Angel Down

(war bird flys over stadium)
Genghis: "An Angel went down this year."
Bo Hunk: "He take one of his team with him? Hit somebody?"
Genghis: "No, I think it was an engine that went out. Fuel problem."
Bo Hunk: "Well you never know what will happen when those engines get hold of that high test alcohol..."

La Vida Loca

We were relaxing, tired, but content from our day with The Emissary. I swirled the warm red wine in my glass and smiled at The Bishop. The light silhouetted his form, as he intently gazed into his crystal, waiting for a message from The Factor.

The Bishop's brow furrowed, "He'll be late at best."

"What does he say?"

"The authorities closed the main port and he had to negotiate transport." The Bishop responded, then a smile broke across his face. "It seems he had to take a coach to Latacunga, then to Guayaquil to make his final escape on a vessel bound for The Republic."

I looked questioningly at The Bishop -- The Factor was, after all, accustomed to making last minute tactical decisions on the fly, and mob-like situations were not uncommon to him.

The Bishop explained, "Apparently the coach fare included cultural immersion... complete with loud ethnic music for the many hours of transport."

I laughed out loud. The Factor certainly was living La Vida Loca...

The Pink Warriors

Dripping wet, I walked over and grabbed the towel on its hook. It was warm and fresh, and I deduced that The Lizard was on the job, making The Heights a more habitable location for man and beast, regardless whether we asked for the service or not.

The Bishop had already started to dry himself, and unexpectedly began to chuckle.

"What are you in such a good mood about?" I asked, thinking The Lizard's little luxury had brightened my friend's usually dour mood.

"I'm remembering the old days in the monastery... religious warrior's training." He replied, a happy, distant look in his eyes.

I grinned, "When you and Justice first met?"

"It was a good time. But I'm not thinking of Justice as much as I am a specific event. The warm cloth reminded me."

The Bishop remained quiet for awhile, smiling slightly. The curiosity getting the better of me, I asked, "Are you going to leave me in the dark?"

The Bishop's grin widened.

"The Instructors would gather our clothing at the end of each day's training to be laundered. Each student had his own sack that would be secured and washed in the hot water."

I nodded and he continued.

"We had received new cuirass covers, colored according to the tactical service of the wearer. Some received purple, others white, some had blue, and some others had red covers. As usual, at the end of that day's training, we put the new covers into our sacks with the rest of our gear to be laundered. When we returned the next afternoon for drills, those in our company who had red covers were surprised to find that the dye had leached out onto the rest of their clothing. Their tunics and stockings were stained a light pink color, and the red covers had faded to a similar, but darker shade!"

I began to smile, and The Bishop finished his story.

"The Instructors proceeded to mortify the victims of the wash by expounding upon how non-threatening the Pink Warriors would be on the battlefield. This was simply an attempt to shed ridicule onto others since the Instructors were the ones to blame for procuring low quality garments. But that didn't make it any less funny to me, especially considering that I would not have minded the color choice in the slightest."

I was now laughing heartily, mostly at the image of holy warriors adorned in pink, but also at my compatriot's predictable sense of style.

The Port Palace

"It was what?" The Bishop stopped halfway up the staircase to the third story of our accomodation.

"A brothel," I replied, adding "and quite a good one."

The Lizard turned her head and grinned one of her knowing, mischievious smiles for my benefit.

A crimson hue flushed beneath an ebony mask as I continued past my comrades to our rooms...

Island in the Clouds

"I thought we'd never surface," The Bishop remarked, with a hint of happy relief.
"Will Vultan greet us in person?" The Lizard asked enthusiastically.
I gazed a moment longer at the beauty of my winged friend's realm, and then nodded my answer with a smile.

The Karma of Toiletries

"You must put all of your liquids in one of these bags," the Helpful Female Traveler stated, then asked "Do you have any shampoo?"

The bald Tibetan monk in saffron robes smiled and nodded understanding...

