last night I dreamed that we were dogs.
we had no words but we owned the world.

we ran into the fields where we followed our noses.
when night fell, the grass and flowers were a nest for us.
beneath the stars we were together,
and it did not occur to us to wonder if it had not always been so.

when the sun rose, I wandered, alone.
I came upon a river, far away.
the water was cold and I swam in it.
I caught fish in my teeth and tore them into pieces.

in the dappled light, you did not follow.
you heard sounds and smelled smells.
the tree whispered. the log rotted.
the water ran.

when you joined me on the bank,
I looked up and saw you there
looking at me too.
and we could no longer remember having parted.

The other heroes had gone out to lunch.  Thor advocated King Buffet on Highland, and the others generally follow his lead.  Sure, the price is right, but I don’t like to unmask in public, especially not so close to the theater: it’s bad for business.  So, I bought a smoothie and walked over toward Hollywood High School.

Foot-traffic picked up as I returned, so I hustled back to the strip, eager to make some money.  I saw Kevin through a crowd of tourists, posing with the Joker and Michael Jackson, high-fiving a couple of villains.  What kind of bum shows up after lunch? He’s got fat calves, he’s pigeon chested, and he’s lazy. Even if he did spend two grand on a custom made spider-suit, he’s an amateur at best, IMO.

He saw me as soon as I broke into a run and he turned to the others, looking to martial support.  Legolas backpedalled to get in front of me.  “Move, Mike!” I screamed, but he struck an athletic pose instead, braced for impact.  I sidestepped the elf, ducking under his cloak like a matador’s cape, then spun into one of the stormtroopers who cried out as his blaster rifle skittered across the sidewalk.  I was too focussed to offer apology.

I chopped my feet, trying to unwind all that momentum, but the thin crepe-plastic souls at the end of my leggings threatened to tear loose.  On instinct alone I sprung into a two-legged jump, vaulting feet-first between Doctor Who and Bella from Twighlight, then dropped into a three point landing.

“Get the fuck out of here, Cary!” Kevin shouted from behind a couple of thirteen-year old twins and their mom — Canadians, I think.  I couldn’t believe he was swearing in front of customers.

I reprimanded him.

“Show some class, Kevin. You can’t just edge me out while I’m at…”

Out of nowhere, Thor hip checked me from behind and I bounced onto the pavement, landing hard on the Stormtrooper’s blaster.  I heard a plasticine snap as the lower hand guard broke off, and I could feel a bruise forming deep within my right buttock.

“Get lost, Cary.  You walked away and Kevin jumped in, fair and square,”  He pointed at me with his short-handled hammer; his blond hair radiant, his beard sparkling like garnets.

“I went to lunch, just like you poseurs.” I got to my feet and stepped past his extended hand, getting close to his handsome, Aryan face.

“You leave your spot, it’s up for grabs.”  At such close range, his helmet looked cheap.  I could see the way he was sweating under it.

“That’s easy for you to say… I’ve been doing this for three years.  You’re all a bunch of Johnny-come-latelies,” I looked around at the costumed faces of the accused.

Without warning, I felt hands closing around my throat from behind; fingers digging-in around the neckline, searching out the hidden seam in the spandex.  The viking bastard blocked my arms as I brought them up in defense, and before I could stop him, Kevin peeled back the hood of my suit and revealed my face.  I could hear him laughing behind me, as the color drained from the crowd.  Pedestrians stopped and stared in shock.  My naked face, my unmasking, was an offense to them all.

Kevin’s idiotic laughter dwindled in the vacuum of silence he’d created, and I turned to stare him directly in the eye.  He looked away.  I drew my mask back into place and loomed for the better part of a minute, a full five inches taller, letting him worry.

“Some fucking hero you are,” I whispered, so the kids wouldn’t hear. “I’m outta here.”

Laurine, The Good Witch of the East, stopped me before I got to La Brea, but I could see the betrayers slapping each others’ backs in front of the theater, reliving my humiliation, play-by-play.  Charlie Chaplin’s grin was shit-eating under Hitler’s mustache, across the street.  Fuck those losers.  I told her if she were smart, she should reconsider the company she keeps.

“You’re not as young as you used to be.  It’s only a matter of time before they turn on you, too.”

The sadness in her voice was earnest when she asked me where I’d go.  I figured I’d give Venice beach a shot.  Maybe they’d appreciate a hero over on the West side.  What did I expect to happen? Kevin’s a kiss-ass, his costume is newer, and he does as he told.  Nobody likes a solo artist.

