Pain in the Grass

There are a number of theories that I'm currently entertaining to explain the rapid and explosive rate of growth of my lawn: One is that recent wet weather has fit perfectly into the growing cycle. Another is that Global Warming is tightly focused on my yard, for reasons as yet unknown. The third and most probable is that someone is applying fertilizer to my heretofore lackluster lawn in order to keep me shackled to my cordless electric mower, for no sooner do I finish the last pass with the mower than I begin anew where I first started.

Yet, given the magnitude and unpredictability of the drenchings, I am mostly reduced to staring out the window while the green grows skywards at the rate of jungle bamboo or, in economic terms, faster than the second-by-second increase in our national debt. Now I know why the President is named Bush.

During a thunder storm the other night I blinked as lightning struck nearby, lighting up the sky. During my blink the lawn shot up 2 inches. I sighed, closed the door and went back to bed.

After a week of rain my tears only added to the deluge, for the lawn must dry out before being submitted to the blade. Occasionally the growth outpaces the abilities of my mower, requiring that I first hack down the canopy with a machete honed to a razor's edge.

Once the tall grass is hauled away by a team of dull oxen, also known as oxymorons, I adjust the blade speed to approximate that of a black U.N. helicopter and make the first pass some 4 feet above the ground, necessitating the use of saw horses and 2x6's upon which the mower rolls while I teeter behind on stilts, carefully guiding the mower down the makeshift wooden rails. With each pass I lower the lot another foot and in only a few hours I have an area the size of a car carefully manicured.

I tried to get ahead of the curve by hiring a lawn boy, though one who doesn't drive a Mercedes and fan his nose at me as he speeds by with his other hand draped over the shoulder of his latest squeeze. The kid arrived by bicycle and used my yard tools.

Unfortunately, I lost track of the lawn boy in just a few minutes on his first day as I attempted to follow his trail as it entered the rapidly rising sea of grass. Much to our relief we found him 4 days later barking at the mailman through the hedge. I'm told that the kid will be out of therapy in a month or so and has already progressed to the point where he will look at a lawn, as long as he's standing on cement. I don't think that he'll be back cutting grass anytime soon, at least not in my jungle. The staff says his Johnny Weissmuller jungle cries sound quite authentic, which, I think, is encouraging.

Not to be a victim of inclement weather, I came up with a solution to my mowing conundrum. It was a simple matter of mounting a kerosene space heater on the mower like a jet engine, this to dry out the grass enough to make a clean cut. It takes a little adjustment to desiccate things just right without leaving scorch marks in the grass. The drawback is where once I had a battery operated mower that I pushed with pride, I now operate a contraption that spews fumes, requires a 200 foot extension cord and sounds like a street sweeper crushing gravel.

I continued my search for a more palatable solution, finding the solution in the form of a goat. I had plenty of feed growing and the goat seemed happy at first, but soon slowed his chewing, then gave up completely. I called a friend who raises goats and explained the situation. It was pretty simple to him...the goat was lonely, so I bought another goat and the munching picked up considerably. After a few more days both goats fell into a slump and boycotted both the grass and each other.

I called my friend again and unloaded. He said that sometimes two goats need the input of a certain other animal to make them happy. He said that he'd be right by with the solution, which turned out to be a chicken in a burlap bag. He let the chicken out and immediately the goats beamed at each other and lowered their heads into a feeding frenzy. Now this all seemed to make sense until, some days later, the goats and the chicken went on a hunger strike. They all just stood there with long chicken/goat faces and did absolutely nothing.

Back on the phone to my friend I spouted out an update of life in the yard. Again a solution was at hand. It seems that my dog, Spooky, had taken to sitting on the porch and watching the three critters. Turns out that the dog was in the dumps too, as he wanted to herd the goats and chase the chicken. His depression was apparently contagious and the root cause for the general animal malaise, which had sprung like dandelions throughout the yard. Following my friend's advise, I encouraged Spooky to do the dog thing and the result was a miracle.

Spooky now chases the goats and the chicken with glee, this until he gets tired. Then everybody goes to their corner and eats their fill. The cycle repeats itself every two hours or so and the results are amazing. My yard is mowed, the animals are happy and the post office refuses to deliver my mail.

(Lance was last heard yodeling in the side yard. If you want to get Lance's goat, chew him out: lance@journalist.com)

Pickle Lady

OK, it's trivia time...

Who was the pickle lady at Omar's?

Meals Without Wheels

My errands yesterday took me to Medford. I used to think of the downtown there as one long car lot, used and new. Now, upon closer inspection, it has changed over time into one long car lot and an expansive community college.

During a stop for lunch I overheard the word "Ashland" and swiveled my head a few degrees to listen in. The topic was, more specifically, about Ashland's Meal Tax, which was politically finessed years ago as a temporary measure. Ha-Ha.