Zombies

I was having a hard time convincing myself this was same warrior I had once rode alongside. He had nearly matched my legendary stamina, was full of enthusiasm, but now seemed beaten and tired.

We had not seen him for a moon's cycle and decided to call upon his home after we returned from our most victorious campaign, to tell tales and enlist his attendance on the next adventure. The greeting at his manor door was welcoming, and open, but we soon began to realize something was amiss. Our hosts were quiet, forlorn, haggard. There was an air of uneasiness blanketing the gathering, and unspoken anticipation of dire occurrences, so we ended our visit prematurely, reasoned by pending engagements.

"It's a disease," The Bishop frowned, having kept his tongue during our brief call. "A curse, or charm perhaps, transmitted by the infected, and eagerly received by the next victims!"

The Bishop had sworn an oath, so I understood his basic misgivings for our friend's situation, but still smiled at his traditional vitriol. I, on the other hand, had no prejudice in the matter, yet still could not fathom why someone would intentionally place themselves in such a taxing and unprofitable predicament.

"But they chose this path," The Lizard countered, though her face betrayed her concern with what she had seen and heard. "I believe they did not fully fathom the depths of their undertaking. Still, we should respect their decision, and meditate for them."

I looked at The Lizard with understanding. "Perhaps we should make ourselves available for assistance, but also provide any distance they may need?"

The Lizard nodded, continuing to look concerned, as we rode away down the highway.

NZ: Hallowed Tome, Native Tongue

The Lizard's smile brightened the central bazaar of the Western entry port to our native soil as pages turned, crisp and new. She had resisted obtaining the final book of the magical tome in a foreign land, and was now rewarded for her patience dealing with the embarrassing attitudes of our home nation's guards.
"I can wait until she is finished," The Bishop graciously told me, her joy overwhelming his relentless pursuit of knowledge.
My grin was almost as wide as The Lizard's, tempered only by a touch of sadness with the memory of the amazing lands and the adventures we had just concluded.

NZ: Fidel's

"It's hypocritical," The Bishop remarked, looking across the café.
"Perhaps, but he sure makes good brownies," I countered, washing down the chocolate goodness with a smooth sip of pinot.

NZ: Gnocchi

I've had two great gnocchi dishes in my life. One was in Boston, 10 years ago. The other was at the corner of Cuba and Ghuznee in Wellington, NZ.

NZ: Kaitaki

"What does it mean?" I asked the bo'sun.
"It means 'Challenger'," he replied and moved quickly to secure the cargo on deck.
The wind had started to whip furiously as we moved out of the protection of the fiord. The swell could be felt, even on such a huge vessel. The Lizard was meditating and The Bishop looked a bit worried - everything was normal it seemed. I commented: "It would appear she'll be 'challenging' these dire straights."
The Bishop kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, but added: "Wasn't 'Challenger' that famous ship which went down with all hands?"
I frowned. Perhaps this time The Bishop actually had cause for worry...

NZ: The Gritty Side of Christchurch

Village idiots are a constant it seems, and I will have to admit Traten's matter of fact assessment that the human race is made up mostly of base stock has its merits. I therefore feel for The Bishop as he approaches each situation with a fresh and positive attitude, only to be let down by his fellow man. Beer guzzling roughs, reigned slightly by a stern look from myself, made last night's competition fairly unpalatable. Still, all was not of the negative, as we watched the young local child perform his nation's war dance in mimic of his older brothers on the field.
...plus a reckoning was dealt to the offenders the next morning in the form of pounding skulls while riding the northbound carriage.

NZ: The Riviera of Canterbury

Weegie Waiter: "Shae called me Irish!"

Genghis: "Glasgow, right?"

Weegie: "Correct."

Cook: "Well at least she didn't call you Welsh."

The Bishop ( pointing to the dragon on his cap ): "Now wait a minute!"