I’d been back to New York only once since that fateful trip, despite the fact that some of my favorite people still live there: my cousin and uncle, both lifelong residents, who, sadly, I rarely get to see.  I’m not entirely sure what’s kept me away.  But luckily for me, my girlfriend does public relations for the world’s largest public relations firm, and as a result, it is my good fortune to ride her coattails to some pretty fantastic destinations for some pretty unbelievable events, and this past weekend I followed her to the Tribeca Film Festival, where she was working for one of the fests’ biggest sponsors, a luxury hotel chain.  While she rubbed elbows with Roberto De Niro and Lil Bub, I traversed the city, stopping mostly two hours at a time to rest my weary feet and feast my eyes on the silver screen, and enjoyed a reunion with some people, and a city, that was long overdue.

I didn't see either of these two at the Tribeca Film Festival

Of all the films I saw, my favorite was David Gordon Green’s “Prince Avalanche“, which was silly in all the right ways, but also earnest and disarming.  It’s a character driven story with a minimalist plot, based on an Icelandic film I haven’t yet seen, starring Paul Rudd and Emile Hirsch.  Both give winning performances: Rudd as an arrogant, pedantic, romantic, quasi-misanthrope; Hirsch as a vulgar, sex-obsessed, yet somehow likeable buffoon.

Stylistically, “Prince Avalanche” is a return to Green’s earliest work; the film looks a lot more like “George Washington” or “All The Real Girls” than it does like “Your Highness” or “Pineapple Express”.  Like the latter two films, “Prince Avalanche” is quite funny; unlike the latter two films, it’s ridiculousness is cut with a bit of pathos, and overall the film seems really to be about relationships and love – both romantic and fraternal – but also about the relationship one maintains with one’s self.

In an experience that was unique (for me), and that unexpectedly complicated my own relationship with myself, a character in the film shared my same first name. While he remained off screen for the duration of the film, he was much reviled, and that rang through in the subtext of actors’ delivery, I’m sure impacting my reaction – bruising my ego and subconscious with every disdainful utterance of the single syllable by which I am known.

The time I didn’t spend in the dark embrace of movie theaters was spent exploring – mostly Williamsbourgh, where Cyprienne, my cousin, resides with her boyfriend, Brian, a medical student and a tango enthusiast.  A fourth floor walk-up, their apartment is huge by NYC’s standards – long and narrow like a railroad flat, with a spacious kitchen.  They have access to a fire escape, which I wanted desperately to climb out on, but did not; and they have a palatial bedroom that I insisted on repeatedly invading, despite their subtle protests, once at nearly two in the morning to unpack each of their musical instruments (a guitar, a saxophone, and an accordion) each of which I tried to play, failing in all respects other than the sheer decibel level achieved, all accompanied by a freestyle rap performed by Brian.

From Battery Park City to the East Village, from pork buns to pizza, from bowling to beer gardens to Irish Ricky’s to Hill Country, and then, seemingly just as we were getting started, we were already wrapping things up, bags packed, on our way to LaGuardia.

Glancing out the window as the plane ascended, I caught a glimpse of Manhattan – as dense and teaming with life as a rainforest of concrete and brick, asphalt and glass – I could feel the vitality within me diminishing, and I realized just how wrong I’d been. New York may be indifferent (all cities are) and it might be cruel (the world is), but we’re the ones with our fangs bared, mouths open wide, pressed tight to the neck of this spectacular thing, desperately stealing from it every last drop of life that we can manage to swallow.

As you can see, my cousin Cyprienne has perfect form.

A troop of baboons
A cackle of hyenas
A colony of penguins
An army of caterpillars
A venue of vultures (if in a tree)
A kettle of vultures (if circling)
A coalition of cheetahs
A leap of leopards
A sounder of warthogs
A tower of giraffe (if standing still)
A journey of giraffe (if ambulating)
An obstinancy of buffalo
A confusion of guinea fowl
A float of crocodiles
A bloat of hippos
A crash of rhinos
A dazzle of zebras

A male dung beetle perched atop his harvest, his lady gripping tightly to the side.

To accommodate pushing blood all the way up their long necks, giraffes’ hearts are incredibly large.  As a result, they can’t spend very long with their heads below their hearts, or they will quickly pass out.

Perhaps this giraffe kept it's head down for just a bit too long, and become lion food.

