ESPANOL UNO ZERO UNO

Hit Mexico City last night. Or I should say it hit me. After hundreds of miles through winding mountain roads with trucks passing on curves the blanket of smog was almost welcoming. It's big. I have to keep my fearophobia in check and plan my next move. The trip is getting expensive. Even Mexico ain't cheap. Do I head for San Salvador or play it safe and head for Cali? First I need coffee.

I know some of you homeschool your kids so lets start the day with a little Spanish lesson. First learn to say Mi espanol es muy malo.- My spanish is very bad. This sets the tone. REPETIME. OK. Muy bueno. Now order coffee. Cafe con leche por favor- Coffee with milk please. Gotta go? Donde esta bano?- Where is the bathroom? Throw in some Buenas dias and como estas? and you can travel. Remember alwayssmile, tip good and act responsible and humble. Nothing worse than acting like an entitled gringo.
It' Domingo so I'm gonna keep it short. Might as well play video games for the rest of class. Adios.

I LOVE YOU BABY MASSACRE

One of the things my boys in Houston were doing was participating in a "Visual art drinking and painting group" called appropriately enough- I Love You Baby. Like Canada's Royal Art Lodge these guys get together sporadically to create work. It's not my thing but I apprec. a rock band approach to anything. As I said Perry, Mark and Jon play music also. They played me some recent stuff by their band Stabbin' Cabin. It was mostly static and ultra thin bluez fuzz, but the lyrics were top of the line. I made a trade with one of my book cover paintings for a couple of lines from one song. Here's last night's South TX motel room results.

I LOVE YOU BABY MASSACRE

Her mouth is a church where no one comes to pray
Her heart a dark cemetery
A waiting open grave
Ran out of I'm sorrys I'm sorry to say

Pool's half full of leaves
Still the fields are covered in snow
Don't know too many mysterys that don't go unsolved

Her eyes seem all under
A dead giveaway

4000 miles behind
4000 more to go
I Love You Baby massacre
And no one gets away

Her mouth is a church
Where no one comes to pay
Whose heart a sanctuary?
No place to stay along the way

South Texas just a memory
Distant static on the radio
Don't know too many mysterys that don't go away

Her pardon is my pleasure now that that swimming pool's half full of leaves
Down by that river South Texas a distant memory

Play the static on the radio
Another way to say you play the blues
Spin the potato
Come on Daddy-o
Used to be your favorite thing to do

I Love You Baby massacre
And no one gets away
Her mouth is a church where no one comes to stay
Her heart a dark cemetery
A waiting open grave
Awaiting...

MO
2-23-06

Today I cross the border. Wish me luck.

THE HOUSE OF CHIN

I'm visiting Perry Web,MarkFlood and Jon Peters here in Houston.It was kind of an after thought to swing in here but I'm glad I did. My art career mirrors these three guys. I met them years ago in the EV when we were all working with thrift store paintings and rock bands. I've never been to Houston so the bunch of us pile in the pick up truck and hit the streets. It's nondescript little taco stands and gas stations for blocks.Perry is driving.As we come up on a plain concrete garage he asks if I want to see a Mel Chin show. For those of you that don't know Mel's work go google him now. I'll wait.

As you can see TX native Master Chin is not your run of the mill cowboy scene painter. I've been on the road for two weeks and over 2000miles and this is the first time I've reentered the sacred space of the "ARTWORLD". The show kicks ass. There's a delicate turtle shell made from French lace undies, a saddle of barbed wire, an ebony table with one cow hoof....and that just scratches the surface. I know Mel from NYC but must confess I didn't know his work that well. The most amazing little piece is an erased dollar bill with nothing but George Washington's eye left intact, staring out at the viewer.
To find this show on a back street of Houston makes the whole experience that much sweeter. I usually avoid galleries and museums like the plague. But this gives me fath that I can drop into that world from time to time and see and listen to a language so beautiful and concise it can only be spoken in this context. It's rarefied, but in Mel's case also speaks to the masses.My three hosts are asleep in the other room. Mexico is looming to the south and I've started reading Don Quioxte,lent to me by Greg. I cinch my helmet, scrape the rust from my armor, gird my loins and grab my lance. That looks like a windmill up ahead.