NZ: Edoras

The king greeted us at the great hall, and The Bishop complimented him on the beauty of his lands. The stories did not do The Riddermark justice, and I was glad we made the long trek from the coast to see the horse plains and it's capital.



The Lizard wandered about the landing where Eowyn once stood, grieving over her cousin. The wind whipped my comrade's hair as it must have done Eowyn's, and I was filled with emotion.



I turned my attention to the north, where the great battle took place at Helm's Deep. How outnumbered and heroic Theoden's host had been, and I was proud to be spending the evening in the midst of his kin.

Rohan

NZ: Skipping Rope

http://www.mackenziethorpeart.com/

NZ: "He doesn't know how to use the three seashells! "

Lizard, Bishop and Genghis stare at the NZ toilet.

The Lizard: "Try pushing the one with the slash-mark on it"

The Bishop: "Are you sure? What if that's the wrong one?"

Genghis stops himself from pushing the button.

Genghis: "Are you saying one is for 'number one' and the other is for 'number two'? Man, I thought you were anal, but evacuation segregation takes the cake."

NZ: Space-Time Distortion Hallucinations

The Bishop fretted, "It feels colder than predicted. I don't think I brought the proper gear. I'm going to freeze before we make the mountain pass."

"We have a day before we head for the pass, and we can try to find you what you need here on the coast, " The Lizard reminded. "In the meantime, perhaps you still just need to get acclimated to the change we underwent crossing the space-time barrier?"

The Bishop didn't seem convinced. He was grumpier than ever.

I had to admit that even I was not feeling myself after passing across The Time Change Barrier. In fact, I think I was beginning to hallucinate. The walls of the lodging we had aquired appeared to be covered with disrobed women.

Unlike The Bishop, however, I wasn't complaining...

NZ: You have to pass the Barrows...

...with Ringwaiths harrasing you at every turn, before you can get to Rivendell and sample the strawberry shampoo.

NZ: LAX

Cool weather.
Not so cool airport.

NZ: Airline Burger

Charbroiled to perfection on a open fire grill... with a Milky Way side.

NZ: Got those flight cancelled blues...

(The Lizard wipes the blood off her weapon after lashing the rude woman trying to cut in line, and turned back to the gate counter...)
American Air Rep: "I can get you on Continental at 1720, but Genghis will have to fly standby."
Lizard: (her mouth abnormally forming a frown) "OK, but I'm not leaving without him"
AA Rep: "Shouldn't be an issue... Oh look, you've been selected SSSS..."
Lizard: "Is that good?"
AA: "Depends, do you like cavity searches?"

NZ: Automatic Toilet Problems

Automatic toilets:
Good idea for those who require a fresh bowl.
Bad idea for the efficient and economic use of toilet seat covers

NZ Mission: First Breakfast

Elevensies will be later...

The Fauchard

I walked out into the courtyard after supper. The air was heavy and humid, but yet a crowd had gathered. The Bishop and The Lizard were disagreeing, as good friends do. I moved closer to see what the matter was.

"F-o-o-c-h-a-r-d," The Bishop confidently whispered.

"No, I believe it to be f-a-u-c-h-a-r," The Lizard politely replied.

"What are you two quarreling about this time," I grinned.

"The young ones are competing in a contest." The Lizard informed me, her hand presenting seven children on the crier's stand.

The Bishop elaborated: "One that tests the mind on accuracy of spelling a word."

"Hmm," I mused, looking over the nervous young faces, and my two academic friends in observance. "What word are they attempting to spell?" I finally asked.

"Foe-shard," The Bishop slowly sounded out for me.

"Oh, fauchard," I smiled, "f-a-u-c-h-a-r-d."

The Lizard's eyes grew wide along with her ever present smile. The Bishop turned with a frown.

"Why would you think it was spelled that way?" He asked.

"It's a weapon. Big poleaxe. I don't prefer it, but I've snapped a few in my day. I've also requisitioned them."

