Monthly Archives: December 2013

This Is Not A Drill !

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ThisIsNotADrill0302Bull Moose   Grand Teton National Park                      click to enlarge

This is an emergency warning from your Calendar Watch Committee. This is not a drill!  Warning to follow after the tone. We repeat, this is not a drill.

After doing some extensive research on the calendar for this year we have just discovered that this is December! And you know what that means. Christmas! There are only 17 days until Christmas! 17 ! Holy EmptyBoxes. Yeah I said Holy EmptyBoxes. How did this happen?

Did any of you know it was already December? Like my Uncle Skid used to say, “Jeezum Plutz! you guys” He said that because my mom’s sister’s Aunt Pheeb wouldn’t let him swear in the house, but it meant exactly what you must be imagining right now. Somebody’s ass is in a sling for not spreading the word.

Well amidst all the OMG’s and the screaming somebody with a brain in their head finally said we gotta get the warning out, so here it is.

“Wake up people, for god’s sake, it’s December!”

We should have gotten the warning out that December was approaching way back in October, but if you remember there were other things going on at the time. I’m not pointing fingers but if those doorknobs in Washington had had their act together instead of trying to see who could write their name in the snow quickest, we’d a looked at the calendar and everyone wouldn’t be in such a tizzy now. That’s just one more thing they’re going to have to answer for when they get back home at election time. Boy O Boy, I wouldn’t want to be them.

Alright, let’s everybody calm down. Take a deep breath, pass that egg nog around, and let’s look at this. Okay, we got the warning out, that’ll save some of them. We’ll tell everyone about the internet that’ll help too. We’ll pass out the low limit credit cards so they can shop and (pass that egg nog over here again. What did you put in this?)  maybe we can make it through this thing. I’ll have some more of that egg nog please. Things are shaping up already. (Really what did you put in this, this is good.)

OK, anything else comes up we’ll let you know.

Update!: We just received this email from one of our concerned readers.

Dear BigShots Now blog. I just got your warning about it being December, and Christmas and all. Thank you! I don’t have room for a calendar in the back of my Camry where I’m living. Am I screwed ? Sincerely, Dateless.

Dear Dateless, No, you are not screwed. You still have 17 days to get it together, find a job, buy a house, get a tree, get married, have some kids and sell that Camry. Plenty of time. Merry Christmas!, Sincerely, BigShots Now blog.

A Christmas Story

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Christmas Story4000
Spider Rock  Canyon du Chelly                      click to enlarge

If you were raised Navajo like I wasn’t, you will have heard this story like a million times. It is the story of Spider Rock and Spider Woman. Spider rock has been around for a very long time, since way before the internet, way before color TV even. I know, I know it’s hard to even think of how long that must be. Let’s just say it is a very long time and leave it at that.

Spider rock is also the lair of Spider Woman. She’s not like the Spiderman guy you see at the movies, the one who dresses cool and swings around the city kicking the beejeezus out of bad guys, no, she’s like the spider that bit him giving him super powers, only big. Big like Shelob, big. Eight legs, hairy body, lots of eyes, nasty disposition, able to crawl right up that great big rock and just sit up there, figuring stuff out.

What she figures out is things like which of the little children have been good or bad. This is the justice system for little children, not the big ones like teenagers and 20 something’s. She leaves those to the Navajo tribal police to deal with. She doesn’t use that old naughty or nice thing, she goes right for good or bad. No grey here. You were either good or you were bad. And she knew. Don’t think you could fool her. This is her job and she takes it pretty seriously.

So through out the year parents and or legal guardians would keep track of just how miserable a little snot-nosed kid you were and how you behaved, whether you would hit your little sister with that war club your Uncle Skid made for your birthday, or if you’d teased the local flora and fauna until they had just had it and revolted and caused a drought, stuff like that.

If you were a particularly awful little grub with absolutely no redeeming social value they would bring you for a visit with the Spider Woman. Holy Moly kid, you did not want to visit the Spider Woman. Even adults were scared spitless of Spider Woman so usually they would just drop the kid off saying they were going to go over and have a smoke and some mescal or something and let her do her thing.

