---

 

 Turnham Green

You know, the coldest I think I've ever been was on top a horse on Carson Mesa.  It's amazing how you can have an 1100 pound massive beast between your legs and the damn things don't give off one bit of heat.  Well, not really, happened several times, well, many times in this short life.  It was 32 degrees below zero with a pretty strong wind, so I really can't blame my horse.  Must have been the rider.

I guess second, was up on the Russian River.  I'd hitchhiked in the rain and gotten terribly drenched.  Everything was wet through, clothes, sleeping bag, the trees, the earth.  There wasn't anywhere to hide from it, though nothing could be seen on such a night.  All things melted to one pervasive blackness.   In fact, the brightest, warmest, moment was hummin' "Gimme Shelter"..."it's just a shot away".

Third, was crawling between the sheets in New Orleans' Ninth Ward.  It was about 50 but something about the permeating dampness just sucked the heat from me.  Can't imagine how they have butterfly's down there.  My cocoon certainly shrunk the worm. It was not suited for chrysalises.

But the fourth, was walking back from Richmond on the Kew Bridge.  It was actually one of the few sunny days that February.  Spirits were bright all 'round me, like they say.  Standing on that ancient stone bridge looking west you see the island that splits the Thames, down by the Ferry Lane.  It blocks your view of home.

Cold is sure what you feel.  All about strangers, they don't know you - don't want to.  Things are familiar, but it’s not your land.  And you can't go home.  Pursued by the FBI and draft board, disowned by your father  'cause your beliefs and resolution to action conflict with his security clearance; whatcha gonna do?. .standing on that bridge.  Exile, refugee, immigrant – I always bow my hello to an oriental just in case.

Home showed up at my door on Welseley Road the next day. California stood there just like we were at the Sunshine Apartments!  What a day it would be!

Now, as you might imagine I was rather poor. My entire assets were: 100 weight of potatoes, 2 imperial quarts of cooking oil, 1 case of Campbell's vegetable soup, (all minus one months consumption), beautiful Gibson B-25 flat top, 2 Hohner Marine Bands D and G, ruck-sack with miscellaneous dirty clothes and about 20 quid.  If nothing else Ross's presence would be a dietary delight!

If this was a fairy tale we'd talk of the time, long ago, before McDonald’s in Windsor, a time before the Hard Rock Café, a time so very, very, very distant when people traveled the streets of London looking for Soul Food, a strange curious yellow vegetable type thing boiled to mush in English fashion served with butter - even a time before iced drinks! But I'll leave myself starving for this chapter.  I was anyway...for home.

In truth, of course truth, I was often invited to Shannon Close to eat by the folks that adopted me..they even found a Canadian who knew of peanut butter.  And I once, in appreciation, used my quids and purchased minced steak which I fried to their disbelief.   But my 6 stone body could use a few more pebbles and Ross was a beautiful sight.

Ross though had other notions for this reunion day..or at least a different schedule of events.  Despite my obvious desire to eat, even mushy peas, he determined that a celebration of our "Americanism" was in order.  And so began the search for things American, like Coca Cola for instance.

...and American Whisky.

Now in those days of the British brain drain (a device I never saw but have occasionally wished for as obviously superior to self-surgical lobotomies by .44), and the mid-Atlantic man (which I still believe was an anthropologic hoax, sort of a Piltdown man thing); things “American” were only a step above brutish simianism in the minds of the English.  That position, the lowest possible and still somewhat human culture, was shared equally and totally naively by the Welsh and Australians.

So the search along the High Streets and Roads, was a “treasure hunt” of sorts.  And treasure we found!  A gigantic, humungous, multi-quart(American) bottle of “Old Grand Dad”.  Exhausted by this arduous adventure, we determined to retire to my flat on Welseley Road for an exhilarating afternoon of Cribbage.  Good clean fun.

Old Grand Dad chased by Coke is sneaky stuff.  A quart each of that over the course of a couple hours and its hard to get the little tiny pegs in the little tiny holes. Luckily we didn't have female companionship. I’m sure Ross could not have been taking advantage of me.  Forgot to mention Ross too was a ‘hundred twenty pounder. Both of us over six feet, our profiles were unremarkable.