As if on cue, the competing child repeated my spelling and received an approval from the judge of the competition. I winked at The Lizard. The Bishop stared at me, his mouth slightly agape, trying to comprehend how a lug like myself might actually know how to spell the names of the tools of my trade.

I politely nodded and headed off for an evening drink, as the contest judge sounded out the next word: "Trit-uh-cay-lee."

I decided to keep walking and not enrage The Bishop with my knowledge of cereals and grains...


http://www.spellingbee.com/07bee/rounds/Round08.htm

The Rover

http://genghismaximus.livejournal.com/2366.html

An Unusual Proposal

An Unusual Proposal

By Sylvia Sullivan Villarreal

I have an unusual proposal. Not one likely to be enacted, but one that might offer some comfort in a week so filled with pain and grief. Let’s take all the talking heads, the hosts and the pundits, and replace them with poets for a week. Let’s imagine that our air waves, usually pulsing with the sly and slick rantings of Howard and Rush, are suddenly ripe with the language and images of some of our unsung heroes. Allow the words spoken and transmitted to our ears to be the same ones selected, crafted, and then polished to perfection by artists whose lives depend on finding that precise noun or verb. Those whose impetus is to constantly pare away the extraneous, the sensational, and explicate in concise and moving ways the bare bones of our existence.

How could that possibly be relevant? In a week that contains a horrific slaughter of innocents on a college campus, more savage suicidal bombings on the Iraqi war front- how could any of this be helped by piping the voices and visions of our poets into our weary ears and broken hearts?

Consider for a moment the words of poet Mary Oliver, who appeared onstage here in Houston the very evening of the Virginia massacre. This slight woman, clad in gray yet somehow luminous, read softly from her work, including a much beloved poem, WILD GEESE. In it she invites the reader, “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.” And later in that same poem, she reminds us “Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese…announcing over and over your place in the family of things.” The blackness, both experienced, and created by those who feel no stake in that family, felt palpable in that large room.

Perhaps we could really listen to the words of Naomi Shihab Nye in her poem entitled KINDNESS. “Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth….how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness.” She continues, “Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.”

It’s possible that rather than another rehash of security concerns, and the endless, looping exercise of assigning blame to all guilty parties, we could let ourselves dissolve into loss and come out the other side, laying down our arms, and reaching out in the kindness born of sorrow, to all who suffer so profoundly in our world.

Or we might choose to listen to the voice of Pablo Neruda, who is no longer physically present, but through the body of his work continues to offer us his insights.

In his poem, KEEPING QUIET, Neruda proposes that we all count to twelve, then keep still. He goes on to state, “If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death.”

Neruda implores us to do nothing, not for inactivity, but for the sake of recognizing what we have wrought in the world in so many “victories with no survivors”.

We have all been dulled by constant and repetitive analysis, by now we are saturated with the menacing images and psychotic ramblings of this young Virginia man. We hear stories of teasing in his early life, of increasing alienation in his young adult life, and we are puzzled and frightened by this morphing of a troubled teenager into a murderous man. We suffer with the families as they choke back their sobs, and we watch in horror at their vulnerability, at their unending and inestimable loss, at the harrowing possibility that any of us could be one of them. We know with dead certainty that only a thread separates us from sudden and complete sorrow. The faces of their recently life-filled children smile back at us from our morning newspaper, and the litany of their promise and potential in stark contrast to their sudden, violent end is almost too much to bear. This event opens the window into the black, snarling presence of the hate and evil that lurk in the world, and how they can be manifest in any of us.

We have heard from Katie, and Brian, and all the others who intone for us nightly the innumerable details, the ‘very latest’ in our collective attempt to try and make sense of events that constantly spiral out of control in our violent world. I, for one, have no more stomach for the constant stream-of-consciousness detail and one-upmanship that often passes for analysis.

