Teenstupid By Mike Freeman

 Teenstupid

By Mike Freeman

Medical science says the male brain achieves full development or maturity around the

age of 25 years. Until this maturity is reached, male decision-making is suspect as

being reasonable, thoughtful of others, examining consequences, accurately assessing

risks, and understanding that actions impact families, communities, and societies.

Science also contends that female brains achieve the same level of maturity or full

development a few years earlier than males.

Many women seem to have a different world view. My wife informs me that her brain

reached full maturity at age six. Young girls know how to manipulate their adult fathers

by the age of three.

Many of my friends' wives claim their husbands' brains have not reached full maturity as

we enter our early 70s. I nod my head in fake empathy as they tell me this. I have one

friend, Scott, who is still working on being contrite when required. Unfortunately, he's a

horrible actor and convinces no one.

My new medical term describing the quality of decision-making by males lacking fully

developed brains is "Teenstupid." I illustrate its meaning with the following story

from my youth.

It is 1971, Christmas time during my freshman year at college. I am at prime teenstupid

at the age of 18. I have been driving for two years, can now vote, get drafted by the

military, and buy cigarettes. Legally buying alcohol is a distant three years away.

I have a few weeks off for the holidays. I spend most of this time with my friends doing

meaningless things and occasionally do a few chores to help my family.

My mom asks me to go to my old high school to pick up my younger brother who is a

junior that year. Servite is an all-boys, college-prep Catholic high school. As I arrive to

pick up my brother, Tim, I notice something new on top of the two-story red brick

classroom building. It is a large five-point star outlined with radiant yellow lights set up to

celebrate the Christmas season.

I return home with my brother. After dinner, I get into our family 1959 green and white

Rambler station wagon with large fins and drive to my friend Mike's house. Turning into

his neighborhood, I notice a six-point Star of David on top of a residence the same size

and light color as the pentagram star on top of my old high school.

"What are the odds?" I think.

Mike and I head into the night, meeting with several friends looking for adventure. There

is not one mature brain among us. The odds for adventure are high, and low for mature

decision-making. We dwell on the teenstupid mountaintop.

The brilliant but bad idea hits me and then the group. Why don't we exchange the two

different stars on top of the home and our old high school? The result would be a

Jewish star on a Catholic high school building and a Christian star on top of a Jewish

home celebrating the Christmas season. We think this is hilariously funny.

How long will it take people to notice? The stars are the same size and color. We will

leave a note at each location instructing people where to return their respective stars.

We are sure this prank is a slam dunk for the Practical Joke Hall of Fame.

We are positive everyone will join us with holiday laughter once the stars are discovered

with the notes. No property damage means no harm, no foul.

"What could go wrong?" our teenstupid brains think. We soon find out.

All of us pile into my Rambler station wagon. We head out to the star-adorned home

first. Parking down the street, we quietly exit the car and proceed towards the house.

Two of us climb onto the roof to quietly remove the six-pointed star. At this point, we

realize we brought no tools to accomplish our goal.

The two guys on the roof decide this is not a problem. They grab the star and begin

working it from its well-secured base on the roof. The sound of splintering wood and

roof shingles fills the night air. They free the star from the roof and hand it to the rest of

us. The amount of noise we are creating begins to make us panic as we all scramble

back to our car.

There is one problem. The larger-than-we-realize star does not fit into the back of the

station wagon. A neighborhood car drives by and stops. It turns around losing a hubcap

and accelerates towards us!

"Hold on!" I cry out. I hit the accelerator. Our green and white 1959 Rambler station

wagon with the large fins takes off with three guys hanging out the back grasping the

star that doesn't fit. The neighborhood car pursues!

"I hate good Samaritan neighbors!"someone yells out. Mike, who knows his

neighborhood well, issues emergency getaway guidance.

"Hard right!" he instructs me.

As the ancient, fully loaded, underpowered station wagon squeals around corners I

begin to wonder how we can ever outrun any car built by any country in the past

decade.