The table, to a person, took umbrage with our long-accepted tax, swearing to never again dine in Ashland. Most seemed to have made the vow years ago.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the Council declined to put a one percent increase on this questionable tax, as it would run on the ballot alongside yet another Youth Activities Levy.

My question is, how did this puppy get extended so easily and why, should we go back to analyze its' implementation, did it ever get into the mix without the exposure of the backbiting tactics employed?

The definition of politics is that if you win, then you were right.

Something terribly has gone wrong, not for the politicians, but for the eager and nervous restaurant owners who put it on the line every day, this to serve us few who still pay trying to ignore how hard the tax drives down total restaurant revenues.

Ask anyone in the restaurant business their opinion. The next time you want to meet friends for dinner in Ashland from the balance of the valley, don't be surprised if they suddenly decide to see to some deferred project.

Why pay 5% more for the Imperial Privileged to drive to Ashland, eventually find a parking space and rub elbows with condescending snobs? Well, this is what our Meals Tax conveys. Wish our elected officials understood this.

Art is the Way

Did the First Friday thing tonight, where Ashland's galleries are open for a wash of enthusiasts to wander, plod, prod and poke their way around this berg most artistic.

Dropped by The Black Sheep, there to marvel at the organic illuminated sculpture of David Gelfand, whose chandelier graces above the bar therein. Droves swarmed in a sheep fest, munching upon the offered delicacies as David's art shone, glowed, throbbed and pulsed as a packed house warmed, then swarmed in appreciation of his organic, humming, vibrant displays.

Weak-kneed wanna-bees stood frozen on the sidewalk below. Devotion and dedication was required to hoist upwards and revel in the midst of David's creations.

Have you yet viewed this most moist hanging?

Thereafter was a jaunt to Judy Howard's den of delight, where visuals are always enticing. Judy defines the artistic level to which we all strive to attain, so the visit only served to remind me that I should drop by with greater frequency, lest I find myself some day, devoid of the still sensitive nature I once possessed, wandering amidst alley dumpsters while wondering what is sacred and what is sacked.

Treats on the Tongue

My dog, Spooky, accompanied me for another daily walk down by the railroad tracks, with a particular focus on performing the most fun action of our promenade: playing "Rock Pile."

This game consists of Spooky sprinting to the top of a mound of gravel, there to sit while I wound up and underhanded him a biscuit toss that he caught more reliably than the accuracy of my toss. After a couple of tosses, we continued our walk, his tail wagging and my mind delighted that he is awash in a world of smells, sweet, fetid or otherwise.

Tomorrow is a new deal. God willing, Spooky and I will exchange treats near the point where the Golden Spike was driven in 1887, this the final event that connected the railroad from California to Oregon/Washington.

Spooky is so good at catching cookies that I'm considering unleashing him on my network, there to sniff, track and tackle all things untoward.

Fierce Winds of Winter

Went for a walk in the strong, dry, warm winds that caused my hair to seek shelter even as my eyebrows were beating like bat wings.

I popped into the Airstream, there to sit in the dark for a few minutes to reflect. I went back in time to an dark Winter's eve on the Plaza. I was talking to a friend at Alex's when a sheet of solid rain began to fall with such prominence that I walked to the windows in amazement.

It went on for about 15 minutes, then the power went out. About then a fierce wind gusted through the Plaza and into the Park, there blowing over a half-dozen large trees. Seconds later a manhole cover in the street exploded upward for 40 feet, then fell back to the asphalt, barely missing a Volkswagen van that was hunting for a parking space.

I shook my head, went back to the table and lit a candle. Some entity was pissed and passed me by.

I like it that way.

Friendly Flames

I arrived at the Plaza today around 4:30 pm. The first thing I noticed were the twin chimneys, one at The Black Sheep and the other at Alex's sending out a plume indicating that a welcome hearth was ready to warm the chilled patron, there to enjoy something relaxing as the fires crackle.

Both of these fine establishments deserve our attention and devotion. Being able to invite family and friends to gather in a public place in the glow of a blazing fire, this over, perhaps, a warm beverage to sooth the chill of a Winter's Night...well, that's Ashland.

Drop by and let these fine folks know that you appreciate the little and important things in life.

Don't hold back. Go for the embers...

Calling All Cars...

I know that a some of you think that my writing is funny and occasionally a hoot...or not.

The truth of the matter is that my knowledge of grammar starts and stops with Sanskrit. My attempts at spelling are like watching a snow crab try to play a banjo, underwater.

So, here's the deal. I have a tour book and an anthology due out in two months. The only things I lack are an editor and a publisher. Sort of like a fuel dragster without an engine or a steering wheel.

Ashland has more writers, editors, publishers and other literary lions than dogs, except for typing pets, which are on the rise.

Drop me a line if you feel we can work something out. Otherwise, looks like I'll have to outsource my needs to a foreign worker in a mud hut.

Shoot me a line at: lance@journalist.com if you experience an epiphany or otherwise have insight into a solution.