To help ascertain the true impact of these events on our psyches and souls, give me the poets. At times of such despair, they help us name our grief, and remind us that even when muted in sorrow, life is a jewel to be prized. Perhaps just for a moment, their voices stir us to remember, what poets everywhere are always calling out to us. Attention must be paid.

The Dinner Show

"So, you are a fashion model?"

"Yes," the slim, chiseled face across from me responded.

"Do you have a preference on the kind of work you do?"

"I prefer runway to photo shoots - you are in-and-out and it's not as tiring." The Model explained.

Her mobile rang. Her sister was calling from Bogotá, and she smiled as she listened. Her boyfriend, a dark and handsome sport trainer from Bulgaria, rolled his eyes as he related the escapades of her large family to Mr November, who sat to my left.

I listened to The Bulgarian Trainer relate his story, as my eye wondered down the table at the unusual assortment of connected friends gathered to celebrate Transvaal Irish on her day of birth. Aside from those previously mentioned, dining at the table were African Author , The Palliate, The Lizard, The Bishop and The Shetlander. A diverse and traveled group, to say the least.

The Bishop was on his best behavior, considering the tardiness of the food, and lack of general attention the staff was providing at the tavern. Still, the food was good, and I relaxed into the evening, my gaze continuing on to the next room, focusing unexpectedly on another birthday party in progress.

The honoree at the head of the other table was dressed in what could only be a manufactured-hide corset, too tight for her frame, that enhanced her cleavage beyond necessity. Her hair was bleached straw, and it tossed as she gesticulated wildly with her glass of liquor. Her court, a bit mismatched in age and dress, had become louder and filled with spirit since we were seated. Mr. November followed my eyes, his ears already picking up the fury as a man appeared from the other end of the table, and gave The Corset a kiss.

Then a woman followed the man, moved him aside, and began to kiss and fondle the honoree for several minutes.

Mr November and I exchanged an entertained look and a raised eyebrow. This might be a more interesting evening than either of us had prepared for.

The other members of our party became well aware of the show next door, as the wild ride continued for several hours as we were served our courses. The Corset's voice started to carry over our conversation, profanities mixing with alternating laughter, anger and sadness. More fondling ensued, and we struggled to determine who each person had arrived with, who was going home with who, and if the older gentleman was The Corset's father ... or perhaps some strange uncle.

Then suddenly, in rekindled aggression from apparent past wrongs left simmering, The Corset ordered, in a verbose manner, that one of her guests leave the premises. When the rest of her court attempted to pacify her, she decided she would just leave herself... breaking an ancient pane of glass in the tavern door.

Our evening had come to an end it seemed, and the curtain was closed. But we waited a acceptable amount of time to allow the other party to clear the area -- just to ensure we gave their exit a wide berth to avoid any collisions.

We had come just for a dinner, but we got quite a show. The tavern owner ensured us there would be no extra charge.


http://houston.citysearch.com/profile/9847741/houston_tx/house_in_the_heights.html

A Bloodletting

The Bishop was initially a firm opponent of the practice. He'd argue with The Lizard, "They're stealing your life force!", when she would suggest the members of 721 contribute to the Bloodletter's cause.

The land needed healing liquors for the many ill and infirm, and the Blood Takers provided a portion of the raw ingredients. Her nature-centric outlook carried no ill-conceived prejudices toward alternative approaches to solving a problem. Thus, with the support of Traten and Sandy, she allowed us to benefit from her liaisons with certain cultures and groups not strictly within the boundaries of Justice's or The Bishop's canons.

I had nothing against them, personally. Unlike vampires, these fellows asked politely if they could take a portion of your fluids. Still, I turned down The Lizard's requests, as I was on the front lines most of the year, and couldn't afford to have my ebony form at less than prime.

But then I went into retirement after twenty plus years on the battlefield, and The Lizard approached me again to participate in a Bloodletting. I considered, then accepted the invitation, and she promised to be there to guide me through the process.