Anyway, we’d noticed that the sun had set.  Noticing the sun at all in London in the Winter is actually unusual.  Sort of a leap of faith, that it will rise ever.  Daylight doesn’t last long and can be easily missed.

At last, it was time for that long awaited dinner.  But Ross suggested we should get a “before dinner” drink. A coup-de-grace? Ross is not a “simple” fellow, so we couldn’t drop-in on a local pub, no, he knew a place up on Finchley-Frog(nal)Road. Definitely a hike from Chiswick.

In those days, I wore a sort of lumberman’s coat, a heavy green plaid and massive lumberman’s boots, steel toes and all.  This outfit turned out to benefit us exceedingly.

How we got to Finchley to this day I’ve no idea.  But as we entered the Pub, we were instantly greeted, “Canadians!” came the hollered hello, by a couple of geezers reminiscing their days at Stanstead.  Many double Canadians kept our attention to ...well I can’t remember what they were talking about, I think World War II fighter aircraft.  Spits and Hurricanes and brave Canadians.

In case you think we perpetrated this ruse, just for drinks; we did protest our south American lineage, I think.  But to no avail, they needed Canadians.  We were "'em".

Finally, reaching that point of alcohol poisoning, that point were the mystery of the Trinity is revealed as the one being dissembles to mind, spirit, and body. My body, which could not be felt said, "gotta eat."  My spirit said, "the flesh is weak." My mind could not be found.

We tore ourselves from the grasp of their past, and floated down the streets of London.  Spotting a small one room restaurant of some oriental nature we availed ourselves of a table.

This restaurant seemed peculiar.  It had dainty little handleless tea cups, and enormous, super large serving spoons all shiny and silvery. A tiny sugar bowl and a pot of green tea graced the center of rather large white linen covered round tables.  The chairs were those half backed lacquered things that seemed just to small for the occasion.

I poured the tea. In the cups, on the table, in my lap to my great surprise and delight.  Ross with childlike wonder spotted those silvery shovels and his smile as he grabbed one and tried to get sugar from that tiny, tiny sugar bowl.  "whoops..." as the sugar bowl impacted the wall that was within field goal distance.  Lucky for Ross there was sufficient sugar on the spoon for his tea. Unlucky for me that I seemed to be on the floor.  Seems these were trick chairs, or something, 'cause mine just kept leaning more and more sideways 'till gravity took over.  Apparently, though Ross' attempts to stir his tea with the shovel were equally less than satisfactory.

 I commented to the matron on the beauty of her outfit.  From my vantage point the golden dragons on that oh so vibrant red Chinese silk seemed, well, shimmering, nearly alive.  Orientals are so amazingly polite, and considerate.  She asked, if I needed help getting off the floor, and would my friend and I like assistance in finding the door to her establishment.  I thanked her and suggested that if she just pointed the direction we could probably find it, there being only two doors, the kitchen and the entrance.

It was all for the best. I don't think I was hungry anymore.

Ross concluded that since we had been so lucky this evening, we should continue the streak.  We had heard there were gambling clubs in Kensington and I had never been gambling...so off to Kensington!

Gambling clubs must use casting counselors.  At the door of each of them is the ugliest, meanest, tuxedoed person of great stature.  Other than some minor variation in giganticism, they are all the same.  After looking at several of them, we chose to attempt entry where the Goliath of Goliaths stood guard.

"Member, are you a member, sir?" he barked.  How it came to pass that "Sierra Madre" flashed through my...flashed through, I don't know.  "Member?, Member?, I don't need no stinking Member.  Got my own!  Want to see it?" This seemed to irritate the Monster, like flame.  First, he recoiled, then lunged to extinguish.  I thankfully have no further memory of this encounter but know we escaped physically unscathed.