Mike continues his inspiring commands. We eventually ditch the pursuers.

Feeling safe, we pull over to secure the star using the luggage racks on the car roof. We

can now legally drive to our old high school without attracting much attention. Any plan

of leaving a message at the now starless home is quickly abandoned.

We arrive at the high school and go up a back alley to the two-story brick building. Once

again, we realize we brought no tools or ladders to help us with our mission.

"How will we get on top of this building?" we ask ourselves. Teenstupid kicks in on

overdrive.

We will climb up rain downspouts to reach the overhanging roof. Assuming we survive

that 24-foot ascent without falling, we will then reach back over the overhang with one

hand. Then we dangle until we get our other hand on the roof edge. We pull ourselves

onto the roof and get to the second star.

My friend Joe says,"I will catch you if you fall." I have little confidence that he will or

can. Still, I appreciate his support.

Three of us climb up the downspouts successfully reaching the rooftop. Now we realize

we brought no rope to hoist the Star of David up to us. In a flash of brilliance, we take

off our belts, combining them with the extension power cord from the star on top of the

roof. Now we have a cord long enough to bring the Jewish star up to us.

We switch the two stars and decide to leave the Christian star lying down on the roof.

Writing a note informing the school where to return the Jewish star is impossible. We

have no pen and paper.

The Star of David shines brightly on top of our Catholic high school celebrating

Christmas! Our hearts are stirred. We congratulate ourselves on a successful caper.

The problem arises of how to climb safely down. The overhang prevents us from seeing

where the rain downspouts are along the side of the building. Our friends on the ground

direct us to the correct positioning on the roof. We lower ourselves over the edge

hanging by both hands. Then we swing our bodies till we can catch the downspout and

rapidly descend before we rip it away from the wall. All three of us make it safely down

to the ground.

High fives are flying all around. We laugh and celebrate our great triumph. Then the

horror hits me.

I left my belt up on the roof. It has my name on it. What am I going to do? At this

moment, I achieve peak teenstupid and make the poorest decision of my life. I will climb

back up on the roof to recover my belt. I double down on stupidity.

Joe repeats his pledge to catch me if I fall. A few others join in. My only hope is that if I

fall, one of them is dumb enough to do it.

I climb up the downspout and successfully reach the roof and recover my belt. I put it on

this time and scale my way down employing the same high-risk maneuvers done

previously.

I am unsure who is more relieved that I made it safely again… me or the guys who said

they would catch me if I fell.

We climb back into the Rambler station wagon and return to our gathering place. We

celebrate our great accomplishment one last time before heading home.

A few days pass. No one seems to detect the change of stars on top of the Catholic

school building. The Star of David shines brightly every night. A growing number of

alumni drive by the school every evening as word spreads about the luminous star. We

wonder how long this will continue? In a few more days the high school will dismiss for

Christmas vacation.

A week goes by. It is now the last day of school before vacation. We cannot believe our

caper has survived this long. Certainly, a teacher, student, parent, or janitor would

notice something by now. Nope!

I can't take it anymore. I stop by the school to pick up my brother. I approach one of the

priests. In the middle of our conversation, I feign surprise and loudly exclaim,"Father, is

that a Jewish star on top of the school building?"

His head swivels around as his mouth opens in shock. Students standing around look

up and begin to laugh hysterically. Janitors are urgently called into action to do

something, anything. There is absolute chaos on the campus.

Mission accomplished, I retrieve my brother and head home.

Many of us escape our teenstupid years without serious negative consequences.

Unfortunately, some of us do not. Whatever the outcome, we must learn from those

experiences. Things I did back then can result in me laughing, feeling embarrassed,

regretful, or wiser. I would discipline my children for doing some of the same things I did

(although I sometimes laugh in another room when they are not present).

I believe this is part of God's plan for us. He gives the gift of free will enabling us to

make good and bad decisions. He wants us to learn and grow from our mistakes. This

brings us closer to Him.