DON AND THE FAMILY ROCK

In 1991 0r 92 I went to the first Lollapalooza with my friend Chuckles the Clown. Chuck was hooked up with the band the Butthole Surfers so we were able to scoreVIP passes and hang back in the trailers with the talent.It was a hot day punctuated by thunderstorms. I remember this because after we parked the car Chuck and I downed a hit of LSD each and the acid along with the electricity in the air made the little hairs on my arm stand up. Ice T was there and as the acid came on the little trailer began to swell and constrict like a puppy's distended belly with all of us bouncing inside against the stretched skin. I sat down, cracked a beer and began to talk with Gibby- the lead singer.
Acid makes me charming and talkative. I'm usually a bit reserved and shy. Gibby started talking about TX and i told him that I had a friend who had just bought a house in "Dogshit, TX". He frowned. "Where?" he asked. "I don't know." I said, losing my train of thought. "Gumball or Bugfuck." The train had derailed. "Driftwood?" he said eyeing me suspiciously. "That's It!" I exclaimed as IceT turned into a lizard. "Would his name be Don Rock?" Gibby asked passing me a joint. I didn't even have time to answer before he informed me he had sold his house in Driftwood to my friend Don. Small world. Really small trailer. Quite a big lizard. I had to get out of there before my head exploded.
Now, these many years later I'm sitting at Don's computer writing this from Driftwood.. Cool huh? The family Rock lives in this quaint little house with gingham curtains and lace table cloths. A warm Tx breeze floats in stirring the pets- Rowan and Martin (the rats) and Pig-pig (the guinea pig. Mrs Rock is the perfect mom and school marm in apron and high heels, watching over the children Sally Mae and Pajamas (pron.- Paj-a-mouse) The house is spotless and the children are home schooled. This morning we discussed the free market economy and watched Matrix. Don is off in LA arranging Stinger missle deals and attending tattoo a convention. I envy his beautiful family and genteel lifestyle.

Back at Lalapalooza.
I went out in the blazing sunshine and watched Ice T and Body Count. I had a big cup of beer and as i went to take a sip a bee flew in my mouth. In my drug addled state I was scared to death of the insect drilling into my tongue. So much so I spit beer all over the people in front of me. When they turned in anger I explained " A bee. A be- bu- bubb- beeee." I don't think they believed me.I didn't really care. I was having such a good time it didn't matter. That's how I feel these days (without the head full of acid). I'm having such a good time i could spit beer all over everyone and care less what they think.Too bad Don's not here.We could spit beer all over everbody together.

HOME COOKIN'

I think it was Homer who said "I enjoy all the meats of our cultural stew." I concur. I feel like I've been on a bit of a rubber band culinary tour of America. First it was beer and bar food in PA. Then it was fine country club fare in WV. Then, for the past few days Sweets has been cooking up a storm of local Texas delicacys. First it was that armidillo out on the road that the buzzards seemed so interested in. "Texas speed bump stew" she called it. "Long as it doesn't sit in the sun too long it's quite tastey." Sweets assured me. Then we had a little rattlesnake pie and hush puppies with a kinda mystery gravy. Best not to ask too many questions I find when chowing down in Texas.
Today I continue on to Austin where my friend the gun runner is out of town so I'm staying with his wife and kids out in the boonies. "Cross the low water creek and turn left at the junk car and trash heap." his wife directed me.
I don't think we'll be dining at the club tonight. People here in TX are really friendly. I don't miss the surly check out girls of NY at all. My plan is to cross the Mex. border by Thurs. Sweets made me a little cold critter sandwich to take with me. Yoko and Little Dog stare up at me all googly eyed and slobbering. Off I go, belly full and tears in my eyes. Hope the gun runner's wife can cook half as good.