London, at the time, was a rather unusual capital city.  It was not, at least anywhere I could find, a twenty-four hour town.  This included public transport as well as of most importance the Pubs.  The Green Line or District Line station was open at Baron's Court but our stop on the tube, Gunnersbury, was closed.  In other words, we could get on the train but couldn't get off.  Or to paraphrase a wiser person, "you can't get there from here".  It was one of those perplexing thoughts; What happens to folks who do get on the train but can't get off?

Walk! Most people who live in cities, even large ones, haven't a clue as to how small they really are.  The whole peninsula that keeps San Francisco afloat is only 2 miles across.  London City considers itself "the square mile", 640 acres, not even a spot in a Kansas wheat field.  Beyond the City are the suburbs, Kensington, Hammersmith, Chiswick along the High Road to the roundabout at Hounslow.  From the core of the British Empire to Chiswick about 5 miles, 10 to the netherworld of Hounslow and drop of the earth.  It's a small world, after all.

Interestingly, I heard once that ancient London ended up this way because the elevator didn't show up for a couple thousand years, and it sort of expanded horizontally, though compressed.  Well, I thought it was interesting. It always brought to mind the image of a large woman well expanded but compressed into a small chair, bulging at points.  We had a two mile walk.

We stumbled through Hammersmith.  As we entered Chiswick, I noticed a small car following us. And heard of all things a bicycle bell, but there wasn't a bike to be seen.

 Turnham Green is triangular in shape with the point towards London Town.  Welseley Road is at the point continuing the hypotenuse.  Mathematical logic was not with us that evening…or there would be no story.  We determined to take a short-cut across the park.

The English are a diabolical people…prone to devising methods of torture so humorous as to be considered practical jokes.  The history of the Tower of London is a prime example.  The traps laying in wait for us in Turnham Green would prove my point

Walky, walky, walky….fally down, ouch,…walky, fally down, uhhh, walky, walky, walky….fally down, ouch,…walky, fally down, uhhh, walky, walky, walky….fally down, ouch,…walky, fally down, uhhh.  Progress across the green was slow and painful.  Apparently to catch unsuspecting drunk Americans, the English had placed anchor chain at ankle height along the paths and flower gardens.  Crossing these chains without pain was impossible, ouch, asphalt, uhhh, flower garden

Then Ross saw it,….The church in the center of the Green.  “I want to see God,” he declared

A short flight of granite steps led to two massive oaken doors with gigantic round iron knockers about 18” in diameter and a good inch and a quarter thick.  Black, thick and massive.  I heard the thunder as the plaintive wail reverberated off the homes about the green. “I want to see God.”

With each pleading I could see the light…the light of another bunch of folks waking to the cry and thunder, Ba-BOOM, “I want to see GOD!"

I convinced Ross that it was well past God’s working hours. Perhaps we should come back in the morning?  Or telephone and request an appointment with the Divine?  With tears in his eyes he accepted the fact that God just wasn’t home.

We continued on our way.  Walky, walky, walky….fally down, ouch,…walky, fally down, uhhh, walky, walky, walky….fally down, ouch,…walky, fally down, uhhh, walky, walky, walky….fally down, ouch,…walky, fally down, uhhh.

Somehow, we managed to actually be on the “path” and entered a wooded area of the Green.  Lions, and Tigers and Bobbies pounced on us from behind trees.  From the left, from the right…there was no escape.

Confronted by the real Mutt and Jeff in uniform, I cracked up.  Mutt said to me “What’s the idea of pounding on the church doors?”  Without hesitation my hand went up, my finger pointed…”It was him, not me!"

Ross extended his arms, wrists together, “Take me away, I did it.  There is no God.” Then fell back against a tree.

As Jeff approached him Ross declared, “You can’t touch me, I’m an American, I’ve got Gees.” “Gees?” Jeff asked. “Take me away,” as the arms extended. “I have American dollars” as the arms retracted.  “I’m so guilty, take me away.” The arms extended.

It seemed a life time.  Mutt asked me, “Where you boy’s staying?”  I pointed at our place about 300 yards away.  “Think you can get him home?”  I had to seriously ponder this.  ”Yes”, I finally acquiesced.

