Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

from my crazy friend, marlene.

They're Dead, Sir ... All of Them

Major combat operations in Iraq have ended. In the battle of Iraq, the United States and our allies have prevailed." – W, pontificating under the "Mission Accomplished" banner on the USS Lincoln aircraft carrier, May 2, 2003.

"My answer is bring 'em on." — W, throwing down the gauntlet to militants attacking U.S. forces in Iraq, July 2, 2003.

"Iraqis are sick of foreign people coming in their country and trying to destabilize their country." -- W, on Al Arabiya Television, May 5, 2004.

"See, in my line of work you got to keep repeating things over and over and over again for the truth to sink in, to kind of catapult the propaganda." -- W, Greece, N.Y., May 24, 2005.

"I think they're in the last throes, if you will, of the insurgency." -- Big Dick Cheney, on the killing, June 20, 2005.

"You know, one of the hardest parts of my job is to connect Iraq to the war on terror." -- W, interview with CBS News' Katie Couric, Sept. 6, 2006.

STARBUCKS 101

i love starbucks. i admit it. i'm not going to get into an argument about megachain shops vs. small independently owned coffee shops. i'm not saying starbucks is better -- just that i love it. enough of the apologizing.

i love starbucks. i love the coffee. i know it's roasted longer than a lot of other coffees. i like it that way. i like the shops. i like the merchandise. i like many of the baristas. i love the logo. i love the feel of the white cup in my hands. i love the seasonal coffee beverages. the maple machiatto is my current favorite. before that it was the pumpkin spice latte. soon, i'll be ordering the gingerbread or eggnog latte. out of season, it's the one-pump venti mocha (sometimes with a shot of toffee nut syrup). we buy the beans for the house (to use in our starbucks italia digital espresso machine).

i make no apologies for paying the admittedly exhorbitant price for what some might call "a freaking cup of coffee." i pay it because starbucks pays a living wage and provides health insurance to all employees who work over a certain number of hours (i think it's 20 -- i could be wrong). i like that about starbucks. and i also like starbucks' policy (this may be news to some of you -- thus the 101 title to this post) that the customer must be satisfied with their beverage. or they will make it again. and give you a coupon for another free beverage.

see? you didn't know that? and maybe you don't know it because the barrista hasn't been forthcoming about the policy or has been stingy with the coupons. bad, bad barrista.

i'm not telling you to be an asshole and goofy about the quality of your drink. make nice, people. but you also shouldn't be paying this kind of money for a crummy drink. and if you're not an asshole, i hope the barrista will respond as he or she is trained to respond. if not, ask. if you are not totally satisfied with your experience, send an e-mail to starbucks. the customer service people are really good.

starbucks wants you happy. if you don't like "the buck," fine. i'm performing this public service for those who are interested.

Buckaroo Banzai

It could have been the rain Friday night. Or it might have been that the air temperature was too low. And the direction -- going south -- could have been an error. The wind was gusting up to 35 miles an hour. There are many variables, a deviation from the calculations in any one of which would result in failure. In the movie, Buckaroo Banzai went through a mountain and passed through the Eighth Dimension. It seemed so easy, though.

But, obviously, something went wrong because I smashed right into the rear end of the guy in front of me.

And I have finally conceded that my keys went down the trash chute. I suppose that they didn't get down the hall to the trash chute all by themselves. They could have, you know. They secreted themselves in a box when I was moving from the old house, and I didn't find them until I went to the storage facility to look for something else.

But, obviously, I threw them down the trash chute because before I threw the trash out, I had them. And after I threw out the trash, I didn't.

But I couldn't find them down in the trash compactor - dumpster. Maybe they'll turn up.

WEEKEND UPDATE

jax is back in montana after his 20-day "wilder trip" to yellowstone. he loved it. absolutely loved it. evidently, he had no freakouts about the elevations to which the group climbed (didn't get THAT from bill and me). he's happy, clean (sober), healthy. and excited about his life. he leaves wednesday for a halfwayhouse in palm beach, florida, for the winter (heh). it's a good place. i hope we can get him home for a day or two at christmas (depends on his job, flights, money).

i'll try to start posting on things other than the jackal. certain family members have mentioned to me that i'm sounding dull, provincial. i read between the lines -- it is what i inferred. i'm thinking through a rant on high school civics in my mind. don't know when i'll get around to it.

