Odd Lots
It's Saturday, and the turkey is hiding behind my van. Chayo went out to get the papers for us, and he spied on her from behind the bumper. "Turkey-turkey-turkey!" she called. "What? What? What?" he answered, hoping the Big Mammal (me) would appear with some tasty sunflowers seeds. I keep hoping he'll just move into Chayo's playhouse under the white birch tree and ride out the winter in there, watchiung turkey TV and chasing out the chipmunks and possums.

I can't be near my best friends, the aspens, here in lowland Illinois. But those holy paperbark birches are bright white and have the ol' heart-shaped leaves that quiver and quake just like the cottonwoods and aspens of my ol' Rocky Mtn home. The other day, the most uneventful miracle happened--I was out on the front porch, waiting for the school bus to drop off The Small One, and watching the Kwiatt's birches doing their best to look like a Boulder afternoon, when a squadron of jays appeared. Rusty squawlks and hearty brays as they ricocheted from three to tree--for a second, I was in Colorado. It was the strangest displacement. I mentioned it before on the blog, but it's still on my mind. It always seems impossible that shamans bi-locate--or claim to. You can't be in two places at once. But I know you can. Who's to say that at that very moment, a mountain biker speeding down Boulder Creek Path saw me there and said, "To your left!" as he passed and didn't notice I vanished before he was even out of range.

I live here, now. That's the rule. I just don't live in this place all the time. Live in this moment. Live in 100 places.

This week, I had my great 300 experience at U of Chicago. I also had an amazing experience at the branch library in the Chi barrio--Pilsen. 100 good people jammed the room, and we had a love-fest. I am always delighted when a Latino audience comes because they like to take a hundred snaposhots. I hug women all night long. It's the super-prom. Cinderella kindly looks the other way. Even the tough guys and homeboys come in for some photo-hugging. However, you might be amused to know that a fellow accused me of getting a monetary kick-back from the Border Patrol whenever I say something sympathetic about them. I almost fell out of my chair. In retrospect, I loved that comment more than any other for the week! I have laughed and laughed about it.

There is big juicy news on the Hummingbird movie. I'm not sure what I can tell you yet. You will forgive me if I'm cryptic. How about this for a clue? If you liked Pan's Labyrinth, you will enjoy The Hummingbird's Daughter. I'll tell you everything soon, I promise.

Finally, as I get ready to leave home on the ol' rock and roll bar band reading circuit, I will leave you with a couple of blog items. But probably nothing new for a while. Now that the computers are back, I can finally post the Wastelander UK Vol. II. Whew. Not that you're clamoring for it, but it does complete the UK entries. Makes a nice set. And the Wastelanders make me happy. Plus, just between thee and me, the UK sections complete the imagined Wastelander book I have built on disk. Yes. Make books. Make many books. My next Wastelander skectches will be the start of a second Wastelander book.

Also, there will be an Immigration Monday blog. The last for a while--I'll be out there talking immigration. No time to research and write.

Also, there is a new edition of Nobody's Son coming out. It has an all-new cover, designed to match The Devil's Highway. I am becoming the king of adobe red and cerulean blue--Mr. Southwest. But I'm excited because there are sections of that book that are the best non-fiction I've been able to create. Certainly better, to my eye, than the more famous Devil's H. Parts of Nobody's Son I would burn, only because I told you too much. And the parts the critics didn't like are my favorite parts. What are you gonna do? The human heart is perverse and willful!

Also, I am muy famoso this Fall. You can find some poems in the anthology, The City Visible: Chicago Poetry for the New Century, edited by William Allegrezza and Raymond Bianchi. I'd put the poems here, except I want those guys to make some sales. Besides, I cuss a lot in those poems, and I try to keep the fact that I'm one cussin' son of a bitch out of this bitchin' blog! DAMN IT. Finally, my ol' NPR warhorse short story, "Bid Farewell to Her Many Horses," surprised me by appearing in the new hardcover, Best Stories from the American West, edited by Marc Jaffe. It was especially startling to me because at the Pilsen hoedown, a young woman came up to me to tell me she had never read me before, but had just read "Horses" at the library and broke down crying! She had tears in her eyes when she told me! So we took a picture together with our lower lips hanging out as if we were having a sob-fest!

The American West, y'all. I'm a cowboy. On a steel horse I ride!

I'll see you out there.
Bon Jovi

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