We got to the road still followed by that little Morris with the bicycle bell.  We entered our gate..…”Screw the pigs!” echoed from the buildings.

Phil looked up from his bed as we entered.  “Shhhhh”, with finger to lips. A bright comical expression in his Welsh eyes, he giggled.  Another story?  Maybe, we’ll see God yet? 

 

Hot Dog in Las Vegas

p(H|E,I) = p(H|I)*p(E|H,I)/p(E|I)

 

In the beginning, the COMDEX show was the epitome of things a "computer person" could do.  I'm not sure when I became a "computer person".  I used to be a human being, well, I think so.  Possibly it followed the alien abduction.

 

 (Bill's note: Interestingly enough.. both of us wound up in the profession... although through different circumstances... We ended up square in the middle of that 'revolution'... could well have been an abduction I guess!!  Certainly, we found ourselves in the middle of something far bigger than either of us... yet far to fascinating to just let it slip by!!)

 

Bill and I planned this excellent adventure, our programs tuned, or computers tweaked.  We thought this the high point, the pinnacle, the grandness of grandness, of our little careers.  Setting up for disappointment...you bet!

 

The reality, always reality, is we still haven't reached our high point.  That will come when the computing process we invented becomes the way things are.  Of course, I think it was all my idea...silly me. It will probably happen long after we're dead. Recognition of art is the truth of art. 

 

(and *I* like to think it was mine {grin}... truth be told.. for us it was the logical result of the tiresome effort required to bring programs to clients...if I were to say Bill it came from the amalgam of that need of yours and my need to find some way to tell the story...its our differences often that is the beauty of our relation...logic is all yours my friend. Well.. Greg... you *are* the story teller, of the two of us, after all... I'm a fair novice compared to you!!  Suffice it to say... we certainly *knew* it when we hit upon it.. and watched it work for the 1st time!!)

 

Just an aside. Bill (at least, of course much more) named our process, Meta Object Programming Procedures.  It's a method of dealing with objects ( in our method an object is anything that can be named...that is anything/everything that can be imagined) and viewing them from their true context that is from inside the object looking out.  I think this is how we humans really think, a limited universe only as far as the eye can see so to speak.  We have a bit of information and we spiral out from it until it is defined. Curiously only as far as necessary to achieve the definition required for the situation.  We all have situational ethics.

 

Application of these methods of thought to computer programming could achieve true "intelligence".  I think the Bayesian's are idiotic in their approach, why probability? why not certainty? even if limited.  The Chaos theory requires belief in the truth of the initiating proposition...but I'm all about be here now.  Of course, I'm talking about the smartest people in the world...sorry Mr. Hawkings...from the vantage of one of the dumbest.  I've tried to read their stuff....I haven't a clue.

 

It may be that because my world is so tiny and theirs is so...so universal.  I can't imagine how you harness the universe, that intelligence.  Seems to me its like trying to build artificial intelligence from a God's eye view.  Confronted with the contradictions, God and artificial, looking down and being, I fall and stumble.  It seems to me to be useful for humans, intelligence must be from the perspective of humans.  I also do not perceive that machine intelligence is any more or less artificial than any other form of intelligence.  I actually tend to think the Bayesians view "human" intelligence as artificial...maybe that's why the God's eye view?  Or maybe cause Bayes was a minister first and a mathematician second? It's not that I don't see the place for probability theory just not in...but, I really haven't a clue.

