A Friend in Need is a Friend, Indeed

 On the northeastern-most point of the continental United States of America lies a small hamlet of fishermen, lobstermen, vacationg-oers, and regular ol’ people. “Take the bridge ovah to Canada” they say, while others suggest “go and get yahself a lobstah roll.” Lubec is a town where people live and breathe all things Maine.

After a brief hiatus in digitally-archiving the written documentation of lived-in experiences, known to some as “Blogging,” the author resumes the story on a pleasant, summer evening stroll down Johnson St, hand in hand with his cherished wife, en-route to dinner at a restaurant in the small downtown of Lubec, ME.

Johnson St hugs the northern shoreline of Lubec, looking down upon the small fleet of sailboats, fishing boats, and islands that dot the waters of Johnson Bay. The street is mostly vacant aside from a number of parked cars with Massachusetts and New York license plates, and the occasional traffic of local residents and tourists. Traveling north on Johnson St has a person appreciating the sights and smells of plentiful beach rose along the street to the right, and at this time of day a beautiful sunset to the left. 

The author and his wife deeply enjoy each others’ company and consider each other to be best friends. As best friends do, engaging discussion is had, but silence can also be appreciated together. Having just begun the descent of the hill over by Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant, the happy couple, who happen to be celebrating their 12th wedding anniversary, can see two young lads up ahead, off in the distance. 

The two young lads appear to be of middle school or early high school age, and are clearly enjoying their summer vacation in each others’ company. The lads are aimlessly walking around town that night, doing what youngsters do, and doing a damn good job of it. 

One of the lads, outfitted in matching shorts and tee shirt of varying tones of pink, is walking on the eastern-most part of the road, closest to the beach roses. The lad seems to have a sudden burst of silly, youthful energy, and begins moving erratically. As he approaches a larger section of flora in his path, he begins making motions as though he would like to either poke or karate chop the plant. His arm extends and his hand moves towards the leaves and flowers that are there. Still several hundred feet away, it is clear that the youngster in pink is saying something to his friend as he continues to prod the plant, yet it is not clear exactly what the youngster is saying. Only soft murmurs can be heard. That is, until the lad suddenly emits a loud yowling howl and can be seen quickly jumping away and clutching his hand. Over the soft splash of the gentle crashing waves, his voice can be heard yelling, “Oh fuck! I just got stung by a bee! Ow!!” 

The lad continues a celebratory dance sequence of shaking his hand vigorously, then clutching it, while taking short but energized steps forward. Perhaps the youngster is trying to impress his friend, or some apparent but invisible desired mate, as peacocking youngsters often do. While his dance conveys a victory of some sort, it also appears to be marked by a more sombre yet urgent tone. The lad’s dance continues for about a minute until the two lads jointly turn left and move up a hill towards a rock perch, where they go to sit and contemplate their shared experiences and observations of life as they know it.

A Moment of Silence

I'm sitting in the far back corner of a Dairy Queen in Capitola, CA, a small and privileged seaside town, enjoying the company of my new "buddy". This new "buddy" of mine is a fifteen-year-old Down's syndrome kid who I hang out with on Mondays and Wednesdays from 2:45 when he gets off the bus, until 5:45 when our last game of Wii Bowling is about over.
His father provided the $2.50 for the size large, vanilla soft-serve in a cup that my buddy is enjoying. I am not eating ice cream, I am simply there for the good company.
The lighting inside is somewhat dim, much of which is provided by the setting sun which pours through the large glass windows surrounding us. Sunlight shines through an adjacent woman's tall, well put-together hair which reminds me of a mix of a clown's wig and an 18th-century hair style. She is enjoying a sundae, being careful not to get much of her indulgence all over her face, thus having to completely reapply her makeup, which she conveniently has laid out on the table in front of her.
My buddy takes his time with his ice cream, savoring each bite. Aside from occasionally having to remind him to wipe milky drool from the corners of his mouth, which is in the form of a big old grin, I am able to become completely saturated in the calmness of the situation, allowing myself to relax and slow down for a second. Appropriately, I enjoy the moment of silence- a title I give based on the lack of speech or unnecessary human-made sound, for the room is not completely silent; the soothing melodies of The Moody Blues and their hit song, "Nights of White Satin" lightly plays over the ceiling-mounted speakers.
During this moment of silence, I stare out the window across from me, behind my buddy, behind the booth we are sitting at. There is an active intersection with a coffee shop diagonal from us, some people are sitting outside. I notice a man run into the middle of the intersection to pick up a pair of black Levi's (I can tell by the large rectangular tan tag) and run back to the umbrella-covered table he was sitting at. Within seconds, a man with his young son approach the Dairy Queen on a large electric stand up scooter. Only seconds later, the adjacent woman with the large red hair stands up and leaves the establishment, walking towards her car which is parked in front of a tap dancing studio. Pimply faced high school students run by each of the three windowed walls on the outside of the restaurant, eventually making their way in. My moment of silence is over as they squeeze into a booth behind me, gossiping.