In South Africa they call traffic lights “robots.”

Ostriches have bare things – no feathers or fur adorn their long legs – and this is where most of the heat escapes their body.   Also – ostriches stand on their toes.  the bend you see about half way up an ostrich’s leg is actually it’s ankle… its knee is hidden very close to its body.

The micro-brew scene hasn’t made it to Africa.  Even in major cities like Cape Town and Jo-Burg, it’s tough to get any beer on tap other than “Castle.”

The photographer drank this pint of Castle Lager.

In Botswana, instead of saying cheers, they say “pula” – which means “let it rain.”

Zebras aren’t just white and black.  They have a third stripe – brownish in color – called a shadow stripe.

Leadwood trees, seen all over the bush, remain upright in the ground for upwards of fifty years after dying.  Their barren branches and angular appearance are impossible to ignore – and for the American their look immediately calls to mind Scar’s home in “Lion King.”

Millipedes climb shrubs and bushes when it’s going to rain.

Female millipedes curl up when disturbed, males stretch out in a straight line.

Hippos kill more people than any other mammal in South Africa, but not because they’re hungry.  They’re herbivores.

Hyena feed on the dung of porcupines because it’s high in calcium…  this makes for odd bedfellows.

Old buffaloes break away from the herd and live off on their own instead of staying with the group.  Groups of “dugga boys” as they’re called, are some of the most dangerous and ornery animals in the bush.

African termites build enormous mounds, and then grow and harvest mushrooms within them.

This termite mound is hard as concrete and filled with shrooms.

Sheep heads are considered a delicacy in the townships of South Africa.  Typically, the brain is not eaten.  People refer to them as “smileys” because of the way their lips pull back to reveal their teeth once they have been butchered.

A human being can easily stand on an ostrich egg without breaking it.

The Okavango Delta in Botswana is the only inland delta in the entire world.  The mixed savannah of the Okavango Delta prominently features palm trees because elephants unwittingly transplanted the trees from the Kalahari Desert.

Thank you elephants for carrying the seed of this tree in your turds from the sands of the Kalahari to the mixed savannah of the Okavango Delta.

While the lion might be called the king of the jungle, the undisputed ruler of the animal kingdom is the elephant.  Trust me, I seen it with my own two eyes.

The richest diamond mine in the world is in Botswana – a big reason why the country is the third richest in the world, per capita.  Despite the country’s extravagant wealth, there is almost no middle class.

A traditional medical treatment in the bush for the common cold:  take elephant dung, light it on fire, and inhale the smoke.  No joke.

Feeling ill? According to traditional medical practitioners in the bush, you should light one of these up and smoke it down.

Wild dogs kill animals by chasing them relentlessly, and then, when they’ve exhausted their prey enough to catch it, they eat it alive.

A “sun-downer” is a common occurrence in much of southern Africa.  Indulging in one yourself is easy – simply stop whatever you are doing at sunset, imbibe, and take a moment to take it all in.

Thanks, Africa.

It’s funny, because when people imagine fantastic creativity, the image conjured is someone erupting like a volcano with passions and ideas, inspirations and whim.  The notion of a mad-scientist-type creative person is pervasive, and is perhaps perpetuated by people who enjoy the illusion that creativity is something inborn and god given, not something that is labored over, like the chopping down of a tree.  In reality, being successful as creative person is just an awful lot of hard work, just like being successful in any line of work is, and perhaps even more so.

Undoubtedly, part of the creative process is about accessing the wealth of ideas and thoughts that sometimes percolate out  from within the subconscious, but it is also about disciplined work… forcing yourself to extrude as many possibilities as you’re able, rather than settling for the first half-dozen that pop to mind.  What makes the end result successful is the narrowing of focus and a refinement of a select few ideas that emerge from the pile that you might otherwise have rejected or left hiding under a rock.   It is the sharpening of the blade, the elimination of the less good ideas, and the thoughtful, deliberate delineation of the best ideas, that allows you to execute with a deft touch, with thoughtfulness, and with the efficiency required to stay on time and on budget.

In addition to believing in the power of preparation, Abraham Lincoln was really tall, and had really cool hair.

Counterintuitively, extensive preparation, disciplined decision making, and commitment to a plan do not limit your ability to be creative on set.  In fact, they enhance it.  It is only when you are prepared to shoot specific shots in specific ways in a specific order for specific reasons that you can remain relaxed enough to respond when new inspiration strikes, focused enough to evaluate the new ideas objectively, controlled enough to adjust the business end of production, and flexible enough to harness the full potential.  Preparation enables you to transcend your plan when true opportunity presents itself.