 

(and *that*.. the lack of a clue.. was, and is, the true beauty of our system... it doesn't take a rocket scientist, or a Bayesian, to apply it.... just common folk like us... I think it may well become common before we're dead... but long after we've lost interest in 'pushing it home'...maybe thats what I'm doin' here?...my part of this started on the beach in Isla Vista in 1971...a wonderful young mathematician named Mike Carroll and I walked in the sunshine and cold breeze and argued the probability theories as initiated by Bayes inference...talkin the wonders of nature...the wonders of youth ..its goin' on 21 years since I first talked with Kolp on this...21 years and we still haven't written it down...and now a decade since we clarified the concept...8 years since we talked about whether our concept was patentable as a process...remember?...maybe its time to "push it home"...bro...I think you of all people, understand, there is so much I, we, have to push home...time is short.  It's funny, as we sit here and attempt to relate the tale, how far back these thoughts go.. into our respective pasts I mean,  I was 'extensing' data from programs as early as 1980.. trying to remove the 'knowledge' from the code, and place it 'outside', in the universe, where it belonged... I think maybe we should "push it home" bro... I think I'd forgotten the length of this particular journey, for both of us.... and time, my friend, is the one precious commodity we'll never have enough of!!)

 

So obviously this leads to the Unabomber and The New School for Social Research.  Now it may seem to you that there is no correlation between a whacko anti-technologist, a bunch of Marxist-feminists and Las Vegas.  Well, there's me.

 

I recall how often these city folks, would decry the de-humanizing effects of city life.  Yet here we live in a world where well over 95% of the populations live in the city.  This would seem to be the "human" condition.  Farm life is "de-humanizing".  Living on the Amazon is "de-humanizing".  Maybe better for people, maybe more quality but not the way of our species today.  Sure my cultural-anthropologist buddies would take their trips to the wild.  But they always came back to humanity.  Kinda like Dick Cheney bein' from Wyoming...he lives in Texas.

 

But contrarily they espoused the collectivism of modern society and the true feminist ideal.  Poor Ted cries to be held by his family and decries technology.  He worships his earth mother and hates his remote father and wants so much to be him. 

 

But technique is feminist at its heart, it is collectivist.  It is feminist to plant the field and control nature, to build hives, to control wealth, for the greater good of the family.  The masculinist confronts and conquers, the individual, man above nature all that domini, dominance, dominate, lord above stuff, accumulation...for the greater good of the family.  Poor Ted is very confused...mother controls the family, he loves her and yet wants to kill her.  Our poor anthropologists are equally confused.  And so am I.

 

Off to Las Vegas.  Wizards, gurus, priests, of this religion are Bill and I.  Off to the High Temple for the annual High Mass.  We carry the secrets, know the rites and ritual.  This technology that is and will destroy society as we know it and yet it is creating a new social order.  Better?  There will be less freedom, there will be less individuality, more boys will get methylphenidate...will the world be better?  Ted I feel your pain.  It doesn't suprise me that the altar is in New Sodom.  Will I look back?

 

(I recall us talking about this exact idea on the way to LV, and at the hotel when we got there.... We justified our presence as a 'necessary evil'.. maybe the only way we could bring our ideas to the public eye, given our rather limited budget... For all the things it wasn't... our trip to LV tought us many things.. among them, the duplicity of our compatriots... and the true limited scope of our universe.. oddly enough... that didn't dissuade us, but only served to strengthen our resolve.. and our belief in our idea...yes thank you, Bill, thank you, of course this is the story of that adventure and you are the reason I'm writing it.  You're very welcome Greg... you may be writing it for me... but this is truly the one thing in my life, I fully know in my heart, would never have happened, had we not had that original conversation, from 3,000 miles apart, to discover we lived less than 100 miles apart!!  I had the 'notion'.. the seed... but it never fully germanated until we'd met... worked together... built a trust.. and began to have those wonderful 'what if' conversations!!!)

 

Why so thoughtful, so morose, so melancholy, Bill and I as we make our way to our Mecca?  Could be we are sentient beings after all?  Reminds me of dear David....came to see the cultural revolution...can't see it...can't chronicle it...all are part of it but it is all pervasive and hidden.  Some get an illicit glimpse...like Ted...and are overwhelmed.  Some like Orwell are like the prophets...protecting the name of the divine, "Big Mama".  My initiation began in 3rd grade, by seventh grade I was an acolyte.  At the age of 16 I was allowed to communion at the plexiglas gate.  I rebelled, I lost my faith, apostate...but still I was called back and I came.

