The Railroad Crew

Colored pencil. A 400 hour labor of love. Actual railroad crew in the Oregon Siskiyous around the mid-1920's.

I've discovered I like to listen to Cajun music while I floss my teeth. I also like to drink and make blog postings.

INTERVIEW WITH THE FLY

By Ken Cook

ME: O.K. let’s cut to the chase. I heard it said once that an optimist is someone who actually believes the fly is looking for a way out of your house. This suggests, of course, that a pessimist is someone who believes the fly is there for the long run and plans to land on as many food items as possible, regurgitate fly stomach fluids and lay eggs. What’s the real story? What are you guys up to when you buzz endlessly from one end of the house to the other?

FLY: I’ll try to be brief. Not only because that is a question with deep philosophical implications and could take days to answer properly, but because flies have about the same life span as a detergent bubble and I could be dead before we get anything resolved.

Mainly, the endless buzzing through the house thing has to do with attention span. The average fly has none. Therefore, by the time he has reached, say mid-house, he has forgotten where he started from and what the heck he’s doing there in the first place. Why does he just keep going as if there is some destination in mind? It goes right back to the optimist-pessimist thing. Every fly in the world is hatched with one burning purpose in mind - to find that Grand Kahuna pile of waste material that is going to change his life forever.

ME: What is a fly’s greatest natural enemy?

FLY: I would have to say glass.

ME: Glass?

FLY: Yeah. You’d think that with as many eyes as we have it would be easy to see that stuff and avoid it, especially in those houses where the owner has never even HEARD of Windex. But it’s a story that endlessly repeats itself. Fly goes through house seeking refreshment, sees light, goes toward it and WHAP! Sudden unplanned stop with absolutely no warning.

ME: Hurts, huh?

FLY: What do you think, Einstein?

ME: There’s no need to be impolite here.

FLY: Sorry, it’s just that if you happened to run into an invisible barrier with your head maybe 300 times a day, instantly compressing it into a space that could not be comfortably occupied by an amoeba you’d be a little surly too.

ME: Nothing personal of course but that’s got to affect the old IQ a little bit too.

FLY: Well certainly it would if we kept our brains in our heads.

ME: Where are your brains located?

FLY: Well, its kind of an involuntary evolution thing. After that first collision with the glass, our brains are usually relocated to about where a liver would be found on any other living creature.

ME: One thing I have to know. Why the mouth? Why does every fly I encounter go directly for my mouth without hesitation. In fact, I can see that you are fascinated with it as well. What gives?

FLY: At the risk of sounding redundant, let me briefly reiterate my point about a fly’s burning, inborn need to find that one waste dump that is going to change him into an eagle among flies, the fly messiah if you will. Your mouth has many of the legendary properties of that fabled place.

ME: Your saying my mouth smells like...?

FLY: If your mouth was a store, it would NOT be Flowers R Us.

ME: Moving on... Where do you guys go in the winter? I’ve never seen flies traveling in a giant V toward Mazatlan in the fall. What’s the secret?

FLY: Did they teach you to ask stupid questions in Interviewer School? Do you think it would be a secret if every fly on earth just decided to blab about what has been a carefully guarded tradition for ages? If I were to tell you the answer to where we hide in the winter I would be hunted down and tied to one of those giant mints you see in public bathrooms.

ME: If you tell, I’ll let you sit on the edge of my coffee cup and rub your legs in front of your mouth.

FLY: OK. We hide in exercise equipment and behind diet cookbooks.

ME: I knew a guy in Idaho who kept those sticky fly traps in his hog barn and at the end of each day would scrape them off into barrels. Last time I checked he had three fifty-five gallon drums of dead flies in the corner of his barn.

FLY: This was in Filer, Idaho right?

ME: Right.

FLY: He’s famous in the fly world. We use him as an example to scare our kids. We tell them if they don’t behave, we’re going to send them to Filer.

ME: Does it work?