Here is a radical thought. Maybe we should share our mistakes with others so they can

learn from them too? Do you learn from your mistakes? Are you willing to share them

with others when appropriate?

The color of your eyes by Don Taco

The Color Of Your Eyes

by Don Taco ©2025

I'm ready to go

the race has been run

the guitar's in tune

the songs have been sung

I'm no longer healthy

wealthy, smug, or spry

but there's just a few more songs I'd like to write before I die

the color of your eyes...

in moonlight

set off by just a smudge of chocolate on your cheek

from a wayward chocolate-dipped strawberry we stole

from the wedding party we passed in the hallway of

the hotel we stayed in on our twentieth anniversary

I'd still like to sing that

the color of your eyes...

with just a hint of a tear in the corner

catching the sunlight we stared into watching our darling

melissa march to accept her diploma twenty years after

the doctor told us her heart wasn't right and

she probably wouldn't live out her first year

I'd still like to sing that

the color of your eyes...

just that

the color of your eyes

I'd still like to sing that

I'd still like to sing that

 

Sense Perception by Don Taco

 Sense Perception

by Don Taco ©2025

  You've chosen to go into a sensory deprivation tank for a session. Your friends who have done it, your more adventurous friends, say it's a fabulous experience. Mary says, "You'll learn so much about yourself that you can't experience any other way. Not even on drugs. Not even the best drugs." Baxter says you'll see God, but then Baxter sees God when he drinks, so you take that with a grain of salt. Everyone you speak to says it's totally worth the money. It never occurs to you to ask if any of them have tried it more than once.

  The lobby is understated and modern. The staff is polite and friendly. There is no pressure to sell you a package or a tour, just an invitation to the experience, should you choose to try it. Soft jazz that you can barely hear plays from hidden speakers. All your questions are answered clearly and immediately. Later, of course, you think of a dozen others you should have asked.

  You dress down in the clean well-appointed locker room into a drafty white apron that passes for a robe. You're led by another polite white-clad attendant to the chamber, and helped into your pod. All is as was promised. You lie back into a warm bath the temperature of your own body, which you remember them checking before showing you to the locker room. The water is so salty that you essentially float above the bottom surface of the pod, brushing it here and there as you relax and settle into place. The attendand mildly gives some further instructions, shows you what you need to know, asks you one last time if you're ready, and ever so gently and slowly closes the lid. You realize that the lights in the room had been gently fading out, so there is no sudden shock of darkness when the pod is fully shut.

  The first thing you notice is some strange tricks of vision, memories of light and flashes that you are quite sure aren't really there, as your eyes and brain try to adjust to the non-existent light level. As instructed, you take a long deep breath and try to relax. As your pupils reach their extended state and your brain assures itself that there really is nothing to see, your hearing takes over.

  The next thing that strikes you is the absolute quiet. We spend our lives in a world where such a thing does not  exist. That doesn't last long, however, because you begin to hear your heartbeat. It's the only sound in the room. It drowns out the soft sussuration of your breathing. It's pounding in your ears. Is it beating faster and faster? Is that why it seems so much louder? You experience a brief moment of panic because the sensation is so unfamiliar. You try to count heartbeats. You try to remember what a normal heart rate is. After quickly losing count several times, you realize that you have no sense of time to judge the rate against. It seems fast. It seems loud. You remember to try another deep breath. It's as loud as a locomotive. Your eyes are still straining aginst the unfamiliar dark. Your brain doesn't seem to want to believe in it. Your skin has adjusted to the temperature of the salt bath, and you lose the sensation of knowing where the edges of your own body are. Time slows to a crawl. Your thoughts race along at a feverish pitch.

  The 'complete isolation' from your normal sensations, and all your regular frames of reference, contribute to your sense of panic. Your heart rate and breathing seem to be completely out of control. You start to become dizzy and disoriented, and your primitive hindbrain, still feeling responsible for your survival, demands action. You decide enough is enough and slap at the big red button you were shown, finding it on the third swipe. A subtle chiming begins, and the tiniest glimmer of light shines from a single tiny LED.