Her thing was to approach the youngster and ask them “Well, Was you good or bad?” This was actually just a courtesy because she already knew right, she’s Spider Woman, and while the kid was hemming and hawing and trying to weasel its way out of this, she would grab the bad ones, wrap them up in spider web stuff and carry them up to the top of Spider Rock. There, at her leisure, she would unwrap them as she got hungry and eat them. Harsh, harsh, harsh, I know, but that’s the kind of stuff that happens in the real world. No sense sugar-coating it. If you were a total little bastard, your parents and or legal guardian would bring you here and soon your little bones would be added to that pile up on top of Spider rock for everyone to see. That’s why that top of the tower is white. It’s the bones of all those bad little kids that wouldn’t behave and now they’re stuck in a pile up there as a lesson to all the other kids who might be thinking of being bad.

So the moral here kiddies is “Be always good and do not be bad, lest your bones get added to the pile”. If you don’t believe me just try and find a bad little Navajo kid. Can’t do it can you. Happy Holidays.

Thoughts On The Total Suckability of 23 Degrees Below Zero

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23Below1860Hawk  Yellowstone                                                    click to enlarge

As I casually throw the leg from a 18th century Mechanical Game table that Riesener created for the use of Queen Marie Antoinette at the Château of Versailles into the fire, I was amused to think back on the last time I was in Yellowstone National Park when the temperature had dropped to -23 below zero. The crackling and curling of the 229 year old veneered oak with its inlay of holly, black stained holly, amaranth, berberis, stained sycamore, and green lacquered wood, reminded me of the sound of the exploding branches of the nearby trees. The remaining sap in them congealing and expanding until it could no longer be contained within the branches and trunks. The color created by the melting of the gilt–bronze mounts carried me back to times when the golden sun shown on the fair meadows that lined the Yellowstone river. A sight I was unlikely to see again until summer. It was a bittersweet memory.

Although the table of the consort of the Sun King would be missed with its glowing surface that reflected the gilded mirror hanging above it. That mirror too, that had been so carefully removed from the men’s room off the main gallery of the palace, was next on the list, nevermore to be seen except in memory. Its loss was preferable to freezing one’s fuon bwey bweys off here in the great hall at the Institute’s main building, where the temperature had dropped into the mind chilling low 60’s.

Through an oversight or out of just plain meanness, our purveyor of propane gas, the fuel of choice at the Institute, had rejected the cases of heirloom chickens we had sent as payment for last winter’s fuel supply and demanded cash instead before they would send their delivery truck up the mountain to bring us our much-needed fuel. Hence the need to begin the burning of our household effects as a caution to prevent the deadly effects of hypothermia.

Luckily for us the fireplace in the great room is large enough to receive even the largest armoire without having to dismantle it. It seems a shame to take an axe to this gorgeous furniture. Things are going downhill fairly rapidly as the table Frank Lloyd Wright created for the Greene and Greene house is next on the list. Unfortunately we had borrowed this table from the foundation overseeing the Greene and Greene property for some photographic purposes and they’re sure to be upset and quite cross with us for using it for its BTU value. I doubt they will lend us anything again.

One of the biggest disappointments about this entire affair is the fact that we have half the national forest cut up and stacked in cords over behind the commissary in neat long rows in preparation for just this type of emergency. Unfortunately, we can not get the staff or even the interns to go out in this weather and deliver that wood to the main building. They flatly refuse to go out and have cut the telephone lines from their quarters to the main building. It’s also unfortunate that I can not make anyone here go and get this much-needed fuel either as everyone is afraid of freezing solid if they leave what little warmth we have.

All of this leads us back to the topic at hand “The Suckability of 23 Degrees Below Zero”. As I sit here in my ermine-lined dressing jacket I reflect back on this image of an unknown hawk on a forlorn branch near the Yellowstone river. HIs body language says it all. This cold sucks. Excuse me, but they’re getting ready to throw a stunning golden hued Ormolu clock which has no BTU value whatsoever on the fire. I have to stop them as that is just wanton destruction for its own sake.  After all we’re not savages here.

Quiet Time

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QuietTime9142Grizzly and Cub   Yellowstone                                         click to enlarge

Snowy day here at the Institute. Many of the staff, at least the ones that haven’t snuck off during the night, are beginning to agitate for their two-hour furlough on Christmas day. That’s when we let the select few who can prove citizenship leave for a couple of hours to visit loved ones, or their parole officers, their social workers, or whoever else is near and dear to their hearts.