FLY: You’ve forgotten what I said about our attention spans. Mostly the little maggots start hopping up and down and asking if they can take a friend.

ME: Anything else you can tell me about Fly culture?

FLY: Well, we have these sayings like “I would have loved to have been a human on the floor when that happened,” or “better keep your human zipped up,” but for the most part we don’t get together and socialize enough to establish much of a culture, not to mention the fact that a whole bunch of us tend to be born and then almost immediately meet our makers for one reason or another. It’s a hostile environment out there and it can be stressful. Heck, one minute you can be watching a human holding his screen mesh on a handle thingie and the next minute you’re strumming your little fly harp.

ME: That brings to mind my last question. Do flies believe in an afterlife?

FLY: You mean, is there something on the other side of that windshield? Oh yes, most flies believe there’s this huge pile of...

ME: Whoops, out of space. Next time: Interview with the Alien. Who REALLY makes those crop rings?

Next Call. Colored Pencil. 1999.

Steven Spielberg. Caricature circa 2001.

DIETING FOR DUMMIES

I’ve decided I’m too heavy. When I want to lose some unwanted weight, I will usually first try prayer. If that doesn’t work I will grudgingly turn to the choice of millions of other overweight Americans: Miracle weight loss pills.

Most of these run about $37 for a bottle of eight pills. If you look at the label, they all say something like “Guaranteed to work when used with a regular program of dieting and exercise.” Really? Call me crazy, but isn’t that like saying “Do not pass snowplow on right?” Do people really have to be told these things?

I’m not so overweight that I look like I should be floating over the Macy’s Day Parade with a string tied to my leg, but I’m about twenty pounds over what the “Ideal weight charts” say I should be. Never mind that these charts were conceived a thousand years ago by Asians whose diet consisted of small rocks once a month. Dessert consisted of a stick. (“Quit hogging stick!”)

I have a real problem believing a healthy six foot man should weigh a hundred and seventy-five pounds. Maybe a week after he has passed away in the desert.

One birthday, my metabolism simply stopped. Took a hike. Walked into the sunset. Vanished. It was replaced by a burning need to say one thing a hundred different ways.

When the doctor tells you that the only way to compensate for a missing metabolism is more exercise, it’s like waking up in a hospital bed and being told everything below your neck is gone. Your life has changed completely (but achieving your “ideal weight” is now a snap.)

Not that I mind exercise, but I’m one of those that have never even touched the knob of the door that leads to the exercise room in a hotel. I have glanced nervously through the window at the dusty equipment lots of times.

My wife and I took a cruise once. Amazingly, the exercise room on the ship had lots of people in it every day. We discovered it was members of the crew. They knew none of the guests would come in there to ask them for umbrella drinks or towels.

When your metabolism skips out the door, it usually takes your energy level with it. I’ve heard normally clear thinking adults say “I wish I had his energy” as they stare at a three year old who looks like he’s just had sugar enhanced jet fuel for lunch. Does that mean that they want to zip around the room crashing into things and then at some point fall onto the dog in a deep sleep?

To boost my morale while dieting, I’ll turn the knob on the scales back a little, but it tends to alarm my wife. (“Honey, the cat doesn’t weigh anything.”)

I once tried jogging but nobody told me you have to warm up before breaking into a run. I almost made it across our lawn before turning blue and flopping around on the ground.

We’ve bought the usual array of exercise equipment. The biggest benefit from any of it comes from carrying it into the house and setting it up. It has been educational. I know now that you can hang more clothes on a Bowflex than a Stairmaster.

I’ve had friends rave about their fad diets (“Well, I lost thirty pounds just by drinking green coffee and mowing the lawn in a parka”) and this led me to come up with my own great fad diet idea. (Come on, if a house-sized Dr. Phil can give diet advice, so can I) It involves hanging a salmon around your neck and then looking for a pack of pit bulls. Of course, it’s a special salmon that you can only buy from me.