oh. and we're looking for a good home for bella. darling, high maintenance bella. we believe strongly that she was not treated very well before we got her at 4 months as she's sketchy, fearful with those she doesn't know, and hates being left home (separation anxiety). she's not even 2 yet. she's come a long, long way. she's very loving and sweet. but she doesn't belong in an apartment building where there are lots of dogs with whom she has not bonded. recently grabbed a neighbor's small doggy's head in her big jaw and would not let go. neighbor is being very nice about the incident -- agrees it was a "dog thing;" but is not comfortable with her anymore. we don't blame him. we're only supposed to have 2 dogs anyway (the plan was that jax would take one), so... until we can find the right fit for her, we'll get her a muzzle for when she leaves the apartment. and i'm going to talk to the vet about doggy prozac to treat her separation anxiety.

On Golf and the Death Penalty

For the 15th consecutive year, I have turned down the standing invitation to go to Myrtle Beach or North Myrtle Beach to play golf the week after Thanksgiving. While the average high temperature of 60 F is attractive, the average low of 37 F is not.

In younger days, I played golf when the temperature was in the 20's with snow flakes flying and in the 30's with rain and sleet coming down; so, I'm no stranger to playing in the cold. And as I rummage around my memories, I think, "Boy, that was pretty damn stupid."

Now, from the Saturday morning golf group, when I make an appearance, I hear comments about my dedication; and I endure, continuing to play with them from time-to-time, weather permitting. Nothing is wrong with my dedication, which runs to being comfortable and healthy, not cold and miserable.

So, while 60 and sunny is enticing, the down side of that forecast is not. And while I would like to look at the glass as half full, it is still half empty; it's not worth it.

I have written about my opposition to the death penalty in this space on other occasions. While the brownies I am making from scratch are baking in the oven this cold and windy, rainy morning, thoughts about imposing the ultimate penalty for certain heinous crimes are percolating from a dark, malevolent region of my mind.

Killing a golfer on a golf course, as revealed by the admitted, serial killer, Lee Malvo, part of the duo, along with John Muhammad, which terrorized the region around Washington, D.C., in October, 2002, is something that could persuade me to change my mind about the death penalty.

Although I have not done so, if I were to change my mind on the subject, of course, the only appropriate method of carrying out such a penalty is lethal injection of an 8-iron into the skull of the killer. The technology to perform that function already exists.

No Child Left Behind

The No Child Left Behind Act comes up for reconsideration by Congress in 2007. It seems to me that the biggest complaint is that the law is underfunded by the federal government, which the federal government is prone to do, leaving it to the States and local governments to come up with money to enforce the law. The president of the National Education Association pointed out, "Most states and school districts are facing unfunded mandates, real cuts in resources and no federal funds to help turn around low-performing schools."

Assuming that Congress provides funding for schools so that school systems can purchase new books and modern equipment and learning devices, like the one President Bush's brother sells to schools, getting federal funds in the process, the schools will have a bunch of old books and stuff.

The Republican candidate for Oklahoma state superintendent of education, Bill Crozier, wants to recycle old textbooks. The school children will be trained to use the old books as shields against AK-47's and other weapons when school shootings take place.

If he doesn't get elected, he could always promote the military use of old books for body armor in Iraq. I bet the President's brother would help him get his foot in the door.

Element 118

Do you remember the days when there were 103 or 104 elements in the Periodic Table, maybe 105 or 106, if you believed those Russian physicists? Things were pretty well settled with the Periodic Table.

The other day, I read in The New York Times that a team of Russian and American scientists, "made up of scientists at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory in California and the Joint Institute for Nuclear Research in Dubna, Russia, said they had produced three atoms of the new element in six months of smashing lighter elements together and trying to make them stick."

Okay ... three atoms. One-thousandth of a second.

The New York Times reported: “This considerably expands the borders of the existing material world,” Dr. Yuri Oganessian said in an e-mail message.

I'm sorry, but I'm skeptical. I'm trying to figure out how the manufacture of three atoms in some laboratory has expanded "the borders of the existing material world" at all, let alone something approaching "considerably."

Three atoms. One-thousandth of a second.

Does that mean anything at all to anyone outside the lab?