'Tis the Season

As a native East Coaster, I should know by now that when spending any amount of time, at any location on the east, during the winter months, it is only common sense to wear plenty of layers of warm clothing. To think that one could simply bypass this unwritten law by only remaining indoors is just plain silly.
Luckily for me, the above idea was not one that I thought. Rather, in my case, I was just not thinking straight. For on my departure from Santa Cruz, CA, on the night of December 20, 2009, I forgot to bring my winter coat with me. As I had been so used to wearing nothing more than a hooded sweatshirt during my outings around town, basking in the so-called "Mediterranean climate" of my seaside town, the thought of bringing my winter coat simply slipped my mind.
This unfortunate circumstance of traveling to the frigid state of Massachusetts during winter brought forth feelings of doom and gloom. Would I freeze to death? Perhaps not, that might be considered a stretch. But whatever the case, I knew I would be a cold, cold person.
I managed to avoid the stormy weather that fell upon Massachusetts merely days before my arrival. The first morning of waking up in Massachusetts, I was greeted with clear skies and sunshine. I was able to get by without a winter coat for some time at least.
Later that first day, I went on an outing with my father: to go run errands. Luck was on my side that day, for on our excursion, we happened to be passing by a thrift store named "Savers". In the nick of time, I was able to persuade my dad to pull into the parking lot and allow me some time to enter this store, "Savers", in order to purchase a used winter coat--one I could keep at my home location of Massachusetts for future cold seasons.
I entered the store, with a quick stride made my way over to the coat aisle. I began flipping through the jackets, looking for one with optimal insulation, a proper fit, and stylish looks. My father was assisting me in finding the right jacket.
We felt we were nearing the end of our search, with no results, until out of the blue I found the perfect jacket, hidden between a couple of extra-large jackets. It was sporty in style, black in color, well insulated, and a good fit (size Medium). It was one of the few jackets there with minimal details: no belts or buckles, no flashy neon shapes, just a straightforward coat; it just happened to have the name "Dave" embroidered on the left sleeve in yellow thread.
I was accepting of this name on the sleeve, for if this was the only little detail on the jacket that otherwise made it very simple, I would wear the name proudly.
At a price of $4.99, I considered this jacket to be quite the steal.
Leaving the store, I put the coat on, and was instantly gratified with its warmth and comfort. I climbed into my dad's truck and we left the parking lot, headed home.
On the drive home, my dad and I exchanged many jokes, some of which were based on this new coat of mine. Suddenly, my dad reminded himself that my mom had asked for a bottle of wine. We took a slight detour on our return trip home, and headed for the liquor store. Having missed drinking east coast beers for quite some time, I decided I too would get something at the store. We pulled into the parking lot of Jason's Variety Store in Acushnet and entered the store. My dad walked over to the wine section and I to the beer coolers (which were pretty small and limited in terms of "local beers", for the record) and picked out a 6-pack of Samuel Adams Winter Ale. I began walking back towards the check out counter, and out of habit placed my hand in the coat's left front pocket. My hand was instantly greeted with the feeling of crumpled paper. I was a bit startled at first, but curiously kept my hand in and grasped the crumpled paper, then slowly and cautiously removing my hand and the paper together.
Inside my closed fingers was a wad of cash: two one-dollar bills.

I would now like to take this time to sincerely thank Dave, whomever you may be, for this gift of $2.00. For your kind donation, and light-hearted, thoughtful placement of the money brought not only a few hedons of pleasure, but also lowered the price of that old jacket of yours to $2.99, excluding tax. I will wear your name proudly.

Forest Findings Vol. 1

Once upon a time, I was walking through a grove of tall redwood trees, entering upon a small clearing-- a circle of trees if you will, and found this photograph on the ground in the center of the circle.
At first, I hesitated on picking it up, as I was a bit startled and confused to see an artificial object such as this, so far out in the woods, and I also felt a strange and overwhelming ominous invisible presence from within the clearing.
Feeling nervous and paranoid, as well as a little cold from the deep shade of this strange clearing, I quickly picked up the photograph, placed it into my pocket, and walked far away from the clearing, never to return.

Intelligence

I really enjoy this video. I think it really sums up the fact that other species outside of the human species possess a high level of intelligence we (as humans) cannot really comprehend. It's all a matter of finding the right methods for communicating this intelligence: the right questions to ask, and how to read the answers.
I feel as though much of what I'm saying here references (or nearly quotes) a book I read recently by Jeremy Narby, "Intelligence in Nature". I highly recommend this book as he is able to elaborate and cite specific examples of successful human observations (interactions?) with the intelligence of other species.

The Universal Face

12 images of a face, various ethnicities/genders, compiled using 20% opacity in Photoshop.

Sparks

I find myself at the local 7-11, standing in line with a case of Fat Tire beer. There is a short line in front of me, two people to be exact.
The man at the front of the line is nearly finished paying and completing his transaction, and the man directly in front of me is smiling along to a catchy pop tune on the radio; the atmosphere is somewhat pleasant.
We'll call the man directly in front of me "Bill", for the sake of being a bit more personal here.
It is time for Bill to purchase the items he has collected at the store. He places them on the counter, a four-pack of Budweiser tall cans, and what I believe to be a snack food in a blue wrapper.
Bill and the man working the cash register exchange a few words of small talk and suddenly Bill asks the cashier, "Do you guys sell any Codo beer?"
"Codo beer!?", the cashier replies.
"Yeah, my friend told me you guys sell Codo beer, where would I find it?"
"At the Codo Beer Store? I don't know, man, we don't sell no Codo beer! I've never even heard of it!"
The cashier glances over to me, we exchange humorous grins.
"My friend said you would have it here.", Bill says in an almost accusatory tone.
"I'm not jivin' on you, but we don't sell no Codo beer! You're gonna have to look somewhere else. Why don't you get a Sparks or something?"
Bill accepts the fact that Codo beer is not sold at this 7-11, and engages in more small talk. The cash register adjacent to the one Bill is at then opens, it is my turn to purchase my selection. I step over to the register, greet the cashier, and pay for my case of beer. I have difficulty in remembering my PIN number for my debit card, thus having to complete the transaction by pressing the "credit" button on the card reader.