This time I’m really serious about losing weight. Please don’t try to give me helpful advice. I already know what works. Just nod encouragingly and pass the rocks.

Dubya.

THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

So why is it called “CSI” on CBS and “CSU” on NBC?

When Christopher Meloni of Law and Order, Special Victims Unit barks “Let’s get CSU here right away” I get confused. Why does he have to bark? Why can’t he just say it?

I know CSI means “Crime Scene Investigation” and NBC doesn’t want to plug a rival, but CSU? That sounds like a computer part. What does it stand for? I turned to my dictionary, which had several words that start with u. “Crime Scene Ukulele?” Crime Scene Ukranian?”

Also, how come when the teams from either network approach the victim they just know automatically that he or she is dead? I saw a lot of guys in college that looked a heck of a lot worse the morning after than some of those corpses. I have pictures to prove it. The coroner would pronounce from these pictures.

“Crime Scene Umbrage?”

CSI has been such huge success that we have seen roughly 34 spinoffs from the original CSI Las Vegas. It’s been like throwing water on a gremlin. I know they are going to eventually run out of the glamour cities and start using small towns in South Dakota. (CSI Pukwana.)

I know you are wondering what I did with those pictures from college. In consideration of the reputations of some of these guys they are in a safe place on the internet. Don’t ask, because I would never say where unless, maybe you sent me money.

“Crime Scene Underwear?”

I’ll bet real crime scene investigators are envious of some of the equipment they have on CSI (not to mention the hot women investigators). When he can’t find evidence the old fashioned way, (by stepping on it) William Peterson will bark something like “Get me the findbloodulator out of the van.”

One of his helpers will run (in slo-mo, hair waving with all their internal body parts graphically displayed) and grab an item that looks like two View-masters taped together then Peterson will solve the crime with it.

Now there’s nothing wrong with recycling props from the Star Wars movies to be used on TV, but I’ll bet money that real crime victims who watch a lot of TV and have “reality discernment” issues are probably already demanding that their own cases get solved this easily.

Speaking of Star Wars, there’s a franchise that has turned into a crime scene. What was George Lucas thinking when he came up with Jar Jar Binks? I was hoping against hope that the fifth installment was going to start with the ghastly murder of Jar Jar behind the opening credits and the investigators from “a long time ago and a galaxy far far away” would show up and say “Never mind, it’s Jar Jar. Put the findbloodulator back in the van.”

Another tool that shows up on every crime related movie or TV show is that magical “enhance” button. Grim looking investigators will be staring over a techie’s shoulder at a computer screen. The image looks like the inside of a nasal passage. One of the CSUs (I give up) will yell “enhance.” The techie’s fingers will fly over the keys and suddenly the image looks like a page out of a Where’s Waldo book.

I think it would be cool if CSI had guest celebrities playing the victims each week. Paris Hilton for instance. (“Looks like she tried to say a long word and choked to death.”)

Or Bob Dylan: (“We just found him blowin’ in the wind.”)

Donald Trump: (“There was a disgruntled ex-employee hiding in his hair.”)

Richard Gere: (“No cause of death yet but we found a couple of gerbils.”)

“Crime Scene Undulation?”

I call this "Harry and the King."

Another caricature. This one's from 2001 also.

Clayton and Willie. New Mexico, maybe 1910-1920. One's a distant relative. The other isn't.

AT THE SUSHI BAR

by

Ken Cook

It wasn’t until we went to the sushi bar that I realized my wife and her boss were trying to kill me.

Oh, they acted like nothing was wrong, and that we were all just out having some good clean fun, but the terrible truth was revealed all too soon.

It started out innocently enough earlier that day. I was at work when the phone rang.

“Hi honey, do you want to join Dave and I for some drinks after work?” My wife asked coyly. “We’re going to the Oak Tavern with Sherry and Dina and we’d love it if you and the other husbands would come along.”

“Sounds great,” I said. “I’ve had kind of a stressful day and could use the R and R.”