We try to keep everyone busy during this time of year to keep their minds off disturbances like seeing wives or their newborn children, things that distract them from their responsibilities. Sometimes we run out of our regular work such as repaving the roads here on the compound. Try as we might you cannot pour and spread blacktop when it’s 2 degrees out there. We don’t dare send anymore crews out to cut firewood, we’ve denuded half the national forest as it is, and those Forest Service folks are getting suspicious. Cutting down acres of trees is a no-no, that’s real sacred cow stuff to those guys. Plus I think that some slackers on those crews try to deliberately get caught so they can go to jail rather than report back to work in the morning.

Anyway I thought I’d show a picture of our resident grizzly, Sarah, and her cub, Chip, out for a walk on the compound. Sarah is part of our security team here and its her responsibility to encourage those staff members, and it’s usually the younger interns who try to break and run before their 10 year commitment is done, to stay in their barracks, I mean living quarters, after dark. We have implemented a no biting above the second button on their shirts rule, but Sarah is an independent woman and will often modify our regulations to suit her own needs. Saying, No Sarah! and Bad Bear! just seems to delight her rather than curb her more violent behavior. Maybe it’s just that she’s a grizzly bear and will do what a grizzly bear does and we just have to live with it. Note to self: Put up picture of the foot we found near the razor wire on the interns bulletin board.

Well it’s time to get the crews busy. We started shoveling the snow out of the remaining forest so it looks neater and we can identify what further trees may need to be removed. Enjoy the day.

Up Past Her Bedtime

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UpPastHerBedtime2644Black Bear Yellowstone                                               Click to enlarge

Well it happened again. Rosie, the queen of Mt. Washburn, well-known party bear and frequent mother, attended one too many parties and has been caught out in the open by an early winter snowfall.

The younger bears, who have no sense of propriety, invited her to one last bash up on the mountain where they feasted on white bark pine nuts until they collapsed in a heap, satiated and oblivious to the weather. Rosie, usually the image of some what dubious respectability, over-indulged and is now feeling the effects of her behavior.

Rosie knows better and she is beginning to see her lack of good sense has put her in a precarious position. She has to shake off the pine nut induced stupor and get busy finding that den she should already be in. She’s eaten enough for two bears and the twins she is carrying will be well provided for through the long cold winter.

Before we’re too hard on Rosie we need to realize that she has been a good mother and having a new set of kids every two years has taxed her to the limit. She is due to let off a little steam and as one of the most experienced bears in the park she won’t have any trouble ‘denning up’ and settling in for the winter. So before those who would cast the first Turkey leg, or in Rosie’s case the first bushel of pine nuts, begin to chastise her, remember the number of times you went back for seconds or thirds on the white meat and mashed potatoes and cut her some slack. Myself I’m still trying to walk off that 4 pounds of oyster dressing I ate. In fact I wonder if there’s any of that left. Go to go, the refrigerator’s calling.

Old Number 95

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OldNo950740Scarlet Ibis                                                                     click to enlarge

Once while visiting Florida I met a bird walking down the road. It was what some know it all bird people, the ones who like to point out how ignorant you are because you don’t know the name, age and model of every bird ever made so they treat you like you have the IQ of a loaf of bread and they’re a toaster, call a Scarlet Ibis. I noticed him right off because he was a brilliant scarlet red bird with a huge nose. He didn’t seem to mind one bit that this legs were pink so I didn’t mention it. What was most curious however, was the garter he wore with the number 95 on it. He also had a collar on his other foot but that was easy. He’d obviously escaped from some chain gang they have down there and hadn’t had a chance to remove it yet.

What significance did the number 95 hold that he felt compelled to wear it so casually and blatantly, like a new tattoo? Was he the 95th bird counted, or the 95th specie of bird to be recognized by some organization like the Rotarians or Daughters of the American Revolution, or maybe AA? Was it adulterous and consequently it not only had to wear a scarlet coat but advertise how many times it had been so. He was a question begging for an answer.