“The light is really beautiful over here right now!’ the gaffer points out.  Okay, that’s great, beautiful light is an asset, but what can we do in that light that also fits within the puzzle of our story.  Thorough preparation allows you to act decisively – to identify opportunity and to manipulate it to fit within the construct of the piece.   Working without a plan is just laziness masquerading as creativity. Fear pretending to be control.

Successful creative ambition is not an endless stream of possible ideas: it is a patiently sharpened, precisely honed blade, aimed carefully and swung with force when the time is right.  When this happens, felling the oak is a labor of love, the cut is clean and pure, and the tumbling tree comes dangerously close to being a work of art.

Desperate, I interviewed for a job selling coupon books door-to-door with a company based in Oakbrook, IL.  I know, it sounds almost impossible that such an occupation exists – but it did, and likely still does.  The interview took place in a musty, windowless office decorated only with empty cardboard boxes along its perimeter.  Three telephones sat, side-by-side-by-side, atop the desk between Kevin, a shiny scalped and intelligent sounding man doing the interviewing, and myself.   The interview was short – probably ten minutes in all.  Kevin asked me a few simple questions about my education, why I wanted the job, where I lived, how I got to and fro.  Upon completion of the interview I was awarded the job with a handshake and a congratulations. Kevin asked if I could start that very same day.

In the weeks to come, I realized that this little enterprise was more of a cult than a business;  a small community of people who were unemployable for one reason or another – be it an extensive criminal record, a lack of experience, or a sheer lack of skill – shepherded by a manipulative group of smooth-talking operators.  But at the time, it appeared to me only as an opportunity to make money – money I desperately needed for the sake of my stomach, my underarms, and for my self esteem.

As coupon salespeople, we drove out to distant suburbs of Chicago and walked neighborhoods in pairs.   We knocked on doors, delivered a short pitch, and more often than not, had doors slammed in our faces.  Our product, the coupon books themselves, featured steep discounts for various products from both local merchants and national chains — an oil change for half price; free delivery when you order flowers; twenty dollars off weekly lawn mowing service.  Better still, the books benefited a “good cause”.  We were told that a percentage of each sale was donated to the organization whose logo was featured on the very first page of the book.  The official relationship always seemed murky to me, as every few days, a new logo appeared on page one.  Needless to say, my skepticism about the quality of the product rung through in my sales pitch.  I failed to move a lot of product.

After a week or so of under-performing, Kevin pulled me into his smelly office.   He told me to keep my head up, and reminded me that overall sales weren’t the most important thing, effort was the most important thing.  He pointed out a colleague as an example – a fellow named Pat – who I’d never met or seen in person, but heard a lot about.  Pat was a veteran at the company – he had an MBA from Notre Dame – and was leading his own small team of salespeople.  “Pat didn’t put up the biggest numbers out on foot,” Kevin told me, “but he has certain intangibles that make him very valuable to our company.  He’s a leader.”  Kevin looked long and hard at me, the hint of a smile breaking through at the corners of his mouth.  “We can talk about all this later.  Just get out there and work hard today.  Don’t worry about the numbers.”

That afternoon I walked in a pair with a really tall black dude named Peter Dobson.  Originally from Baltimore, Peter was long and lithe.  He was good looking and smart and much younger in spirit and appearance than actual age.  He spoke without a hint of an accent and with perfect elocution – like a news broadcaster.  I took an immediate shine to him, and I like to think he did to me.  Peter played college basketball at a small university in Texas in the 60’s – which, in case you know nothing about our nation’s history, were incredibly racially charged times.  He’d been pelted with batteries.  He’d been called “nigger” probably ten thousand times.  And he’d fucked a shitload of white women, he said.   Oh – and his sister was Cleopatra Jones.   Really — I shit you not.  He had a picture of them posing together in his wallet and showed it to me.  She was so very beautiful, and I told him that, and he looked at me like he was going to punch me in the face. Then he laughed and put his arm around me, and told me we should go get some hot beef sandwiches for lunch.

The vivacious Cleopatra Jones.