THE COLD PLAINS OF TEXAS

mADE dALLAS LAST NIGHT. iT WAS 85 DEGREES. tHIS MORNING IT'S 35 DEGREES. mY HOSTESS IS MY FIRST LOVE mS. sWEETS. wE saw each other once in the 35 years that has passed since we were college students in Tenn. If she didn't have to go to work we'd still be talking and giggling. She's got grown kids and is divorced and living with two dogs- Yoko and Little Dog in a tar paper shack out on a pancake flat piece of hardscrabble land just north of Dallas. Out the window I can see a couple of buzzards circling in the metal grey sky over some road kill. It looks like an armadillo. The wind is kicking up , making an old piece of farm machinery dance and squeak. There's a note for me when I get up. "Good morning Dimps! Help yourself to whatever you need (except $- I've done that! Love, Sweets) Smiley face.
For those of you that were following the narrative before I started this travel blog you know Sweets and I parted company back in 1972 after an ill fated trip to Milawyer's place in Florida. That's all forgotten now and we connect like no time has elapsed at all. I may be a tattooed skinny old man but in her eyes I'm a teenager with dimples and a pink shirt. Her twinkling eyes, smile and ready laugh are exactly the same. Poor little thing has had a tough row of it here in The Bush's Texas. She's worked hard as a teacher all these years and can barely afford gas for the rusted old pickup she drives to work. Yoko and Little Dog stare up at me, scrawny as pole cats, gnawing on bleached bones strewn across the floor boards. Once in a while the wind blows up under the house sending little puffs of dirt into the cold air. I feel for the little critters.
Before she went to work I told Sweets I'd give the windmill a look see and try to figure out what's wrong with it. Good thing I brought a case of Holy water. She's been without water for a week. Well, I better get at it. There's a six gun laying next to the bed with another note. "Dimps, Watch out for rattlesnakes near the well. Gun is loaded. See ya'll tonight. Love, Sweets"

US-UNS AND YOU-INS

The last night in West Virginia the Milawyers made a great steak dinner and we all sat around the family table and broke bread. There was the eldest son Rocky, daughter Blondie, and youngest Mr. P. Mrs. Milawyer said grace. Mr. Milawyer opened a good bottle of red and we had at it. Rocky had just told me the story of his narrow brush with death. Here it is as best I can recall:
"I was at a football game on Wheeling Island when this black kid came up to me and started messing with my pink NY Yankees hat. He was bigger than me and he wouldn't let up. Then all of the sudden an even bigger kid came up behind me and cuffed me in the head. I usually get along with black kids fine but these two had it in for me for some reason. The big one hit me again and I knew I would have to do something. I swung and caught him full force, right in the temple. His eyes kinda rolled back in his head and he went down in a heap."
Time stood still.

I'm going to leave Rocky here for a second and talk about the two kinds of people in this world- Usuns and youins. I just pulled into Little Rock after spending two nights in Nashville. On Valentine's day I met the president of Oh-Boy records a Mr. AL and made an appt. to meet again with him in the morning to get him to listen to my songs. That night I was to play a "writers night" at the Commodore Club. Sounds impressive eh? As everyone should know by now, nothing is as it seems. The Commodore was the sports bar lounge of the Nashville Holiday Inn. Being the low man on the totem pole I went on last. The crowd started about 50 strong and dwindled to four by the time I went on, one of which was the sound lady. OK. No biggie. I'm a pro. I played my two songs and dreamt of my meeting with the record exec. in the morning.
This is where the usuns and youins comes in. Usuns are the artists, struggling for years in obscurity, trying to keep the faith, stick by our guns, etc., etc. Youins are the powers that be that we periodically try to get to listen or look at our efforts. We roll over, show our bellys, and wait for that pat on the head or the kick in out the door. I grabbed my CD and went to 33 Music Sq. West- Oh- BOy records. Al was sitting in his tricked out vintage pickup talking on the phone. I was all smiles, until...
"I'm sorry." he said pausing on the phone. "My lawyer advises me not to listen to any of your stuff. I'm really sorry. This is an important call." I stood there like a deer in the headlights. Now I've been blown off by the best of them but this was a new one on me. I had no rejoiner. I shuffled back to my car and drove out of Nashville. Youins are too devious for me.
Now back to Rocky. When he realized just what he had done he bolted, followed by what he described as a black cloud. "Then I stopped and for some reason turned and ran right at the crowd. They parted like the red sea." The cops came ushered him away and after a night sleeping with a baseball bat and a shotgun next to him, everything quieted down and life continued. "For a while there I hated black people. But now it's cool. Me and the guy that was originally screwing with me are friends. I don't have any problem with anyone now." Should I have clocked Al? Should I have grovelled? How much do I have to swallow? What would you-ins do? Milawyer advises me to have another glass of wine. Tomorrow I hit Texas.

GOT SUGAR?

