If I Should Fall From Grace With Shamrock Shakes

Pinch me, I'm not wearing green.

Patrick, patron Saint of Ireland, supposedly rid the island of snakes. Never mind that there were no snakes in Ireland.

He supposedly introduced people to the concept of the Trinity by showing them a three-leafed clover. Never mind that he had to resort to magic to explain four-leafed clovers.


He carried a walking stick that he thrust in the ground whenever he would preach. Never mind that Christian dogma took so long to sink in that the walking stick supposedly took root before anyone understood what he was talking about.

He was accompanied by warriors who traveled through time to help him preach. Never mind that time travel goes against strict Biblical teachings.

And he was captured by the British and returned to Ireland as a slave (and may have lost his mind during that time). He regularly heard voices and did what they told him to do. Never mind that the Druids thought he was insane -- or that they may have been right.

So celebrate your own eccentricities, preach loudly, and don't worry if modern-day Druids call you insane. Just belly up to the bar (or head over to McDonald's -- also not Irish -- for a sickly-green seasonal confection), gather up a fiddle, and sing along with several dozen like-minded people you'll never see again.

Because today we celebrate St. Patrick as the universal symbol of Ireland, recognized all around the world. Never mind the fact that he was not Irish.

And neither were the Waterboys.

Like a Ballroom Glove in the Moonlight

I don't know how many miles we traced across the snow -- maybe a thousand.

We were hundreds of miles off the road system.

In a tiny village of 400 -- augmented that day with several hundred volunteers: trail breakers, trail sweepers, vets, pilots, dog handlers, cooks, and general workers.

Dozens of journalists trekked down to the checkpoint, watching on the GPS and speculating when the first team would come through. The VIPs from the corporation that would give a prize to the first team came by in the late afternoon. And we waited.

The sun went down. The temperature was already ten below and it just kept getting colder. There was light snow on and off, but no real accumulation.

Someone built a small fire. And we waited.

Sometime after dark, someone called out "dog team on the river." And we flowed outside. The Mayor was there and more than 100 villagers. When the headlamp finally became visible, everyone started cheering.

For hours, it was like a party. Teams would come in and be met by camera crews, veterinarians, dog handlers, the Race Marshall, and various well-wishers. Most teams stayed no more than a few minutes before heading back out onto the trail.

By 3am, the villagers had gone home. The camera crews were sleeping somewhere warm. The VIPs were gone.

Now it was quiet.

Now it was still.

And someone ran inside to tell us: "dog team on the river."

So we went outside. The temp had dropped to 30 below. It hurt to breathe.

The snow had stopped. And everything was quiet.

So I waited with two vets, the lead checker, and four others. We huddled by the fire.

This time there was no cheering crowd. Just the stillness.

And then a light. Visible from far off, slowly coming towards us.

And a sound: quiet paws pushing off cold, fast snow. The gentle breathing of 16 dogs, athletes acting at peak efficiency.

The guy on the sled called the dogs to stop. And they did. Immediately. He pushed a heavy hook deep into the snow. The vets carefully looked after each dog. The checker talked to the guy on the sled. Like most of the others, he wasn't going to stay. Moments later, he pulled the hook and the dogs took off.

"Gee, Gee!" he called and the dogs banked right, down a chute, and back out onto the river. A moment later "Haw! Haw!" and the dogs turned left. "On through."

The others went inside, but I walked down the chute to the frozen river. The sound of paws running over snow carried in the cold night air, long after I could no longer hear the dogs breathing.

I stood alone, watching the light move off into the distance. Until it was gone.

All was still again, a stillness that was so complete and total that it felt like the world had frozen and nothing could ever move again.

And I was alone, in the middle of nowhere, in a wild motionless expanse of snow and ice.

But if I closed my eyes and concentrated really hard, I could swear I could feel someone singing:


And, yeah. Part of me never went home after that night.

A Disturbing Trend

I Used To Be Disgusted...

But now I try to be amused by the fact that people who should be asking me to join in their hijinks are now calling me "sir."

It's enough to make me angry.


But I'm not Angry anymore...

(Because it's boring as hell...)


Still, while we're on the subject... cut it out.

Dogs & Everything

Iditarod XXXVIII starts today.

Or tomorrow, depending on how you define it.

The race had a ceremonial start in Anchorage today. Mushers and "Iditariders" went about 10 miles through downtown Anchorage and out into the woods on ski and bike trails.