Unlawful Enemy Combatants

And why have I been reading in most of the press that the definition of "unlawful enemy combatant" in the Military Commissions Act of 2006, which the Congress, without regard for our civil rights, hurriedly passed and the President, with his usual smirky grin, signed with great flourish, does not apply to citizens of the United States of America? Apparently, they are not reading the same law I'm reading, which says:

Sec. 948a. Definitions
In this chapter:
(1) UNLAWFUL ENEMY COMBATANT- (A) The term "unlawful enemy combatant" means--
(i) a person who has engaged in hostilities or who has purposefully and materially supported hostilities against the United States or its co-belligerents who is not a lawful enemy combatant (including a person who is part of the Taliban, al Qaeda, or associated forces); or
(ii) a person who, before, on, or after the date of the enactment of the Military Commissions Act of 2006, has been determined to be an unlawful enemy combatant by a Combatant Status Review Tribunal or another competent tribunal established under the authority of the President or the Secretary of Defense.

Please tell me where it says the law doesn't apply to U.S. citizens.

The military commissions to be established will "try alien unlawful enemy combatants engaged in hostilities against the United States ..." [emphasis added]. So, citizens cannot be tried by military commissions, which would seem to imply that citizens are to be tried in federal or state courts ... or nowhere.

Under the Detainee Treatment Act, the detainess can be held indefinitely if declared an enemy combatant; so, it would appear that a U.S. citizen can be held indefinitely without being charged, if designated an unlawful enemy combatant.

And don't believe that arrests of U.S. citizens won't be detained for suspicion of materially supporting hostilities. President Bush has already submitted many a "signing statement," declaring that he is omnipotent when it comes to the "War on Terror," which is not a Constitutional war at all, but a Crusade created by W and his power hungry supporters and given the imprimatur of legitimacy by a populace and Congress that was gripped by a patriotic fervor after 9/11. They aren't ever going to give up the power once given to them, legal or not.

So, here's hoping that you haven't contributed to one of the thousands of organizations that are on a list of those that W and his supporters believe are associated with or support "terrorists" because that, my dear friends, constitutes material support. Be prepared to be detained indefinitely, never charged with any crime, and tortured ... oops, interrogated harshly, while in detention while your case winds its way through the courts on your habeas corpus petition, which you just might be able to file.

And what if you perchance give up information ... what if you can't hold out ... what if you tell them what they want to hear ... and what if you tell them things that aren't true because you just want the sleeplessness, bright lights, blasting music, dunking in water until you nearly drown, hallucination-causing thirst and hunger to stop?

What if you tell them what you've been convinced your friends, neighbors, and relatives do ... what you've been convinced the swarthy-complected guy down the street has done?

And would it be surprising if U.S. citizens were looked upon as more dangerous than foreigners? They travel among us ... those U.S. citizens who look just like you.

Maybe U.S. citizens should be required to sign loyalty oaths and carry papers that law enforcement can check. Loyalty oaths ... you chuckle under your breath and ask if I am seriously warped ... hmmmm ....

Loyalty oaths ... kind of like the one Ohio Homeland Security requires?

But we're safe ... aren't we? From the enemy?

Nailed It

A couple years ago, my friend, DT, brought his nail gun with him to help with some framing work I was doing. He missed the 2x4 and nearly winged me with one of the nails.

In an eight-year period, the State of Washington reported 3,616 work-related injury claims from nail guns.

In a bizarre accident, Isidro Mejia "accidentally" shot himself in the head six times on a roofing job.

Could it get any worse than putting 12 nails into one's own skull?

I think it could. When August Voegl said that he'd give his left nut to get the roofing job, I guess he meant it.

Grocery Store Philosophy

Giant Eagle Food Store has a deal in which customers get money off gas purchases. But I'm no longer upset with the lady in the SUV, who not only greedily filled up her GMC Giga Humongous 4x4 with dual gas tanks at the Giant Eagle Food Stores Get-N-Go Gas Station but also her 2 1/2 gallon red plastic gas container and her two 10-gallon gas cans, in clear violation of the Giant Eagle policy posted right near the sign that directs people to leave their cell phones in their vehicles to prevent them from blowing up the Earth.

Why not?

Giant Eagle bought out some of the stores of a competitor that is closing all of its stores in the area, leaving Giant Eagle about 90% of the market share. I read in the local newspaper this morning that Giant Eagle took over a store out on the east side of town and notified all the employees that they would be re-hired, but at $3 less per hour. Also, unless they work over 37 1/2 hours a week, they will not receive health insurance, which means almost all the workers in the store will not receive health care benefits, which they had previously received as a fringe benefit.

I think that sucks. So, I'm not shopping at Giant Eagle.

iTunes

Somebody downloaded a bunch of winter holiday songs ... it wasn't me. Then the downloading party asked the non-downloading party if he wanted to hear them. The non-downloading party, having learned one thing over many decades, of course, replied in the affirmative.