  The lid to the pod begins to open. The room is quite dark, allowing you time to adjust. The soft hidden jazz is almost there. The smiling attendant welcomes you back.

"How was it?"

"I think I almost panicked. Is it always like that?"

"It's typical. Especially on a first visit."

"How long was I in?"

"Twelve seconds."

Fire Safety by Don Taco

  Fire Safety

copyright © Don Taco 2025

 Marcia woke to an insistent pounding on the front door. A glance at the clock showed 6:20, almost time to rise in any case. She shook Dan awake. "What the hell?" he asked. Stumbling out of bed and into his robe, he strode to the entry hall and looked out of the elaborate side window panel, Marcia right behind him. Outside were three firemen in their battle uniforms, all geared up for trouble. He opened the door. "Sorry, sir, but your neighbor's house is on fire. We're not likely to save it. We need to evacuate you to a safe distance. We're working to prevent the fire from spreading to your building." As he explained this, Dan and Marcia backed away from the door, and the other two firemen slid in past them. One tersely queried, "Any children? Any pets?" When Dan answered, "No," the Chief continued, "Let's collect your important papers. We have just enough time. Do you have a safe?" Dan answered, "Just a lockbox. Mortgages, Social Security cards, marriage certificate, wills, it's all in there." "Perfect," said the Chief. "Let's grab it and get you to safety." Turning to his men, he ordered, "Double-check the rooms and close all the windows and entrances. Start on the south side where the flames are. Find the main panel box and kill the power." Dan said, "On the south wall in the basement." The men rushed off. "Let's get that lockbox." As he followed Dan deeper into the mansion, he turned to Marcia and told her, "Go grab sweaters and comfortable shoes, but be quick. Meet us at the front door." She headed back to the bedroom. In his study, Dan opened the bottom desk drawer and retrieved the lockbox. He grabbed their framed wedding picture off the desk and turned to follow the Chief. They met Marcia at the door, her arms full of hastily collected clothing. Passing outside, the Chief firmly closed the door and led them down the walkway. In the street they could see a water tanker, and two men struggling to control a hose as they sprayed the south side of the mansion. Flames were dancing behind the huge plate glass window of the place next door. Dan told the Chief, "It's empty. They've been trying to sell it all year." "Excellent!," responded the Chief. "No loss of life." Neighbors were just beginning to come out from some of the other nearby houses, mostly appearing to be lacking the acuity that the morning coffee provides. As the Chief ushered the couple up the sidewalk to the shade of a large old elm, sirens split the air and more fire trucks barreled into the street. Firemen exploded into action, like clowns at the circus, but with an organized urgency that spoke of years of practice, and minus the red noses. Hoses were hooked to hydrants. Axes were put through doors. Thick black smoke billowed from the open door and the now broken window. "Stay right here", the Chief told Marcia and Dan. "You should be safe. I'm going to join my men and finish up inside." He strode purposefully back to the house and disappeared into it.

  Striding up to the two men in the vast living room, he asked, "Any trouble with the alarm?" "Nope." was the answer. "it was right next to the electric panel and we cut the battery wires. So far no noise." They continued prying at the frame of the modest Manet on the wall over the ornate fireplace. It came loose, and a few more wires were snipped. Slipping the painting into a large black plastic trash bag, they headed to the rear of the house, out the back door, across the yard, out the gate, and into the back of a generic white tradesman's van waiting there. In minutes they were on the highway headed south. Half an hour later, having stripped off their uniforms and other gear, they pulled the rental van into a rest area, casually locked the keys inside, went to the restroom, and returned, not to the van but to another nondescript rental car that was waiting there, and headed north.

