American Awakening

   
   "American Awakening"
   
   It's like men can be men again, or a Commander in Chief is showing us--it's okay to be men, and he's doing it rather bluntly--doesn't he have to?
   My Pap up in Pittsburgh drove coal trucks, worked in factories, and was the toughest man I ever met.  I was never ashamed of him--why the hell would I be?  A 4th grade education, yet fluent in the Slavic languages, and was UP on Tesla way back before the modern re-discovery of the Serbian genius.  
   I ran papers; next, warehouse drop leader; then, more elevation; furthermore, management--in charge of an entire county.  Still, I felt ashamed--many people saying it was a nothing job; however, one lady in the family told me to never be ashamed of a job, knowing I was pretty much allergic to people and couldn't crank out a bowel evacuation amid the static of society.  I'd go home at night and read books by Voltaire, Fyodor himself, Joyce, Proust--and then when I would mention these men in front of the so-called educated--nobody knew what I was talking about, looking at me like I was a lunatic because I wasn't down with the TWILIGHT nonsense or whatever--I prefer the classic vampire/werewolf--if I wend my way weird.  But as one of Voltaire's characters mentioned in a novella:  "To hell with the classics.  They don't make me happy."  So now, I just read STAR WARS books, and I feel stupid about it.  Oh well, make yourselves like children the Messiah says.  Always liked Han and Chewie, and I saw the original cinematic presentation back in the day, so many times so, that I was driving my mother crazy about it.  Every weekend I pleaded to see it again and again.
   "Obi-Wan?  Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time, a long time."  

Werefox Vaquero--Poodle-ishish

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Poodle--ishish"
  
   Max slowly sauntered into the dog breeder's mobile home.  Was invited.  Had strawberry chaw under the lip.  Had formed his own pocket, fella.  The dog breeder was your quintessential Bubba Cheese fixture--what you might dub an Uncle Jesse type.  In front of him, was a golden poodle.  Dog breeder said his name (dog breeder's name mind ya) was Country.  
  
MAX
Is that the dog?

COUNTRY
Boy, you can't see, hum?  Damn straight!  Looky here boy--ya got your miniature poodle, your standard poodle; next, your toy poodle.  Canis lupus familiaris, ya here.  Germans say they're from France, and hell--works for me, boy.  Now, you gonna purchase this sum bitch?

MAX
Of course.  The poodle approached Max, sniffed him, rolled over; then, stood up, wagged his tail, and showed an affectionate posture.  Max gave the elegant soul a swift pet--it was loyalty at first sight.  Yeah, I'll take the pooch.  I haven't been greeted like this, well--ever.  Too, this is a metaphorical pleasure to John Steinbeck venturing with Charlie.   
  
   Junkyard knew that was his name.  Wagging his tail as he and Max strutted out, not like dirty disco, but with swift elegance.  Friends can be made, if you don't care who gets the credit.  

Big Trouble in Little China Toast

Laird Hamilton: Feature Interview Preview

Werefox Vaquero--a walk in the park

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--a walk in the park"
   
   They called it Classic Rock now.  Max was kinda/sorta a young whippersnapper, though he adored the classics, once having watched an old concert by a rock band, the guitarist saying that the electrical song about to be played had nothing to do with alcoholism, nor a lewd lifestyle; specifically, it was a symbolic walk in the park.
   Max knew that wolves spent 80% of their day walking.  In almost constant motion.  Upon that wildlife knowledge, not esoteric a bit--he decided to get a dog.  A pal.  A loyal sidekick and eager friend, always wanting to please; next, jump in a creek, and just be the perfect dog that God constructed it to be.
   Max knew about Coydogs, the Golden Retriever, the Pomsky, and the youthful spirit of the tough terrier.  He decided to grab an old school newspaper, see what was possibly happening outside of Arizona, and when at the convenience store, he also picked up some Gatorade and a pack of breath mints, very frosty, telling the cashier as he made his cowboy exit:  "Have a cool one, ma'am."
   Yeah, some folk still give a holler to hope and Heaven--casual cool.  

Coyote Culture--Native American

   
   "Coyote Culture--Native American"
   
   CANIS LATRANS--and there is a mighty amount of Canine Constellations, enough that a good dog makes friends with the eagle, for if God is praised, as mentioned by the bard/fighter David, transcending the harp, into an outshine of matter, going PURE ENERGY, an icy atomic bomb, not burning them with fire, for that was not King David's style, so I sense, yet he was as cold as beer-chilling ice, encompassing you with frigid water as he soaks the Bud Heavy, an eternal freeze, in Kennedy's coldest of hells; however, with the coyote--you must laugh.  The wise/fool always up for a pestering prance, a symbolic shape-shift, second unto the Great Spirit Itself, and Yahshua, under Occam's Razor, transfigures the chosen, if we choose ourselves not to start the fight, but in defense of an envious zeal, weakened by its own pride, hating the benevolent beauty of what they dub a beast, yet beasts themselves, when the American Coyote walks upon a poison Earth, yet attacks the venom, immune to such nonsense, as it accepts God does not make the cruel attempt to bind man, having shown so with Samson, and His own Son, though Samson and the Prophets and Kings, along with the Angels and Saints, and every man that knows there is an original rainbow, spangled by effulgence, like the Fourth of July lighting up a den of falsehoods, though not complaining, yet exposing, knowing the Eagle's quote, beyond canonization, ever true, and the Eagle heard the Sacred Heart beat, electrical and flowing with the pulse of generating water, a living water, a deep cold water, full of potently powerful grace, such as the wondrous Orca, revered and known for its flowing thunder beneath the life of liquid, sealing out the iniquitous impostors and their lascivious lusts, like on a dame's tail-end in her 4 wheel fixture, to a park, and revealing the belly of bogus, slaughtering the Valley Girl, and the Freedom of Taste, for does not taste lead to health?  Thus, if you have a gluttonous taste, forged in fake waters; as a result, the animism of nature exists, gelled for those in touch, beneath the Mother's reflection of Her Son, showcasing a Luminous Lady, a Mirror of Justice, a Hebrew mother fighting for Her Son, perpetually.  That is what births Her the eternal Victory of being a Mother, fashioned in forever.
  Connor Coyote dipped the chaw, favoring only his friendship with the mammals of the sea, every sea, and the canines on America's turf, chosen to support Israel, and backed by the Spirit of 1776, so Holy, and fully imbibed by men of archaic days, forbidden to be remembered, as is the Native American, shuffled aside, yet Jim Thorpe is remembered here, as is the elongated yip and yap of a trash-knowing coyote, not minding taking a dip in toxic sewage, for that is even the Wolverine's reward, if you show true love to a cruising canine, or a posturing critter soul-kissed by the shimmering Heavens, which illustriously illuminate an American Land.      

2012 Boss 302 0-100 MPH