Bush on Credibility

A study commissioned by the British medical journal, The Lancet, estimates that 655,000 Iraqis have died as the result of Bush's war. One out of 40 Iraqis who were alive at the beginning of the war have been killed as the result of this war.

Let's put it another way. No more Fargo. In fact, wipe the whole of North Dakota off the fucking map. I suppose there are some who wouldn't miss North Dakota.

In his Rose Garden news conference yesterday, Bush said, "I don't consider it a credible report." The whole report? That's a good way to weasel out of it ... just deny it without any support for your position. "When in doubt, deny all terms and definitions," Calvin said, in one of my favorite Calvin and Hobbes strips.

Gee, if The Lancet inflated the numbers by 20%, that would be equal the population of Washington, DC, being wiped out ...

There are some authorities that estimate the Iraqi civilian deaths at almost a million. Are those reports credible?

That's a lot of blood-letting, no matter who we believe, in the name of freedom and democracy.

Who started this war?

The Truth About Glacier National Park

I was at the airport in Kalispell, Montana. The plane arrived at Gate 2. Gate 3 is next to Gate 2. Gate 1 ... passengers get out on the runway, and they walk in the back door, near where I was by the baggage carousel for all one arriving flights.

A jazz music festival was to begin October 5, which was still a few days off. These two guys, with their three cases ... I'm sure they had Fenders because that was the shape of the cases, the long rectangular cases, one of them aluminum, the other two, cloth-covered, kind of like Jackal had ... they had a few days to check out the venues and practice, sound checks, with some time to see the sights, whatever those might be. I already knew from all the signs on the way to the baggage claim area that bears are dangerous and that very few flights arrive and depart the Glacier International Airport.

As we waited for our luggage, I asked one guy about the aluminum case. It seemed slightly longer than the standard guitar case. Maybe, it was for a Fender bass or whatever. I was right. It was "whatever." Lazzeroni 7.82 Warbird ... "headed for the back country ... for elk," he told me.

I'm of the belief that all citizens of Montana are required to carry guns. I didn't research this; it is only the impression I get from the gun selling places on every street corner. They all drink espresso, too. I didn't research this, either; it is only the impression I get from the drive-up espresso stands every 500 feet or so. These two things are, in my mind, a lethal combination.

So, when everyone we encountered told us, in fact, demanded that we must, while we were in the area, drive the Going-to-the-Sun Road in the Glacier National Park, we paid heed. Several of them told us flat out that they'd kill us if we didn't make the drive, specifically saying we needn't even leave the car, spying my lovely wife's walking stick. I suppose that on the technical side of things, they didn't really say that they'd kill us ... they said it would be "a crime;" and since it's legal in Montana to shoot in self-defense if offended, I'm pretty much on the mark there. Others said that the fall foliage was beautiful and oh-so-colorful.

Nobody told us the truth.

But I will reveal the truth to you, shattering the conspiracy of silence among all those we encountered, subjecting myself to certain scrutiny by those charged with maintaining confidentiality and, if I ever return to Montana, much worse than simple scrutiny.

Remember as you are cruising on the Going-to-the-Sun Road at the posted 40 mile-per-hour speed limit that you are in an area under the control of the United States government and that you will not have been given all of the data necessary to make a fully-informed decision before you began on your beautiful, breath-taking journey to Logan Pass, which was unfortunately closed for the season on September 18th, which the uniformed woman at the entrance only told you after you shelled out 25 of your hard-earned American dollars, giving you the privilege to see the natural beauty on your drive on the Going-to-the-Sun Road.

On the Going-to-the-Sun Road, there are large parking areas on the sides of the roadway with invitations to stop and look, lulling you into a false sense of security on your way to the ultimate destination of orgasmic beauty, Logan Pass.

Nobody told us the truth.

Do not be deceived by the outward modern, state-of-the-art, clean appearance of the restrooms that you may require in your journey on the Going-to-the-Sun Road. After all, the 25-dollar "access fee" you paid funded these fine facilities, as pronounced by the prominent plaque on the building's freshly stained rough-hewn siding. I didn't find that the need to go inside had arisen. I left that to another. I was thirsty and thought it odd that there was no water fountain out front. Information related to me supports the conclusion that you will find no running water inside. You draw your own conclusion about the federal water-less restrooms and whether you desire to avail yourself of the non-state-of-the-art facilities at your hotel, motel, or Burger King before you enter the park and before you begin the final ascent on the Going-to-the-Sun Road to the Logan Pass because just past the restroom facility is the "Loop," a classic Grand Prix of Monaco hairpin turn, which puts you on the half of the road away from the mountain's rock face.