  The fire department didn't take long to control the blaze, as it was still limited to the front room and its furnishings when they arrived. They were puzzled by the neighbors asking permission to return home, saying they had never been in actual danger. All hell broke loose very shortly after that, when the Manet was discovered missing. The two men with the water truck were arrested and thoroughly investigated, but they had been hired on-line through a temp agency, and had no idea who hired them, why, or even exactly what they were doing. They were just glad to get the work. There was no sign of any other firemen. Thir descriptions were useless... "Guys in firemen suits with cop moustaches." Later investigation showed the source of the blaze to be a timed incediary device hidden in a living room couch. Dozens of anonymous people had toured the property in the previous weeks. Any of them could have planted it. The visitors easiest to identify were the least likely to be the culprit.

  Very famous works by very famous painters who have been dead for hundreds of years tend to hang in museums, and their whereabouts monitored. Ownership is an exclusive club, and the memebrship is closed. One doesn't just show up for sale. But there are unscrupulous collectors, with an eye to the long game, who have the money to be private and stay private. The more time passed, the surer the authorities were that the Manet was not going to surface.

  The mansion next door was insured, and the Manet was very well insured. Dan himself was subject to an investigation, but his finances were unscrupulosly aboveboard, and those suspicions appeared unfounded. The insurance company took a bath. Premiums rose for thousands and thousands of people who don't own a Manet or a mansion.

  Dan never contacted the collector again after his initial proposal of the plan. The collector had a Manet for the cost of the operation, and the salaries of a few trusted middlemen. Dan had a clean record and a tidy profit from the insurance. Marcia never knew.

Fulfillment Under Ground by Brian Brown

   Fulfillment Under Ground  

       The Last couple of decades have seen certain aspects of the world of Botany turned on its head. Forget about what you may have learned 50 years ago in college. There is now defensible research that indicates that plants communicate with each other, that they help each other out, and that they essentially make decisions. Darwin got a lot of things right, but the blanket application of the Darwinian principles of evolution may not apply to plants.

 

     Using mild radioactive tracers, researchers have proven that in a community of plants, healthy individuals will share needed nutrients and sugar with weak or ailing neighbors. And not just within a species; sharing takes place between species also. As if a healthier and diverse community is to everyone’s benefit. It isn’t competitive survival of the fittest; it’s let’s help each other so the whole forest can survive. This mutual aid even goes beyond the Kingdom level, if you remember your basic biology. Sharing takes place between plants, which have chlorophyll, and fungi, which do not, and are classified in an entirely different Kingdom. 

     Underground, immeasurable billions of plant root hairs make their way silently through the soil in the darkness, searching and probing for the partners that can meet their needs. Similarly, microscopic, snake-like mycelium of fungi are making themselves available, looking for a hookup for their desires. Each partner has needs and also something to offer the other. When contact happens, they gently wrap around each other, their cellular-level outer membranes reaching out in the gentlest of embraces. The symbiotic attraction is there. The plant says, “I need nitrogen and calcium, can you fulfill me?” The fungi says, “I need glucose and water, can you fulfill me?” If both answer yes, the exchange of nutrients, sugar, and water takes place, each passing molecules of the needed substance to the other and taking what they need in exchange. if one of the partners is weak or ailing, particularly if they are both plants, a one-way exchange may occur, one organism magnanimously giving to the other and taking nothing in return. In this way, a sick partner may become healthy again, and the union can continue. 

     All over the planet, these unions are taking place at every instant, and probably have been since at least the Cambrian era of geologic time, 500 million years ago. Plants predate animals by several hundred million years, and have made it through all the mass extinctions, changing their forms and strategies to adapt to whatever the universe throws at them. They have this survival thing figured out. We would probably be wise to pay closer attention to plants, there is much we can learn from them.

      So, are these trillions of daily trists in the dark sex? No, because no genetic information is being exchanged. But, it feels like SOMETHING…. Betcha didn’t know what those little fuckers were up to down there all this time, did you?         

Sensual by Ricki T Thues

Sensual

by Ricki T Thues – 2025

 

 

I was packing my parachute under the Perris Skydiving sun sail, shaded from the 105° Southern California sun. A Twin Otter roared down the runway, door open, skydivers waving shaka “Hang loose!” As the airplane’s wheels lifted off the ground, I whispered, “Blue Skies.”