I was lightly amused with the Takers of Blood as they clamored about me. Most commented about my "nice huge veins", with some having to verify by feel what their eyes were perceiving.

"I could hit that with a dart from here!" one Bloodletter boasted from across the room. She gave me a bit of concern, not from her comment, but from the view I received as she proceeded to bend down to retrieve one of her instruments, allowing her trousers to betray a foreboding Crack of Doom . Whereas combat has never left a stain on my memory, this chance occurrence I fear may haunt me for some time.

Certainly a rag-tag group.

Nonetheless, they impressed me with their skill and efficiency, and I was soon enjoying their appreciation of my contribution in the form of sweets and beverages offered to satiate my famous appetite. This was a bonus I had not expected, and I promised The Lizard to return, if only to make periodic samplings of their treats! She seemed amused, but proud, and agreed to join me when I made my contributions.

So, I continue to fulfill my promise to The Lizard time to time, enjoying her company, smiling at the buffoonery of the Blood Takers, but also knowing that my actions are helping others, at little expense to myself.

And after relating my good experience, I think even The Bishop is starting to consider allowing the "fiends" take a look at his veins!



http://www.giveblood.org

It has risen...

The rain was cold and lightly pelting my visor. I moved my gloved hand up the shaft of my weapon, and walked steadily through the mud and muck to stand before an enemy, seemingly countless. I turned to look at The Lizard. The Private was at our side, eager for her first major battle. The enthusiasm made me smile despite the odds, and with a nod, I drove us into the fray...

At first the signs had been subtle. A strange sighting here, a rogue tendril there. But then it became evident. The Thing had escaped.

The Bishop had kept cursing and lifting his eyes skyward for solace. He blamed himself that The Thing had broken through the ward he had constructed with wisdom and craft to keep the land safe. But, inexplicably, It had found a hidden path beneath the walls. It was only a crack, unseen, but enough to grant clear passage for destruction. It was out in the wild... and threatened to overtake us all.

I left The Bishop to his prayers and meditations. I know not of blame or forgiveness, only action and consequence. The Lizard's reports from her local reconnaissance were grim. The beast had moved further, and spread it's tentacles far wider than any mortal might comprehend. We had no time for delay.

I pulled the necessary implements from the stockpiles and said to Gunny, "Guard the perimeter, old girl."

She eyed me with a knowing glance, then retired to the outer gates. The Lizard and The Private took their weapons at my side and we strode, grim faced, into battle with the awful foe.

We waded in, breaking apart to better divide the beast. Hacking and slashing, minutes turned to hours, and we realized that we had to resort to the trenches and sapping if we would have any chance of success. We divided labors, The Lizard and I digging in at two separate points. I was in awe of The Private, who took on the beast with a ravenous ferocity unheard of for such a young warrior, tearing into the stragglers with hungry abandon.

At the end of the day, we had managed to corral The Thing back into its prison. The Bishop, with all of his characteristic obsession, devised and constructed a new fortification to keep It at bay.

We walked away from the battle, dirty, sick, and tired. We had accomplished our task, but a sense of forboding hung above us. Had we contained the chaos permenantly, or would we have to face the foe, perhaps in darker corners of the realm, soon one day? The silence was uneasy, and I needed to break the tension.

"We need pandas," I stated.

The Lizard brightened us with her smile, and quirkily remarked, "No, we need ninja pandas."

Gunny just rolled her eyes and guided us into the keep for supper.

Guinness Ice Cream.... Genius!

Amy's sure knows how to show a brother a good time on his birthday!

The Judge

Harvard recently requested the services of the Hon. Genghis Maximus to judge this year's science fair.

I'm a busy myrmidon, shaving my head and picking out skirts, and my brother Justice usually takes on these judicial roles. So how did I reply when the HISD Math and Science Magnet Elementary made it's query?

"Here come da judge!"