Nobody told us the truth.

You will know the truth.

You realize as you make the turn and pass the parking lot for the observation area, where a guy from Maine is taking pictures of himself with his fancy tri-podded, timered camera against the beautiful backdrop of fall foliage of the glorious Aspen trees and evergreens blanketing the mountainside that the view in the other direction, toward Logan Pass, doesn't make for the same photographic beauty. The center line of the road at this point is double yellow, probably a foot or so wide. I tell you this because until this point, you really haven't appreciated the well-paved, 40-mile-an-hour Going-to-the-Sun Road; and I want you to remember that you were deceived. It was part of a parlor trick that brought you willingly to this point.

There's nothing in the literature that uniformed federal agent handed over to you at the park entrance that gives you the information you will find here. Artists use the tool known as "perspective" to show things receding into the distance. Close your eyes for a moment and imagine, if you will, a road in the yellow wood, the one less traveled, receding into the distance, almost to a point, but not quite to a point. And there's a double yellow line in the middle of your road. Close your fucking eyes right now and imagine it!

You recall the road getting narrower and narrower? That's what happens to the Going-to-the-Sun Road. It gets narrower and narrower and narrower, until your hands have tightened on the steering wheel, bending it out of round. You pray that you will not get the hiccups because, to your right, on the other side of your car's passenger side door, manufactured from a one-eighth-thick piece of galvanized steel, that barely holds your passenger inside your car, is the edge of the crumbling roadway, portions of which cascade down the 9,000-foot vertical drop to the little, tiny creek below.

But you needn't worry. Because you are safe. After all, the United States government operates and maintains this park. That's what they want you to believe.

Nobody told us the truth.

Sure, rocks, hewn from the mountain, one foot wide by two feet long by six inches high, laid out neatly along the road's edge, encourage you to travel onward toward the Sun, trapping you into believing that if your path should waiver ever so slightly to the right, the blocks of rock will save you from the 9,000-foot plummet over the precipice (from the Latin praecipitium, meaning "abrupt descent"). Of course, you cannot steer a course to the left across the double yellow line. You will lose a battle with the huge 4x4 pick-up trucks coming down the mountainside, claiming more than their fair share of the double yellow line.

You notice your hands becoming numb, one with the quivering steering wheel; and you become aware that your passenger, sitting just an eighth of an inch from the precipice of death, marked every few yards by those slabs of stone, looking like grave markers from those that have not made it in the last 75 years, since the Going-to-the-Sun Road opened, is whimpering, tears coursing down her cheeks, words being choked, but sounding like "turn around, turn around," eyes wild with fear, not looking to the right, but seeing anyway, hands clutching the Nissan Sentra's dashboard, creating handholds where there were none before you began your insane journey, for which you paid the last $25 you will ever spend in the life you once knew.

And then you see them up ahead on the right, bright in the afternoon light, where the low slabs of stone should be. Familiar objects. Three orange cones. Your mind races. You fight to believe that the road crumbled a bit and the low slabs of stone slid off the road, just below the field of your vision. You fight to drive back the insanity invading the borders of your mind, but the vision of your Nissan Sentra plummeting over the edge of the road blossoms from inside your mind.

Dare you peek over the side as you approach the orange cones to see where the unfortunate soul who lost the struggle ended the journey on the Going-to-the-Sun Road? You feel the steering wheel pulling to the right ... or is it in your mind? You step on the brake pedal to slow even more, but dare you stop your forward progress toward the summit? Is that really ice and snow on the mountain across the valley? Is there snow and ice ahead? The specter of your car, brakes on, sliding down the roadway toward certain death races through and hides in one of the recesses of your mind, orange cones erected there to warn you to stay away. There, up ahead, is a place for sightseers to pull over. Can you take a chance and steer the car into that small, narrow parking place?

On the brink of madness, you become aware of the whimpering, the crying, the incoherent rambling of your passenger, whose head is now in her hands; and your thoughts turn to history. She would have been the first of the Donner party to go ... and a willing volunteer, at that. You decide to risk your own sanity, having abandoned any thought of your passenger's, the shell of a woman you once knew, and decide to pull into the six foot wide, fifteen foot long observation post.