 

“OOO-we,” under Billy’s breath as he packed next to me.

I glanced over at him. He nodded toward Manifest. Leaning into the air-conditioned window was a tiny bikini bathing suit filled with a curvaceous woman. The temperature rose suddenly to 110°. A rivulet of sweat blinded one of my eyes. The other eye saw the bikini reach into the opening, one delicate foot beckoning as it lifted off the ground. “Blue Skies,” I whispered.

 

I was overheated and wanted a chilling dip in the pool. I threw my rig onto one of the pegs, peeled off my jumpsuit, and headed for the swimming pool. Giggling men and women who were also wearing only swimsuits hurried past me. I did a deep-end dive. When I broke the surface of the water, I found myself surrounded by beautiful people. One man with sculpted muscles and deeply tanned skin was tattooed with ancient symbols flowing down ribs and curling intimately along hipbones to the small of his back. A woman slipped through the water like a whisper, effortless strokes sliding slick laminar flow giving lift to hypnotic curves. Others bobbed in the shallows, laughter painting joy on the corners of their mouths, the flair of their nostrils, and the corners of their eyes.

 

Cooler now, I climbed out of the pool. It did not take long to dry off on my way back to the shade of the giant Maple. Some of my friends were sitting in a circle under the tree, telling tall tales. Soon, I was listening to Owen talking about a recent record skydive he had filmed. Suddenly, he stopped in mid-sentence and pointed toward the sidewalk, jaw dropping slightly. I followed his pointing finger to a sisterhood of nine women skydivers striding and talking in a group. The collective swing of their hips and the fluid elegance between muscle and intention breathed grace into presence. They owned the space they moved through.

 

Owen said, “That’s Wendy. She’s getting married to Phillip next week.” Her bouncing trot had a buoyant rhythm which sprang like a playful heartbeat. Her smile outshone those of her friends.

 

“That is her bridal party. I’m filming their naked skydive today. Do you want to fly second camera?” Owen smiled and winked.

 

“Yes,” I blurted, with enthusiasm that caught the attention of the women in our Maple tree circle.

“When’s the jump?”

“2 pm. Dirt dive at 1:30.”

“Are we naked too?”

“That’s the tradition,” Owen grinned.

 

I looked back over at Wendy’s women, and my imagination did not see their clothing.

 

At the dirt dive, I was smitten. Wendy had organized her friends into a circle around her. They were wearing their parachute rigs, helmets, and wrist altimeters. Over their gear, they were loosely shrouded in button shirts and short pants. The suggestion of what was behind the clothing was unsubtle and provocative. I was only marginally aware that Owen and I were similarly clad.

 

The skydive was to be simple, with Wendy flying into a circle of her eight friends holding hands. Wendy would turn slow 360s and smile at her bridesmaids. Owen would take the above and center position, and I would be filming straight-on from the side.

 

Except for the occasional giggle of the women, the climb to altitude was oddly sober. This was because of the unabashed ogling of the other skydivers in the plane, male and female alike.

 

I was sitting on the aft bench looking at the lovely female crew during the 20-minute climb to 12,000 feet. At the 3-minute call, I slipped off my shorts and unbuttoned my shirt. The women did the same. It was a stunning scene as they all stashed their clothes under the benches.

 

At the red light, Owen opened the door. On the green light, Owen climbed out to the camera step outside the airplane. Wendy and three of her friends brushed past me to perch outside on the door’s threshold. They clung to the float bar. I sidled past the other five as they pressed breasts to backs toward the door opening. Taking up the rear slot, I wrapped my arms around the last woman as Wendy yelled, “READY…SET…GO!

 

The floaters let go and everyone followed them into freefall.

 

Approaching the skydive, I flew past Owen and could not help but notice that anything between his legs had disappeared into a nondescript lump. Nothing was whipping around down there. I continued to my on-level slot.

 

These women are all excellent skydivers. I noticed the joy on their faces and the precision of their flying. They were a fairy ring in an enchanted time.