Expecting to be given a box of gold stars to place on every half-eaten paste collage posted on the wall, I was pleasantly amazed when they handed me a full page grading form that detailed the scientific method (Problem, Hypothesis, Materials/Experimental Variables, Log book, Data/Data Presentation Results, Conclusion) with point ranges for each category. I was assigned the fresh minds of the Pre-K and Kindergarten class projects, and then informed that the entries were the school finalists for the age range: I should show no quarter since the winner would advance to regional competition.

This public school wasn't screwing around.

I advanced forward on my mission. Critically I evaluated the entries, stoically performing my duties as eager little eyes glanced my direction during class changes.

The subject matter of each project was intriguing. Of note were:

• The bilingual entry which attempted to determine the primary locomotive appendage of Betta fish.
• "Will it float" -- Not a Letterman stunt, but a highly participatory investigation of the difference between weight and density.
• An experiment on the effects of light, water and soil type on growing several different kinds of beans.

And my favorite:

• A determination on how much larger a crocodile will grow in fresh water compared to salt water.

Finally I finished my task, and a winner was chosen. I felt drained and accomplished, like The 721's battles of old. I am certain my comrades Traten, Edge, Sandy and Justice would agree that the ribbon of honor bestowed upon me this day was the equal to any given us when we rid the land of evil in the past.

On to regionals!

On Winning The Lottery

"I'd buy me some midgets," BoHunk stated, without hesitation.

I paused, looked at him, smiled and queried, "Midgets?"

"Yeah, midgets." He confirmed in his normal, happy demeanor. "You remember in the 80's when Van Halen went on tour with a bunch of midget body guards?"

"You mean you'd hire a bunch of midgets to be your entourage?"

"I wouldn't rent them. I'd buy 'em."

"You'd buy a bunch of midgets?"

"Yep"

"You know slavery went out of style back in the 19th century? Not very good for the karma and all."

"Yeah... it's probably why I haven't won yet."

Genghis at Live Journal

http://genghismaximus.livejournal.com/

Frito Pie!

Today, in our company cafeteria, I was reminded of a discussion the The Lizard and I had concerning school lunches several years ago:

What was your favorite? What was your most despised? I fondly remembered Frito Pie.

The Lizard stared at me, blankly, and asked "What is Frito Pie?"

I was stunned, but then remembered -- The Lizard was a Yankee by birth (her Republic visa yearly renewed due to matrimonial status). The people above the Mason-Dixon never dreamed of eating black eyed peas and cornbread, let alone the ultimate in Texan delicacies, The Frito Pie, so I described the dish to my Yankee bride, and her eyes widened.

"They feed children that?!" She cried, aghast.

I assured her that, compared to the vapors wafting off of the chemical plants in my hometown, ingesting Frito corn chips covered in chili, cheese and onions was a very healthy endeavor. Quite good too, if you could burn off the 1500 calories the small dish provided (not a problem for active children of my youth -- maybe a big problem for today's kids).

Still, she seemed skeptical, and I had to enlist the help of one of my fellow citizens of The Republic to explain that:

1. Yes, this dish does exist.
2. It is fed to school children to this day.
3. There are two major varieties: the 'school lunch' version (served on a plastic tray) and the 'ballpark' version (where the Frito is skinned fresh in the field, and the chili poured, hot and steaming, into the carcass).

I have yet to get The Lizard to enjoy a meal of Frito Pie, and I doubt I ever will. Same holds true for chicken-fried steak and cream gravy.

I have higher hopes for the black eyed peas, however... complete with bacon drippin's, of course...

HALO, MIA

Gunny was worried. The young Private had been missing for several hours. The search had turned up only an open hatch on the forward hangar deck. Something was fishy, and unlike normal, it wasn't The Private's breath.

The sergeant was a proud marine, so it was a tough duty to inform the Captain and the Admiral upon their return to the ship of the young soldier being MIA. The two officers, realizing the seriousness of the situation considering the youth of the private, moved into action.