When I arrived at the Oak after work, I discovered that the only ones that had made it for drinks were my wife and Dave, her boss. I should have suspected something then, but I gullibly accepted the lame explanation that Dina and Sherry had needed to go home after work because they were “tired.” Too tired for drinks? Dina “Party Til You’re Dead” Kramer was legendary for drinking most men under the table, and Sherry “The Sieve” Johnson was legendary for keeping up with her. Dina and Sherry being too tired for drinks was like the tides being too tired to go out.

Still, I blissfully went ahead and joined in the festivities as if no major upheaval in the very fabric of existence had just occurred.

We drank. We laughed. We got hungry.

I don’t know whose idea it was to go to the sushi bar, but I greeted the suggestion with an enthusiasm that I usually reserved for rectal itch. I tried to tactfully sway them toward something that was actually intended to be eaten by human beings, but they wouldn’t budge.

“Come on,” My wife urged mockingly. “You might even decide you like it.”

“Do I look like a very large fish?” I asked desperately. “Because that’s the only thing that is supposed to eat fish raw. Except maybe bears and a few desperate Japanese. But they have been brainwashed since birth into believing that it’s perfectly natural to skip critical seafood preparation steps.”

My wife wouldn’t let up. I finally relented when her barbs about my reluctance to swallow raw fish started to carry the inference that I was somehow lacking in masculinity.

We entered the place and my hopes shot skyward. It was packed with people who seemed to actually be enjoying what they were doing. Maybe they weren’t looking at what they were putting in their mouths. Anyway, there was no obvious open tables.

“Well, it looks like we’re out of luck,” I almost shouted. “Better head for those golden arches.”

My wife shot me a look that almost caused chromosome damage. I knew that I had lost several points with my choice of alternate eateries, especially in front of her boss. Just then a smiling hostess saved my marriage, but put my life back in danger.

“Table for three?” She asked as if that was her job.

My wife and her boss spoke in unison. “Yes, that would be great.”

They exchanged a look that made a little red flag start to slowly unfurl in my self preservation instinct headquarters. What did that look mean? Why were they nervously glancing in my direction?

A table suddenly appeared from nowhere as if it had been pushed up through the floor by demons. While the waitress was seating us and handing out menus, my feelings of unease grew. Before I could get too deeply into the depths of paranoia, the sake arrived.

I saw the mysterious pale container full of mysterious pale liquid as the answer to my dilemma regarding the raw fish. If I drank enough of this before the meal arrived, I could eat a plate of live eels. I shoved aside the little foo foo glass that came with the rice wine and began to drink straight from the bottle. Once again I caught my wife and her boss giving me a funny look. They quickly turned away and ordered another bottle of sake. What was going on here, and how was I supposed to know that those stupid little bottles weren’t individual servings?

The sake began to have it’s desired effect and I started to warm to what we were doing. I opened the menu and tried to decide what to have for dinner. It wasn’t easy because none of the words on the menu had any meaning whatsoever. They looked like an insect genetics experiment that had gone horribly awry and had then been hidden inside the menu. The words were as inscrutable as our hovering waitress. Dave pulled me out of this particular dilemma. “Just let me order,” he said. “I guarantee you’ll like it.”

I foolishly took him at his word and ordered another bottle of sake. I was cleverly able to do that by holding up the empty bottle, grinning idiotically and slurring “More.”

The waitress turned her attention to Dave and began to smile and nod as he pointed to various items on that sinister menu. I felt a pressure that told me I was going to have to find the restroom. I started to worry that the doors would have Japanese characters on them instead of the familiar American designations. This would force me to wait outside the bathroom until somebody else had to go. My fear was unfounded. The restrooms had no doors at all. I reasoned that this was so the patrons would have a clear shot at the toilets when the fish refused to stay down.

When I returned to the table, I saw that our first course had arrived. My wife and her boss were chewing, or pretending to chew, vigorously. They both looked up and then pointed approvingly at the repast before them. I sat down and studied what had been served to us. It appeared to have only recently stopped moving. The fish strips had been rolled and stuffed with various items that were supposed to pass for food, but looked more like what native Africans quickly grind together and slap on a fresh wound.