Perhaps he was not only a commie but a flaming one at that, although commies are so over. It wasn’t sunburn, maybe on his feet, but not that shade of red. Also he was arrogantly red. There wasn’t a single ounce of apology for his redness in any part of his attitude, in fact if red had been an important person, he would have been the Pope, a sassy, hip kind of Pope that would dance the funky chicken without even being dared to and make his Cardinals join in too.

As someone who is compelled to find the answers to blatant statements and not only solve, but create non-problems like this one, I had questions. The problem however was I didn’t speak Ibis and he was disinclined to speak English, although I knew that he could. My attempts at communicating with sign language resulted in my getting smacked with his big nose to the point where I soon gave up, but he seemed to get in to it and I had to embarrassingly remove myself from the conversation by running away, making high-pitched squealing noises in an attempt to convince him I was an abject coward. He bought my ruse and after a quarter-mile or so left off chasing me.

Like many other things in life this is one of the problems that seems destined to be a mystery forever. I looked and looked but I did not see another Scarlet Ibis that had either the number 94 or 96 on its leg or any number on its leg at all. I failed to see another Scarlet Ibis period. Perhaps this was a clue. Maybe that’s how many there are left and he was the last one. If so it’s a good thing I took his picture because with an attitude like his he’s not going to be around much longer anyway. Now I’ve got to find some kind of cream or ointment to make these welts go down. Maybe an unguent will work. Those guys can really give you a whack with that big nose of theirs. This thing isn’t over, not while there’s answers to be found anyway. So, never fear, we don’t give up in the face of a little rejection, or painful welts. If there’s an answer we’ll find it, and that’s a fact, Jack.

Postscript: After some diligent research involving many long seconds on Google I found out what this guys real name is. Its Eudocimus Ruber. No wonder he’s red. I’d be mad as hell too. In fact I’d whack you with my big nose if you even looked at me whether you said it out loud or not. Eudocimus Ruber! His mother must have really hated him.

A Quiet Place

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AQuietPlaceArches5570-5584Valley of the Gods                                                       click to enlarge

Alright, the holiday is over, and if you’re like all of us here at the Institute your place was filled to the brim with family and friends, some of which came from great distances to partake of our steam-boiled, flash-fried, double-cooked Emu with Cattleya orchid dressing, and Polynesian watercress soup garnished with Sand Crab eye stalks, there was cream of Gecko Étouffée and blackened leg of lion, (we occasionally help out some our neighboring zoos when their residents check out) and pigeon egg ice cream, and more and more and more, the menu was endless but I’m sure many of you out there had the same thing so I won’t bore you with the repetition.

As our guests left, some of which we transported directly to their neighborhood weight loss clinic, we waved a fond farewell but wheezed a small sigh of relief, because now the holiday was over and we could get back to work again, solving some of the worlds most critical problems. The Institute rarely shuts down for even a moment but family takes precedence and they all enjoy plucking the Emu so much we have to relent. We did keep the phone banks open though, just in case, something dire happened and we were needed.

Our one regret was we couldn’t have the staff manning the Institute’s satellite operation in the great white North here to join in the festivities. We want to give a heavy gravy laden, but crisp salute to our Assistant Director in charge of snowflake manipulation, his able and superior co-worker in charge of all operations and I mean all of them, and the young but beautiful intern who is on special assignment until this spring a heart-felt “Sorry you couldn’t make it, the Emu was fantastic” shout out, but remember, there’s always next year.

Our visiting family members that have begun the arduous trek of hitchhiking back home, laden with leftovers and good wishes, called from Oklahoma to say it was cold but they were getting rides fairly easily and should be back on the East coast by March. We loved seeing them and we look forward to being at their place for the next holiday. They’ve told us that they have planned a meal we’ll never forget to pay us back, I mean, return the favor next year. We can’t wait.

But when all the frivolity and jocularity and vomiting are over a person needs some time to decompress, to regain their equilibrium and find their center again. That’s why we have chosen “A Quiet Place” for your viewing pleasure this morning. Go there, at least in your mind, and sit at the base of the monolith and contemplate the rest of your life, or at least what you’re going to do for the rest of the day, and be at peace. We don’t have another major holiday coming up for 22 days, a lifetime away.