Lord of the Rings


Currently  Reading

  • Shadow of the Silk Road, Colin Thubron

  • Seven Pillars of Wisdom, T.E. Lawrence

  • The Guns at Last Light, Rick Atkinson


Books I plan to read in December

  • Cien Anos de Soledad, Gabriel Marquez Garcia

  • La Muerte de Artemio Cruz, Carlos Fuentes


Favorite Movies

  • Lawrence of Arabia  (The Soundtrack by Maurice Jarre is awesome!)

  • The Seven Samurai  (Epic Kurosawa!)

  • Raiders of the Lost Ark 

  • Back to the Future!

  • Moon over Parador (Hilarious!)



* * * * * * *

DAVID MOLINA

1.  List of favorite authors
      Tolkien, Kazantzakis, CS Lewis, 

2.  List of favorite books (top 3,10, 20 whatever you like;  rank in order if you want.)
       Lord of the Rings   how many times read  (8 or 9 times, due to read again soon)
      The Hobbit    (7)
      The Once and Future King  (4)
       Zorba the Greek    Kazantzakis (4)
       The Last Temptation of Christ    Kazantzakis (4)
       Till We Have Faces  (4)  CS Lewis
       The Seat of the Soul  (4) -   Gary Zukav
       The Crack in the Cosmic Egg  (4)  Joseph Chilton Pearce
       Cutting for Stone (2) Abraham Vergese
       The Spirituality of Imperfection (2 - due to read again)  Ernst Kurz
        Falling Upward  Richard Rohr
        Guns, Germs, and Steel    (2) Jared Diamond
       
3.  Most recent books read (past year, or years;  order if you want)
         Save the Cat    Blake Snyder
         Life Lessons    Elizabeth Kubler Ross
         The Great Gatsby  F. Scott Fitzgerald
         The Old Gringo   Carlos Fuentes
         The Power of Habit  Charles Duhigg
         The Writers Journey  Christopher Vogler
         The Fountainhead    Ayn Rand
         Napoleon  Andrew  Roberts
         Shakespeare    Peter Ackroyd
         Wild    Cheryl Strayed
         The Four Agreements    Don Miguel Ruiz
         The Lively Art of Writing   Lucile Vaughan Payne
          The Age of Gold   H.W. Brand

4.  Books that you are planning to read, or would like to read. 
        MacBeth
        Tiny Beautiful Things    Cheryl Strayed
        Methland    Nick Reding 
        Creating Characters   Writer's Digest

List of your favorite movies.

Cinema Paraiso     Giuseppe Tornatore



* * * * * * *

RICK THUES


Book 

Author 

Comment




Space Cat series 

Ruthven Todd 

My first library reading experience where I binged the 4 book series

Every Dr Seuss book (especially The Lorax) 

Dr Seuss 

I learned economy of word from this succint poetry

Lord of the Flies 

William Golding 

How humans devolve into savagery

Breakfast of Champions 

Kurt Vonnegut Jr. 

An over reaching saga about time and space and the human condition

The Andromeda Strain 

Michael Crichton 

How science can and will go wrong in the hands of nature

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy 

Douglas Adams 

Don't Panic

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? 

Philip K. Dick 

Is AI different than human intelligence?

Time Enough For Love 

Robert A. Heinlein 

The life of Lazarus Long, the original jack of all trades

Fahrenheit 451 

Ray Bradbury 

How censorship can end badly, yet human will prevails

1984 

George Orwell 

Future Distopian Politics

The Saga of Miles Vorkosigan 

Lois McMaster Bujold 

27 books about a phyically disabled Space Captain who overcomes all

I, Robot 

Isaac Asimov 

Another deep dive into AI

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland 

Lewis Carroll 

How the imagination can see the adult world from the eyes of a child

The Earthsea Trilogy 

Ursula Le Guin 

The life of a wizard in all his humanity

Harry Potter series 

J. K. Rowling 

Classic battle between innocence and evil

Lord of the Rings 

J. R. R. Tolkien 

Epic saga on the same scale as Homer's Odyssey

On the Road 

Jack Kerouac 

Do not rest on your laurels. Keep moving.

Without Remorse 

Tom Clancey 

Men are not born dangerous. They grow dangerous.

The Da Vinci Code 

Dan Brown 

A deep dive into Catholic secrets.




* * * * * * *

BRUCE EMARD

My most influential book :  

LETTERS FROM A STOIC, Seneca

Books, short stories, and poems I've read recently:

OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE, Ambrose Bierce
LET ME TELL YOU WHAT I MEAN, Joan Didion
DHARMA BUMS, Jack Kerouac
ON TYRANNY, Timothy Snyder
HOMIE (MY NIG), Danez Smith
THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD, Gary Snyder

A Few of My Favorite authors and good reads:

Almost Anything by Jack London
Wallace Stegner, Angle of Repose
The Swerve, Stephen Greenblatt
Almost Anything by Doris Kearns Goodwin
The Sun Also Rises, Hemmingway
Sometimes a Great Notion, Ken Kesey
The Brothers Karamosov, Fyodor Dostoevsky
Metamorphosis, Frans Kafka
The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, J.R.R. Tolkien
Undaunted Courage, Stephen Ambrose
etc.

Favorite movie comedy: My Cousin Vinny



* * * * * * *
BRIAN BROWN

Favorite authors;
Edward Abbey
John McFee
John Sandford
Carl Sagen
James Michener, sometimes

Favoriter books;
Desert Solitaire
Basin and Range
Down the River
The Autobiography of Malcom X
The Monkey Wrench Gang
The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew - devoured all of these I could find as a young boy, they helped turn me into a reader. 
Most recent books;
The Pueblo revolt - little known history, the pueblo Indians in 1680 chased every single Spaniard out of New Mexico and back into Mexico proper and kept them out for a dozen years. 
Coyote America - Our historically fucked up relationship with the North American song dog, and why they will outlast us and eat our bones.
Pandora’s Lab - historically well intentioned science that went way wrong and cost millions of lives worldwide. 
The Associates - Robber barons Huntington, Stanford, Crocker and Hopkins run amok and capture most of the wealth in California.

Books I want to read before I fall over;

One of those giant, classic Russian novels.
The Journals of John Weasley Powell
Apacheria, by Michael Farmer.


Books I could not get through;
My Struggle, by Adolph Hitler. Provincial, disjointed, disappointing. I’d hoped to gain some insight into Humanity’s darkest hour, but not so. I sent it to the shows after less than 100 pages. 

The Book of Mormon - Like the old Testament, but on acid. Fantastical and ridiculous, to my mind. I said amen and tossed it after a few chapters.  

A hundred years of solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Perhaps it was the translation into English, but it never got off the ground for me and felt like work instead of enjoyment. Adios. Coincidentally, I showed the author’s son around the desert for a day, he was looking for a particular movie location, he  was in the movie biz. He called himself Bob Garcia, I nearly shat when his assistant quietly told me who his father was. We actually had a little adventure,  ran into a crazy woman and her monstrous pit bull in the middle of nowhere, she was looking for her canary, which had escaped. 5 miles from town, no one else around, it was loony and Garcia loved it. He said our conversation with the crazy woman and her slobbering killer was “ great screen writing” ! 





 


 

Writer's Choice - Rick Thues

  Little Gidding (getting it done) What we call the beginning is often the end And to make and end is to make a beginning. The end is where ...