I bravely popped one of the rolls of fish into my mouth and, much to my surprise, found that I actually liked it. It was soft and chewy, although somewhat salty, and it had a pleasant flavor that only mildly suggested fish. I began to eat the rest with gusto.

I grabbed the last item on the plate, which didn’t resemble the fish rolls at all and popped it into my mouth. I then reached for the newly arrived bottle of wine. Once again Dave was staring at me, but this time he made no attempt to disguise his horror and astonishment. This was the last straw, I was about to chastise him for this whether he was my wife’s boss or not, but he beat me to the punch.

He could barely talk but was able to say “You’re not supposed to eat that!”

Knowing that Dave liked to joke around, and that I was probably being set up, I forced myself to smile and continued to chew. I wasn’t going to take the bait.

“No, I’m serious. Nobody eats that, it’s not edible!” Dave was beside himself.

I felt the stirring of panic. Dave’s performance took on an earnestness that an accomplished actor would have trouble mustering. Also, the flavor of the stuff in my mouth had worked it’s way through my sake sodden taste buds big time. I had once accidently gotten a Handi-Wipe in my mouth and the taste was very similar, only magnified twenty times. I thought the flesh was going to start sliding off my face.

It all became crystal clear at that moment. My wife and her boss had lured me here to cleverly kill me and make it look like an innocent accident. Dina and Sherry had never really been invited, my wife said that to allay my suspicions. They hadn’t wanted any witnesses to my “accidental” demise. The decision to go to the sushi bar had been made far in advance of this evening, and they must have had an accomplice in the kitchen who prepared the deadly mix I’d just tossed down. The toxic wad in my mouth was probably worse than the stuff that comes out of a blowfish if you clean it wrong. Many Japanese gourmets have joined their ancestors because of that stuff. The room began to sway, and then disappeared altogether.

Suddenly I was in a long tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a brilliant light. There was music playing somewhere. I was drawn to the light and moved toward it as if by magic. As I got closer I could make out a being standing in the entrance to the tunnel. The being seemed to be made of light. I could sense that he was filled with unconditional love and forgiveness. He also seemed to be somewhat annoyed.

As I got closer to him he said, “Go back to the restaurant. You’re not dying and nobody is trying to kill you. You just ate a big glob of ginger.”

Instantaneously, I was back in the sushi bar. I opened my eyes and everyone in the suddenly silent room was staring at me. None of them could believe I had just eaten the ginger. Dave and my wife were completely mortified.

We hurriedly paid our bill and left.

A couple of years have passed, but we have never been back to that restaurant.

My wife seems to like her new job, but we never socialize with co-workers.

I’ve heard from various sources that there has been an addition to the sushi bar. A small sign on each table that reads “Don’t Eat The Ginger.”

In my ongoing attempt to post everything I've ever drawn or written in my life onto this blog, here is a caricature of Angelina Jolie's significant other done around 2001.

Here's a sketch of Sean Connery I did in 1990.

It seems fitting that I post this caricature I did in 2001, now that Tiger Woods is returning to the public eye.

Here's a short story I wrote in the early nineties that won "best of pub" award for that month in the small magazine that published it:

GUCKS

By Ken Cook

Listen! I can hear them coming. Got to get ready. Can’t let them know I’m here. I’ll crouch behind this lawn chair and wait. They’ve stopped just around the corner of the house and are murmuring to each other as if they know that I’m here and what I have planned for them.

There! the first one is sticking his head around the corner and surveying the scene with his evil, beady little eyes.