 

[*I* think, we'd not only seen the revolution, we'd seen beyond it.... and knew that while we held the key(s) in our hands (or in our process).. we also knew that while we'd win a disciple or two, the risks we were taking, equalled or exceeded our potential rewards...  Our trip to LV, was at least as interesting as being there... I know, so crowded was our plane,  I kept looking for that woman with the 'chicken' you always see on the crowded bus in a 'B' movie]

 

We finally arrived at our hotel...the Lucky Lady Casino.  It was way cool...noise, fools and lights!  Finally...inside a real casino...and all this free shit.  Like 2 foot hot dogs.  We were hungry.

 

Now these weren't some skinny little Kosher sausage...they were more like those balloons that clowns shape into pink animals only in reverse, animals shaped into balloons.  A little grayed lady was attempting to shove one of these monsters in her mouth lengthwise.  I was simply amazed at how much sausage she could get in her mouth, must have had lots of practice.  She choked...Bill turned red and headed for the elevator.  Apparently, while studying this beast, arms outstretched as required to get the whole picture of bun, mustard, relish and bright catsup so red...I most philosophically said, "I knew a horse once...."

 

[But is this not but the beginning of the Las Vegas trip?  The hours spent discussing the process, smoothing the transactional nature.. and listening to the offerings of idiots?  Suspecting a devious intent, but not sure of it until months later?  Mr. Suzuki, who was unable to speak with 90% (maybe more) of the people passing through the booth... Many interesting incidents occured for sure! ]

 

 

 

---

 

Now radio is power in some ways more powerful than TV.  I think its because first, it is ethereal, it is of the spirit world, second because the message can be sublime and enter the heart without disrupting the menial task of living.  It is strange too how the message disseminates.  Three a.m., the spirits prowl, the enchant..ation, at 8 heard again on the big station.  Some people don't like replays...some are honored by them.

 

Steve had a beautiful '57 Chevy and was in the Navy.  He didn't like replays.  So when his ship was in port he'd drive all the way to Claremont.  He'd listen to Zach from the porch of the Replica House sometimes alone....till dawn came and The Pebble and the Man.  Quite a bond on some level formed between the little hippie boy with the voice like James Earl Jones on reds and the sailor man from Vietnam.

 

Bonds, bonds, bonds....goodness how delicious.  Its all about bonds, chains, links, isn't it?  And Zach had it great, he could nearly effortlessly have people bond with him...all he had to do was tell the story.  Not even that at times....once Jesse brought some smack over to the station...Zach's first taste...for three hours the same rhythmic song played...as he nodded...just one line...Chanukah....Chanukah....Chanukah....as the needle would hit the label...the festival of light.   Hundreds of previous insomniacs called...cured, and a couple of truck drivers asking if our insurance would cover their falling asleep at the wheel.  Still at dawn, Happiness Runs.

 

Jeff and Doug ran the American Records store.  It was somewhat ironic in that most music eminating from the store was British.  Whenever Zach came home, no matter the years gone by, the first stop was American Records.  Who would have ever suspected that one night a lil' Welshman and his English buddy would be there.  Almost anybody...had they the gift of prophesy. 

 

It wasn't easy being a British visitor in then dry Claremont on a Sunday night.  It was never easy being Zach.  With this obvious commonality the three young men bonded.  As you might already suspect Phil and Geoff invited Zach to come to Geoff's future brother-in-laws place to drink Geoff's future brother-in-laws wine and various other stuff while Geoff's future brother-in-law watched or whatever Geoff's future brother-in-law may wish to do.  And, of course, to ponder the question that has stymied young men since Cain, "What's there to do?"

 

Its questionable whether the unification of  Italy is directly responsible, more likely republican Verdi's recreation of that gigantic art form opera, that provided the answer through a second rate film by the master, Antonioni....Zabriskie Point.  Logically since Phil and Geoff and David and Zach and Claudia were in California and Antonioni was in Italy but Zabriskie Point was somewhere in California....well sunrise at Zabriskie Point was the answer to the universal question.   Val had to stay home with the kids.