 

And then there was the 120 mph wind of freefall.

 

The wind turned every patch of skin to flapping wrinkles.

Breasts were deflated balloons in a gale.

One shorter woman became a Shar-Pei.

Suspended in air as she was, another woman’s jowls were the wattle of a bird.

I knew one of the smarter women who wore the wrinkles of her brain on her face.

Their prune-like appearance made me never want to covet a plum again.

As Wendy rotated, she became her own grandmother in the wrinkled, aged company of a knitting circle.

 

Break off was at 5000 feet, and we all tracked away from each other. When my parachute opened, I was no longer excited. Instead, I was a little numb.

 

I landed first and wrapped my parachute around myself. Then I filmed each of the women landing their parachutes. Friends on the ground brought each of them clothing. I wished I had thought of that. Phillip ran up to Wendy, gave his fiancée an enthusiastic hug, then handed her some clothes.

 

As the women shimmied into shorts and shirts, my heart hastened. Each button brought new mystery to their beauty. Wendy stood backlighted by the blazing sun. The shadow of her body through her shirt gave hint of the honeymoon to come. My imagination was sparked with renewed heat. 

 

The women dressing on the grass of the landing area was the most sensual and sexiest part of the whole day.

  

Pues...Ni Modo by David Molina

 

PUES …NI MODO

I cruised in my Chevy, muy lindo, ‘Mi Amor,’ but I suddenly smelled something awful.

I looked underneath -  ¡ay caray!  I can see that her muffler is no longer lawful.

I knew all my homies would laugh and make fun so I had to act muy, muy de prisa

So I stepped on the gas and I quickly hauled ass ‘cause I just wasn’t down for no risa.

I knew of a vato a friend of a friend of a tía whose suegro was chino.

He knew of a shop that was tops and could swap out my muffler in no time, muy fino.

 I drove down the road smoking smoke a’ la mode with my face hidden by my sombrero.

I saw a bright sign and I got in the line at a shop called “El Pedorero.”

My vato friend said only one guy was top of the crop, and the best of the best.

Magnífico, muy talentoso, cortés,  el mejor del mejor nothing less.

He told me his name saying no one could claim to come close or to even compare                                 

To Señor Valentín Adalberto Cortés Dos-Rasquaches Ramirez Ferrer. 

He fixed it in no time, he fixed it real good then he gave me a bonus to boot.

He offered to tell me the secret he learned as a child, and I said, “Okay shoot.”

I always remember the words that he said, and the wisdom he offered to share:

From Señor Valentín Adalberto Cortés Dos-Rasquaches Ramirez Ferrer.

“Mijo:”

“When your taco shell busts and your queso falls out and your carne gets messy and scattered

Don’t sit in the gutter and uselessly mutter palabritas  -  it just doesn’t matter.

You may not have heard an expression, two words that will settle all things y a todo 

The magic occurs if you utter these words…and just say to yourself: pues, ni modo.” 

“When ice cream cone splatters it just doesn’t matter so much if you know what to say.

 Your girlfriend forgets it’s your birthday? Don’t sweat it. Tomorrow will be a new day.

Your car just won’t start? or your hair won’t just part? Well,  be glad that you’ve got a few pelos.

You’re sick as a dog or you’re lost in the fog? Well don’t panic there’s always el cielo.”

He fixed up my car and he even so far has earned credit for fixing my life.

Mi Amor now still runs and my girlfriend still shuns pensamientos of being my wife.

Sometimes I feel like I get a bad deal, a bad cold, a bad meal, a bad todo.

Be that as it may at the end of the day - suck it up… give it up…

Pues...ni modo!

In The Heat by Brian Brown

 In The Heat

                                                        

     When you live in the heat it changes everything. When you rise, when you sleep, when you work, when you don’t, when you make love, ( mostly you don’t ). There is a crude expression out here;  It’s too hot to f&%k, and sadly that is often  true. 