About 15,000 people came out to watch the mushers live and tens of thousands more watched it live on Alaskan TV.

No one kept track of times today because it didn't really count.

The real race begins tomorrow in Willow (about 70 miles away) and the winner will likely arrive in Nome 9 or 10 days later.

Which reminds me of this.

Olympics Withdrawal

Nope, driving down Olympic Blvd. doesn't help.

Okay, I'm officially going through Olympics withdrawal.

But one thing I won't miss is this.


At the risk of being rude, can you think of a rock 'n' roller less athletic than Lou Reed?

And at the risk of being snarky, wouldn't Lou Reed's perfect day feature a lot less snowboarding and a lot more heroin?

And at the risk of being overly obvious -- isn't this a crappy commercial because nearly everyone remembers it but almost no one remembers what it's supposed to be advertising?

Fabulous Wealthy Tarts Not Included

Synthesized Hand-Claps and All.

We stood on a hill on a Spring afternoon.

We'd spent hours loading heavy equipment from a visiting band off of a huge truck and out onto the field. Monitors. Amplifiers. All manner of electrical devices.

And now the band was playing, holding back their single hit to try to force the gathered college kids to bring them back for an encore.

And when they played the hit. And she got up to dance and sing along. And the irony was that I'd introduced her to the band. Then layer that irony with the fact that her life was an exact opposite of the lyrics she was singing along to.

A friend grabbed my shoulder.

"Don't take it personally."

"It's hard not to. It was just a few months ago."

"You know she's never gone more than 10 days without a boyfriend. Ten days since she was 14."

"I know."

"And you didn't think you two would stay together. Did you?"

"I did."

"Well then you're an idiot."

And I watched her dance. And had to agree.

My friend paused, then said. "It's a reflection on her, not on you."

I knew that then. And I know it now. And yet... she was dancing with some guy who wasn't me.

And my friend said "Plus, she dances like a spazz."

True enough. "I just wish she hadn't done that. So soon."

"Ten days, dude. Since she was 14. It has nothing to do with you."

I must have known that deep down. But I wanted to believe something different. Or maybe I just wanted to be the guy on the hill dancing and not the guy who'd seen how burned out and bored the band was backstage and would have to load tons of equipment back onto the truck so they could travel the next night to Maine. Or Virginia. Or some other place where the girls sway like spazzes and sing along to love songs they could never live up to. (Link for Gmail subscribers.)

To Her Cheshire Smile

To skate away on... to some alien, distant shore.

I don't know what it is about dreams. They sneak up on you, torpedo you with anxiety and hopes, then drag you across the cluttered floor of your subconscious.

And why are the scariest dreams the ones that sound the most benign and mundane when you describe them?

The other night, I dreamed I was in a meeting about a project. I don't remember what the project was, but in the dream I was very excited about it.

And I came out of the meeting, which was in an old duplex house with curved doorways and dark grey adobe stones.

And I looked into the other unit of the duplex -- which was a mirror image of the one I'd come from -- only the walls were painted a deep, rich ocean blue. Then I saw her.

And she said she was surprised to see me. So I mumbled something about the meeting. Then she said "I didn't think I was allowed to talk to you." Which is weird because I thought I wasn't allowed to talk to her.

And it's been many, many years since I've seen her. But she got into my blood like a virus and I'm still not sure I have all the antibodies I need.

So we talked and the party she was at swirled around us. She was selfish and sad and her life was one long emergency. But I loved her then more than either of us could understand. And being back in her presence, even if just for a moment, even if just in a dream, was intoxicating. And very, very, very sad.


And as we talked, I realized she was in danger. If she went to Hungary she would die. And the thought froze me, terrified me. And I let myself think for a moment about what that would mean if she died... and whether that would make her finally vacate that chunk of real estate in my brain she's occupied (without signing a lease or even paying her share of the utilities) for so long.

I must have gotten quiet, because she suddenly grabbed my arm and looked me in the eyes. "Why did you come here?" she asked.

I wanted to say this.


But I'm not Bruce Springsteen. Hell, on my best days I'm barely Manfred Mann.

So I didn't tell her. But I did say "don't go to Hungary." Her smile turned confused, gradually fading. (Even when I'm wide awake, it lingers behind her, leaving the hint of her essence.)

And then, though it took every ounce of effort I had, I got up and I left.