"I'm pulling into this parking spot and stopping the car," you announce, knowing that veering ever so slightly to the right toward certain death, no matter how slowly, will cause your companion, "companion" because this is not any person you know, to go over the brink and, perhaps, never recover.

"No, no, no ... No, turn ... turn ... turn," she whispers, hoarse with whimpering, tears still silently falling on her shuddering breasts, having lost all hope of ever seeing her children in this lifetime, the Byrds tune creeping into your mind, serving as a reminder that there is a time to die.

"I need to do this ... to turn around," you whisper, not 100% certain you can execute a U-turn, whether legal or not, knowing that if you have to back up to do so ... well, that would be a very, very bad thing. You most gingerly move the wheel clockwise ever so slightly, not able to feel the wheel, slightly bent at 9 and 3, where you've been death-gripping it; and the car, unexpectedly and miraculously obeying the laws of physics, creeps to the right. You straighten the direction of the creeping car with a silent prayer to your personal god, ever aware of the whimpering and crying next to you, seemingly amplified by the sheer rock wall to your left climbing up and over the other side of the roadway, your path back to sanity. You press on the brake pedal. You fear the worst, but can feel some relief because the car stops on the outcropping of rock and crumbling asphalt masquerading as a parking spot to observe the natural beauty about which you have heard. The natural beauty ... you decide, logic and good sense having abandoned you several miles ago, to get out of the car to take some photos and notice a yellow sign with the black shadow figure of a pick-up truck being struck by falling rocks.

She screams, shattering any illusion you may have had that you will make it either ahead to Logan Pass or back, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DON'T MOVE! GET BACK IN THE CAR! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE ... BEFORE YOU FALL OVER THE EDGE!" Her screams, the sign, the crumbling roadway, the yellow lines to oblivion winding around the final bend in the Going-to-the-Fucking-Sun Road ... you back away from the champagne-colored Nissan Sentra with Idaho plates, just in case the parking space should break away, making a 9,000 foot free fall, taking Aspens and evergreens with it. And you force your hands to move, to snap the final photos of your life, not sure the natural beauty will be clear, hands tingling, shoulders hurting, legs wobbly.

You slip back into the car, telling her to get ahold of herself, jam the car into "D," step on the gas, and turn the wheel counter-clockwise, trying to get more than the 2 1/2 turns, power steering hissing at you, the wall at the other edge of the road looming ahead. You could make it ... you might make it ... fuck it if you don't ... drive through it if you have to. You let the wheel spin back, having missed the wall by inches, probably violating all kinds of federal laws in the process ... you are headed back down, the perpendicular drop now on your left, separated now by eight or seven or six feet, magnitudes more than on the drive up, and the sheer rock wall from which the roadway was carved, millions of tons of rock hanging overhead, over which you have no control. And that, as you ride the brake down the mountainside, the "Loop" coming up, is somehow comforting.

Nobody told us the truth.

BACK FROM THE EDGE

heh. we're back from montana.

jax is doing great. really. we're throwing EVERYTHING at this. i can see that if this treatment hadn't been court ordered, i might have felt that he was "good to go" when he got out of jail. thank god there are others involved. bill. j's probation officer. god. jax, of course.

he is in the right place. it's a working cattle ranch. he works hard. on the ranch and with his recovery. group/family sessions were both highly emotional and highly rewarding. jax is amazing.

right now, he's on a 20-day camping trip in yellowstone. a very remote area, evidently, as the ranch cowboys will have to take horses in to where they are to restock at 10 days.

he'll spend about a week back at the ranch before he heads to 3/4 housing in palm beach, florida, for 6-9 months. he'll work and pay all the costs of the program himself. i'll miss him like HELL, but, again, thank god that i'm not in control.

the family week program ended thursday. bill and i took a drive on the going-to-the-sun road in glacier national park. yeah, it was beautiful. blah, blah, blah. but. BUT. i hadn't spent nearly enough time considering why it was named "going-to-the-sun." bill's writing about the "experience." still, i'm glad we did it. i hope he is.

btw, i handled the flying really well. i'm proud of myself.

montana's different than cleveland. i'm glad to be home. one of the oddest (most unusual to me as a clevelander) things is these little espresso places ALL OVER THE PLACE. on first glance, you might wonder how good the beverages might be. our first try was a whopping 24-ounce latte for the ca-razy price of $2.00! and it was good! below is a picture of our favorite stop. look at the size of this place!

ttyl!