Got to West Virginia last night. Went from the hillbilly highlands of Potter Co. PA to the gentile outskirts of Wheeling, WV in 5 hours. Before I left Greg and I finalized the tracks on 11 songs, popped one last Straubs and said our goodbyes. I couldn't believe I hadn't had a hangover all week. I must have drained at least a case and no headache. I brought this curious fact up to Greg and he just nodded knowingly. "Dia-beety beer." he said. Huh? He elucidated. "If Ma's got the "sugars" she drinks Straub. The beer's low in sugar". No matter that all that alcohol turns to sugar immediately...Ma's gotta drink something.
My hosts Milawyer and Mrs. Milawyer are wonderful. They took me out to dinner at the country club, followed by eldest son's high school basket game and daughter's morning swim meet. The youngest runs around the house with no pants on and plays jazz drums. In the afternoon we went out into the hills to a hunting camp at the end of a dirt road so remote the Escalade SUV's GPS couldn't find the spot. Milawyer's buddy and a bunch of his friends were rabbit hunting there. The big story of the morning was one of them was carrying an assumed "dead" rabbit all day just to pull it out, lay it on the ground and watch it skeedaddle. Them bunnys ain't stupid. The pantless drummer and I just got through watching Flavor Flav pick a new girlfriend. I'm rooting for Goldie. She looks like she's got the "sugars". Cheers. Gotta go watch another high school basketball game. GO PARK WHEELING!

SO FAR

Shhh. Greg's asleep. Little feller's all tuckered out. I've been working him hard- fiddle runs, organ leads, slide. marching drum. We haven't laid down a straight guitar track yet. And that's his instrument. I'm his bee-otch, fetching beer, emptying ashtrays, going on food and cigarette road runs. "Light me." he commands. Did I hear "reach around"? I have my limits. But all in all we've been cranking. Coffee at 8. Beer by 10. That's AM. Breaks my heart to see him drink alone. I figure it's part of the price I have to pay for my art. Yes, I'll have another.
My goal is to get 11 songs in the can and make West Virginia before the beaver goes on the grill Saturday. I'll make that party next year. I need a shower and a sober day or two before I continue. Greg's been telling a joke I told him I heard Townes Van Zant tell: Man walks out of the bar and sees his car is missing. So he goes to the phone and calls the cops. The cop comes out and asks where he saw his car last? The guy holds up his keys. "It was right on the end of this key." The cop looks at him with distain and tells him to zip up his fly because his dick is hanging out. The man looks down. "Shit! They stole my gal too!" It's been a big hit down at the Tannery. Greg hasn't given me nor Townes credit so far.

GOD'S COUNTY

Greg and I are at the Tannery bar just down the road. Mark, Sparkle, and Rob are there with Ruth behind the bar. They are adding up DUIs between them. They have 11 between the four of them. We've been working hard on the album and deserve a little afternoon break. Potter County, PA is famous for deer hunting, logging, and drinking. There's a prison song lyric: "Potter County USA, come on vacation. Leave on probation." Everybody's really friendly. I know if I stayed a week I'd be either married or in jail...or both. Rob's got one snaggle tooth and is inviting me along to this Saturday's "game dinner" out in a field somewhere in the hills. "No women. No guns. No utensils. No napkins. No tent. If it rains you're gonna get wet. May snow. Gonna be cold. Gonna have muskrat and beaver and bear and maybe some coyote. Wanta go Mike?" Have I died and gone to heaven?
I go to the car and get some Holy lgm hats for my new friends and everybody starts buying rounds. Ruth the barkeep is a Sunday school teacher who checked out my front license plate: JESUS HELPS ME TRICK PEOPLE, and instead of being insulted, writes it down as the inspiration for her Sunday class. My brothers would love this town. Luckily Greg only lives a couple hundred yards down the road. By the time we get home we've passed the point no return for laying down tracks. Greg puts on a DVD for me- Masaki Kobayashi's KWAIDAN. This is the deal. Greg and I are country boys who went to the big city, then came back home. So we can spend the afternoon drinking with locals, then come home and watch obscure Japanese art films. That's not gay is it? Cut me off a slice of that beaver Rob.