Amazingly, he doesn’t see me behind the chair and keeps on coming. Got to wait until all three are on the deck before I launch my attack. The other two are in sight now. They’ve jumped up on the deck. They’re coming right at me, blindly following their leader, oblivious to the danger. I grip the garbage can lid tightly in my right hand and start to tense up, preparing to spring forth. The broken broomstick in my left hand is poised and ready to strike. They’re five feet away. Can’t wait any longer. With a mighty roar I jump from behind the chair, banging on the garbage can lid with the broomstick.

“YOU GUCKS GET OFF THE DECK!” I yell.

Unfortunately, the plastic arm of the lawn chair has become broken and jagged from months of use and seems to reach out and grab the zipper of my pants as I leap upward. The zipper and about two feet of cloth are immediately separated from the rest of the pants. In one of those amazing “freak of inertia” moments, the lawn chair is hurtled up and outward, landing just beyond the madly fleeing ducks. This causes them to instantly reverse direction and come screaming toward me at the speed of light, spraying feathers and other assorted duck debris.

Stunned by this turn of events, I’m no match for the momentum of the three oversized birds. They easily bowl me over and then disappear around the corner of the house, emitting panicked cries of “WACK WACK WACK.” I look down at the moist, pliable substance that I’ve come to rest on, and remember why I was trying to keep the “gucks” off the deck in the first place.

They were so cute when they first arrived. It was the weekend we had moved to our new “mini farm” in the country. My sister-in-law gave them to us as a housewarming present. I made a mental note to reciprocate soon, maybe with a box of bees.

Our two year old niece had run up to the box that was doing all the cheeping and looked in.

“Gucks!” She had yelled. We thought she had been trying to say “ducks”, but as it turned out, she had been prophecying.

The title stuck. They were kind of irresistable at that age. Little beaks and webbed feet, constantly in motion. I had reached in and picked one up and it immediately nestled down in my hands and bonded with me.

“Uh oh,” My wife said. “She’s had a little accident.”

I looked at my dripping hands. That “little accident” would have put some horses to shame. After that, it seemed like at least one of the gucks was having an accident at any given time. All they seemed to do was eat, grow and have accidents. Of course, the accidents grew in proportion to the birds. When they were about half way grown we decided to start letting them outside during the day. We brought them inside for the night, so the coyotes wouldn’t get them. They loved to hang out on the back deck and before long, the deck was covered end to end with accident. They were fully grown before long and we started leaving them out all night. From time to time I found myself staring at the deck, trying to remember what color it had been, and fantasizing about staking the gucks out near where I had seen a coyote track.

They seemed to sense that my attitude had slowly changed toward them and started avoiding me. Pretty soon I started finding accidents in the strangest places. I had been reading a book out on the back deck one day and had left it on the little plastic table that came with the lawn chairs. The next day it was covered with accident. The gucks couldn’t fly so it was a mystery how they managed to get the accident up so high. I began to think that maybe they had secretly retractable legs like the cartoon characters my kids liked to watch on Saturday mornings. (The Mighty Guckbots)? On subsequent occasions I found drinking glasses, my car, and even the walls of the house covered with accident. I was determined to find out how the gucks were doing it.

One night I went out and deliberately placed a pair of my best shoes on the table on the back deck, then I went through the house turning off lights and pretending to go to bed. Then I snuck to the back door, quietly opened it a crack, and waited. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before I heard the murmuring of the gucks. At just the moment when I thought that they had enough time to reach the shoes and stage the “accident”, I pulled the door open and flipped on the back porch light at the same time. There, frozen like deer in a car’s headlights, were the three gucks. Two of the gucks were holding the third one over my shoes. The mystery was solved. Of course, the sudden lights, noise and motion frightened the guck held aloft so badly that it had the biggest accident of all time on my shoes, something I had been hoping to prevent.

Since that night it has been all out war between me and the gucks, and so far they’ve been winning. Now I’m ready to try my last desperate weapon. I figure if gucks can learn to work together to plant fake accidents, then surely coyotes can learn to read a map to my back deck.

Now that no one is paying attention, I'm going to start posting my most secret thoughts to this blog. Just having a little trouble coming up with one right now, but I know I have some.