The Captain, a man of action, immediately took the cargo shuttle out to search the area. He hoped he wouldn't find any debris or bodies in his search, but as his grid widened, he started to fear the worst. Grimly he stayed on task in the cold harsh vacuum.

Back at the ship, The Admiral contacted the commanders of the rest of the fleet, requesting assistance in the search. Navy and marine personnel sprung into action, searching for their missing comrade.

Knowing that she had done what she could to initiate the search for The Private, The Admiral decided to investigate any clues on the ship which might shed light on the details of the disappearance. Channeling the abilities of Old Earth's Gil Grissom, The Admiral pieced together what must have happened. Gazing out the open hangar door, The Admiral looked down at the planet far below, blanketed in night. She quickly ran a scan of the ground, and found the tell-tale marks of landing pad imprints in the soil made soft from rain showers the day earlier. The imprints were deep.

Had The Private, untrained and guided only by youthful enthusiasm, attempted an unauthorized HALO jump from such an extreme altitude? All the evidence pointed to this, and The Admiral's blood chilled as she feared The Private's inexperience could have led to problems on the landing... and thus a lost and injured marine down in hostile territory.

The search continued. One squad led by Corporal Dexter Attwell had spotted a small force moving planet side. They closed to investigate, hailing the unknowns. They received a friendly reply: it was a allied patrol. Dex inquired about their lost private, asking nonchalantly if they had any spare marines. The helmsman's eyes brightened as word returned that they indeed had a spare marine! The Private was with them -- she had hooked up after an extensive recon in the dumpster zone, and a brief surveillance of the Canine forces.

The allied patrol moved into formation with Dex, and they all returned to the main body of the fleet. The Admiral was relieved, thanking the allied patrol for helping one of her own. The Captain turned his heavy cargo vessel on a dime when he heard the news over the com and headed back to the fleet. He didn't know whether he was going to hug or throttle The Private, but at least he had that option.

The Gunny, however, knew exactly what she was going to do. After a stern reprimand, and thorough debriefing, she sent The Private scurrying to her bunk! Secretly, Gunny was smiling at The Private's adventures, and the pride that she had so many comrades who were not willing to leave a man behind!

Rodeo Run Finish

February 24 -- Premiere 10K for The Lizard and I. Darkened skies threatened, but made for a comfortable run.

Leisurely pace and a good time. Joined by Seabiscuit, a Scottish Leprechaun, and a Dutch Aussie.

Carver, Kirk 3300 01:01:47.95
Carver, Elizabeth 3301 01:01:47.75
Forrester, Dean 509 01:38:13
Tulloch, Lynsae 510 01:38:14.15
Kubik, John 4179 00:48:18.75

(Finish line video on the links)

The Rodeo Runners

Dean, Liz, and Lynsae - ConocoPhillips 10k

Can't... breathe. Must... open... window...

I woke on the couch. The girls were eerily quiet - no snores, no grunts. 2 am. Something was wrong.

I realized my eyes were burning. The air was stagnant and pungent. An odor crept downstairs. My fogged brain searched for the right action.

Stumbling, I struggled to the window. Old paint impeded my efforts. Finally the seal gave way, and the upper pane slid down. Fresh air wafted in from the cool, damp night. A second window, and a breeze made its way across the first floor.

We were saved.

Who had tried to poison us in the night?



Remind me to spend the night at a hotel room if we ever have the floors resurfaced again....

The shame of the IncanDragon

I frankly can't stand the word "blog". It is unpleasing on the tongue, and the practice is a bit... self aggrandizing.

Still, when my oldest friend bravely left for the West, without Frodo, but with trusty companions nonetheless, I thought it only honorable to grant her final request and begin a Weblog of my own.

Perhaps this will spur my writing back to life again. I would hope that I could be half as good at this endeavor as is my old friend...

http://incandragon.livejournal.com/