 

 The next question was how?  Transport?  I don't know why Claudia's wonderful old Falcon wasn't used...perhaps because it wasn't of British heritage.  Instead Sandy lent her....Austin America.   Four full size humans and a Welshman in the car that may be singled out as the reason English auto's don't fill the American highways today.  In fact, are the mechanical equivalent of the passenger pigeon.  I think the Japanese encouraged Austin to import these little devils...sly folks those Japanese.

 

So they had transport and a rough notion of the where abouts of Zabriskie Point, north-east in Death Valley.  Zach had an infallible sense of direction and could go directly to any place on the globe without map, directions, or even indication.  However, perhaps because of his Chanukah experience but probably something pre-natal....no sense of time or distance.  It may also have been the result of the Zen like grace that standing for life times thumb out on road sides can bring.  Sort of a glow.

 

Anyway, the British invented the term "pour in and go for a ride"....part of their inscrutable sense of humor.  Far more efficient than the Americans in telephone packing.  Once in England on a completed section of the M-4 as it goes downhill into Chiswick...I was passed by a Morris Minor station wagon front wheel going 'bout 80.  A few seconds later I was passed by a three wheeled Morris Minor station wagon going 'bout 80.  Curiously this vehicle was rocking side to side...each rock to the right accompanied by sparks...each rock to the left by a view of dozens of screaming faces.  The 27 Pakistani passengers where having a hell of a good ride.  Very efficient these British in their sense of humor.

 

Into the Austin and away they rode.  No sweat..allowed..  East towards sunrise on Route 66.  San Bernadino, up the Cajon Pass, a wave to Trigger at Apple Valley, Victorville, the High Desert cold clear, Barstow. Then Towards Las Vegas on the Yermo Road along the banks of the mighty Mojave River, Yermo, Tomey, and Baker, the miles flew by the hours went by and blindly onward.  Left turn at Baker.  Zach was in his medium....attached to the wheel...guided by the stars.

 

Quiet...inside and out.  The three Brits fell asleep in the back, even Claudia, co-pilot and radio station finder passed to dream...while onward...onward...onward the little vessel hurled into the depths.  The cold dark desert.  Even the engine seemed to make no sound.

 

The ship coasted into Shoshone and parked itself in front of the only gas pumps for a hundred miles around.  Everybody woke up and disgourged themselves from the Austin.  They looked around at the dark little town.  Gas pumps, a little general store, probably not much changed since before "The Big One", a couple wasteland homes...Shoshone.  Dark and nearly silent except the dog howling in the distant.

 

Zach examined the pumps...locked, pad locked...as only proper at 2 in the morning.  He sat on the concrete base that formed the island protecting these glass domed relics that held the precious liquid of their salvation.  At first his comrades were simply surprised.  But soon agitation and anxiety...they were in a strange land...in the middle of a great desert 250 miles from home...with only images of skeletons and Ronald Regan's 20 mule team.  No comfort seemed to come from their guide...who seemed in that Zen state that enveloped him when time had no meaning.

 

David asked, "What are we going to do?"  Zach responded from his trance, "Wait, something will happen...it always does...always does ", quietly, sympathetically, gazing into the beauty of Orion...thinking of home.

 

It was no surprise when the '57 Chevy pulled up.  "Hey Zach, Whats up?  Haven't seen you in a couple years."  "Not much Steve, out of gas, got some?"  "No, but I put my tow bar in the trunk before I left. Tow you into Nevada to a station there." 

 

Three Brit's in the Tuck n Roll luxury of the '57 backseat...Claudia and Zach bouncing along in the Austin...100 miles an hour of stars....beautiful California desert life.  Beautiful life...if you let yourself be.

 

 

---

A Little One

 

 "I make my work out of my everyday experiences,
which I find as perplexing and extraordinary as can be."

                       --Claes Oldenburg, 1960.

 

That there is a pecking order in all things cosmic and earthly is the way things are.  It is an interesting everyday experience to watch the dynamic, especially of  “alpha males”.  The point is there can only be one.