SLABAGE

I'm sitting a rocking chair in PA, lap top on my...lap, that scumbag Rumsfeld on the TV, my host Greg in the other room trying to lay down a click track on the twelve songs on Lucky 13. We stayed up late drinking Straubs, playing music, smoking cigars and feeding the coal stove. It's snowing lightly.
This is the first stop on the journey south. So far so good. Greg's farm is one of the prettiest spots in PA, nestled between big mountains, a flat field bordered by a world class trout stream. It was where I was going to move before I settled in the Catskills. We both had rock bands back in the 80's , back in the EV. He still tours in Europe with his band Raging Slab, when he's not in jail. In Europe he's a god. We had dinner at the local bar where a friend of his told us a joke:
"Three third graders went to a PA state contest to see who had the biggest dick. There was one from Harrisburg, one from Pittsburgh and one from right here in Costello. To everyone's surprise the one from Costello won. He went home with the trophy and was so proud he exclaimed to his mother, "Mom, I won! Is it because I'm a hillbilly?" His mother looked at him sadly. "No darlin'. It's because you're 23."
Click. Click....1,2...3,4. FUCK! Where's the one? I just promoted Greg to executive producer. I working on my Grammy acceptance speech. WE ROCK! The journey continues....

EL DIARIO DE LA NEON AZUL

Pay the choir out in the yard
Fill me up with your love
Sparkling jewels on the hand of God
Stabbing blind in the fog

Lorca? Neruda? Christmo.

Tomorrow the trip begins. This morning it almost ended. I was up late watching TV at my folks place after having a big birthday dinner at sister Spunky's house for Uncle Herb and the old man. Their birthdays are only days apart. It was about 1:30 am when the phone rang. I picked it up. "Dr. So and So..."
"I'm sorry. You have the wrong number." I said, then my mother picked up the phone in her bedroom. "That's OK I have it." Oh shit.
Both Christmo the elder and Star are pushing 80 and are not as spry as they used to be. Who is? So when I heard the voices from their bedroom and saw the crack of light beneath the door i feared the worse. I figured it was the old man. But it was mom. She had chest pains. Damn. 911. Lights. Sirens. Cop. Parimedics. Ambulances. It was pouring rain outside. The light show in the driveway reflected off the walls of their house as all the vitals were taken. "Date of birth?" the young state trooper asked my mother. " March 1928" she answered. He wrote it down and said he was born in 1970. I told him he was now making me feel ill.
The old man and I followed the ambulance into Hartford. It was a quiet ride. Only the wipers' squeaking and the radio on low cut the silence. The ambulance driver had advised me not to follow him if he kicked it and had to hit the siren and run lights. I assured him I wouldn't. Right. I would have been up his tailpipe in a flash. But the ride was slow and easy. As long as it stayed that way we knew mom was doing OK. The old man kept sucking in his breath and exhaling with a long sigh, warning me hundreds of yards ahead of any red light. "I see it. I see it" I told him exasperated at his back seat driving. He meant well.
The emergency room was unusually quiet for a inner city Saturday night. The old man stayed in with mom as i tried to snooze in the waiting room, a TV over my head informing me of every Super Bowl statistic of the past 40 years. The cops wheeled in a guy in handcuffs and the nurses talked about tacos and mystery novels. I thought of Spunky and what was ahead for her when the hospital trips increased. I did not envy her. It was only a quirk of fate that put me in the driver's seat for this one. By 5 am we were out of there. Mom was fine. It was a muscle strain or something. No heart attack. Tomorrow the trip begins.

RETURN TO TOBACCOSTAN

The first time I went south was the summer of 1970 riding a bus with my grandmother. She packed a bunch of tuna fish sandwiches and some cookies and off we went. The bus dropped her off at my uncle's house in Virginia and i continued on to North Carolina. I spent the night in a flea bag hotel in Asheville, NC and the next day landed at Western Carolina U. The purpose of my summer visit was freshman orientation at my new school. First order of business was procure booze and cigarettes. Young readers will be interested to know that cigarettes were thought to be good for you in these days. And, being this was tobacco country they cost 25 cents per pack. That's right! Good for you AND cheap.
I was 17 but because I had a 21 year old friend's draft card who was busy in Vietnam, I was picked as the person to get supplies. It was a dry county so my new friends had to drive me 30 miles just to get beer. Cigarettes were no problem. There were machines on each floor of the dorm and ashtrays on every classroom desk. Back at the dorm we lit up and started orienting ourselves to college life. By midnight I'd thrown a glass out a closed window and mounted a chair in the commons, announcing that as a Yankee I was sorry about the Civil War outcome and would try my damndest to make amends. I remember the crowd cheering but I could be wrong about that.
Three days later the bus picked up my grandmother in Virginia and we returned above the Mason/Dixon line. When I went back in the Fall I noticed people were looking at me, then turning and giggling amongst themselve. Other's (who I did not recognise) would wave and greet me warmly. Southerners are very friendly. They are like Middle Easterners- it's part of the culture to invite you in, crack a cold one and wave the stars and bars. I can't wait to drop down below the M/D line again. Did I mention I think ya'll got a raw deal in that blue and grey thing? Now light me.