     It dominates everything, each decision includes a heat calculation, because it must. The desert doesn’t care about you and will kill you if you are careless, either in a car or your house just out walking around. Work starts at dark thirty and is over by noon. Sleep happens in the middle of the day also, so you can rise at 6:00 p.m. and get things ready for the next day in the long shadows of the evening. 100 degrees in the shade at 7:00 pm really isn’t too bad, because you are wearing a long sleeve shirt you have dipped in a bucket of water that will take 20 minutes to evaporate and become dry, giving you 20 good minutes to accomplish something before you  soak and do it again. When darkness sets in you must go home and force yourself to sleep somehow so you can rise and go to work in the darkness again in the morning. 

   110 or more in the direct sun is serious business, no matter how much you drink or how big or clever your hat is. The Body’s core temperature invariably begins to rise, and if you don’t bring it down somehow you get in real trouble pretty quickly. So you work for thirty minutes then cool down for 15 somehow, either going indoors, drenching in water, or just leaving. Some of us get more or less acclimated and some do not, and they are in real danger. Their skin turns bright pink, their eyes  bug out, and a look of mild panic inhabits them. Those people go into the walk in cooler and have a seat in the 38 degree breeze until they are back in operational range. Then, if they can, they go back out and do it again. It is a terribly inefficient way to get work done, and as a boss it is maddening, but it works. Some things simply must be done here in the summer, and so we do them, as we can. We should marvel at and honor, somehow, the roofers and cement workers seen standing out in the midday sun in Las Vegas or Phoenix.

     And, importantly, we complain a lot, because it is vastly therapeutic. Bitch, bitch bitch, about the heat, about the lack of rain, about the low pay, about biting horseflies, about the ugly local women, about the other workers whom you don’t think are carrying their share of the load, about your lousy car, about someone else’s shitty haircut, and on and on. It helps, it really does.  

     By August, any humor is gone. People show up and do the work they can and leave. Everyone is encouraged, and gently required, to leave town for a while. Take a vacation. Go to Utah, go to the Sierras, go to the coast, just go to Vegas and get a room and veg out by the pool for a couple of days. Relationships end, employment ends, sometimes badly, and everyone goes through the annual cathartic period of serious self examination. Why am I here? Have I wasted my life? Is this worth it on any level? What am I missing out there? The first few seasons it slides off into depression, but after a several years that becomes a predictable progression, and we know there is light at the end of the tunnel if we can just make it to September.  

     Shade is profoundly important. In an extremely dry climate the temperature difference of being in the shade vs. the sun is dramatic and immediate, perhaps 15 or 20 degrees. You seek out and claim any shadow, a bush, a telephone pole, squatting down behind a car, anything. Cars become huge thermal sinks if left in the direct sun, interior temperatures rising to 140 degrees and more if the windows are up. A new car with healthy air conditioning will still require 15 minutes or more to bring the interior temperature  into tolerable range. Shade is your friend, and work is planned around the presence or absence of shade.

    By September, it has affected you. If it was your first summer, you are not quite the same person you were in May. You have gone through a storm and you know it, and others who have not just cannot understand. You have seen the warts and deficiencies of the others around you, and they yours, and you kept going anyway. You have a little more respect for each other, even those you don’t like, because you did it. if you’ve done it before you become like an old tortoise, retreating into your shell and only coming out when you must. Your social skills may have suffered, but ah, well. And then, gradually, it begins to end. Night time lows dip below 80. The sun isn’t quite as high overhead, and a few tourists begin to trickle in. The heat is in seasonal retreat, you made it! Now, you have 7 months to plan for next summers escape, if you can

                                                         In the Heat

                 It scarifies and clarifies

                 It questions your existence 

                 And judgement.

                 It steals you and steels you

                 Lovers leave and the world departs

                 Just you and the desert 

                 And a few defective others.

                 Have I wasted my chance?

                 Have I missed my life?

                 Always remember, 

                 You could have been stuck 

                 In traffic on the 405 

                 For the last fifty years 

                 Instead.