PARISHITLER.BLOGSPOT.COM

I was so touched by the cats' species shifting that I wanted to do something for them. If they were talented enough to write in cursive pee-script in the snow I figured maybe with the right apparatus they could type. The instrument they used to write in the snow obviously would not do. And even with bottle caps attached to their feet they didn't have the dexterity in that appendage. Now is the time for all goood hzhfhiuie yponk dkjig. See what I mean? Then I had an idea. I found an old softball, cut it in half like a grapefruit and scouped out the insides. Then Nicole freaked and split. Paris looked at me as if to say, "Fuck her. I'm interested."
"Lets see if this fits." I said snugging the little helmet over Paris' head. I cinched a tiny chin strap and adjusted it so it was comfortable. How would this help Paris type, you ask? Just wait. Nicole reappeared dragging a decapitated chipmunk, staying just out of reach in the yard. I removed the helmet and cut a small hole in the top. Then I inserted an old car antenna, taping a fishing sinker to the tip. I set up the Mac. on the porch and showed Paris how to get on line. He wasn't pleased with the slow speed of the dial up. I told him to get over it. "Nicole?" I called pointing to Paris surfing the web. She was too involved eviscerating the chipmunk to be bothered. Then I had another idea. What if the cats had their own blog?
I moved Paris over in the chair and went to blogspot. Within minutes I had set up the blog in my name. Because Paris and Nicole had no pockets they had no credit cards so I wasn't worriied about them getting in financial trouble. Paris studied my every move. I let him back at the keys and watched as he typed in THAT'S HOT! I can't tell you how proud I am.

TINKALIKE

It all started about a week ago when the cats overheard me telling my neighbor Carlito about my travel plans. "I'm gonna leave on Monday," I told him "head for Texas and then decide whether to go all the way to El Salvador." I knew the cats had sensed something was up by all the meowing and clingyness they were exhibiting. Usually quite self sufficient, satisfied with one bowl of cat chow in the morning, now they didn't want to let me out of their sight. As I walked around the house I could spy them keeping lock step, trying desparately no to lose sight of me through the windows. When I sat down at the computer they both perched on the woodpile staring Keene painting wide eyed at me. What?
Then the pitiful pleas for attention got even more bizarre. At first I thought Paris had a piece of card board stuck to her fur, leftover from a romp through the garbage. Then I noticed more than one....and it seemed as if they were strategically placed. I let it go and went about my day, running down my travel checklist- sleeping bag, tent, flashlight, CDs, holy water, etc. Do cats cry? I swear I saw Nicole shed a tear. Then I noticed it was smudged ash from the woodstove rubbed around her eyes. A day later Paris ran up and sat down right at my feet. I barely recognised him.
The unmistakable Hitler mustache was there, but that was it. Sharp cardboard triangles were spit applied to each ear. A tight clear plastic bag surrounded his middle, cinching his gut in like a girdling tube top. He wore four Budweiser bottle caps on his feet and had somehow snaked his tail into a striped soda straw. Now everybody knows cats can't talk but it was at this point Nicole jumped on a patch of dirty snow and frantically moved her ass around. I knew she was trying to tell me something. When she jumped off the snow there it was. Still steaming in yellow and with a tiny brown turd as an exclamation point- TINKERBEL!
I was floored. Those chesire smiles came across their little pusses as they saw I finally got it. Even without getting the spelling perfect it was quite a feat. I was touched. "You two kill me." I said bending down and petting them both. A cardboard ear fell off Paris and the soda straw tail whipped my leg. It's not everybody's cats that will try to change species just to get you to stay home. "I love you both just the way you are." I assured them. Then Nicole disappeared. I kneeled down and helped Paris wriggle out of the plastic bag. "I'll be back before you even have a chance to miss me." I heard a racket out in the yard. Across the brown grass flopped a flexi length of drain pipe with only Nicole's heavily masqueraed head popping out the front. "I get it you're a snake." I said. Paris jumped on that snow bank and in jerking motions spelled out Chiwhawah. "I know." I said. Even with their lousy spelling it was going to be tougher saying goodbye that I'd anticipated. "You could have just spelled dog." I advised. Silence. They both looked at me as if to say- What's funny about that?