After lunch, meandering the sidewalks of a northern suburb, Peter revealed that he’d come to Chicago from Houston in the wake of an acrimonious divorce.  His relationship with his kids was ruined, he said, but he still sent them something every week.  Sometimes a gift, sometimes a card, sometimes just a handwritten note saying he was sorry for how things had turned out, but always, he sent something.  “I send it overnight, signature required,” he said.  “And when I check the tracking and see that it was received, I know they got it, that they’re thinking of me.”  Unsure what to say, I asked what he did for a living back in Houston, and Peter told me that he’d spent the last few years dealing diamonds.  “It’s a funny game, man, you call some rich motherfucker up and be like – look, I’ve got an incredible opportunity coming up – and then you’d take a long pause and flip through some paperwork and then be like – oh, I’m terribly sorry, I’ve made a mistake.  I’m just looking through my notes from previous calls, and this probably isn’t right for you.  It’s probably a bit too big, and maybe a bit too risky — not what you’ve indicated you’re interested in.”  According to Peter, if the person on the other end of the line didn’t hang up immediately, he knew he had them.  “These guys only want what they can’t have.  You make it seem like you think it’s too rich for their blood and they’re falling all over themselves to get it.”

Peter sold like forty coupon books that afternoon.  I sold three.  As the sun set on the early autumn day we packed all our things into my trunk and headed back to HQ, over an hour drive from our territory.  Once the entire collection of ragtag coupon salesman and women were gathered in the shabby office – which is what we did at the beginning and end of each day, we rallied as a group, this legion of undesirables, to be fired up by our leaders, to share stories and humiliations from our day on foot, to celebrate victories, to bond and unite and to feel part of something larger and more significant than ourselves – Peter rang a cowbell, which was the recognition one received for selling more coupon books than anyone else on any given day.  He was praised by management and congratulated by the rest of us.  Kevin would be buying drinks for anyone interested in attending a happy hour at a bar down the street – nearly everyone was interested.  Eager to get home and into bed, I sneaked off quietly;  my feet were sore, my ego battered and bruised, my pockets and gas tank empty.   At least I met an interesting person, I thought to myself as I drove east on the Eisenhower toward Chicago, someone with fantastic stories who’d lived a rich and colorful life, experienced a lot.  Someone with a big heart.

At home I popped my trunk and was surprised to find Peter’s  bag still saddled up against mine; we’d forgotten to unload his things back at HQ.  I picked his bag up and was taken aback by its heft.  Curious, I unzipped it, and found it was still stuffed to the brim with coupon books.  A quick count revealed Peter had more inventory left over than I did;  the odds that he’d actually sold forty books to my three were absolutely zero.  Peter was a liar, I had the proof in my hands, and suddenly, everything he’d told me that day, everything that made him so unique, so distinct, everything that made him the best part of my day, vanished.  It made me incredibly sad.

The next morning I phoned the office, and when I got Kevin on the line, I told him that I was done.  “You can consider this my two weeks,” I said.  He took a deep breath and let out a disappointed sigh, then told me if my heart wasn’t in it he didn’t want me coming in and poisoning the well for everyone else.  Then he thanked me for my efforts, and hung up the phone quickly, without wasting another second.

With time, I’ve come to believe the business must’ve been a front.  I’m not sure what for, but I am confident something horribly illegal must’ve been going on beneath the surface. There is no other explanation for this bizarre little business, or this strange cast of characters, or this meaningless, soul crushing job, other than covering up for some sort of illicit enterprise.

Three years later I was reading the New York Times and saw the news that Tamara Dobson – best known for her role as Cleopatra Jones – passed away of pneumonia and multiple sclerosis at the tender age of 59.  My heart skipped a beat.  In the last paragraph of the article, Tamara’s brother, Peter, was quoted.  He commented on his sister’s beauty and intrepid fashion sensibility, noting that she’d changed the way women dressed, especially tall women.  They identified Peter as being from Houston, which I took to mean he’d moved back home to be nearer to his kids.

It cost me forty dollars, but I was able to find what I believed to be his address on the internet.  I pulled his bag, still packed full of coupon books, from the back of my closet and stuffed it in a  cardboard box along with a simple handwritten note that read “I’m sorry about your sister.”   I sent it overnight, signature required.

That summer, I think it must have been 1999, I spent a lot of time dragging a folding card table to the forgotten corners of Phoenix, Arizona, setting up under the sun and drawing crumbling buildings, ranches and trash heaps. The textures of entropy were the perfect matrix to exercise my eye and hand. People would stop and watch, sometimes ask questions, and occasionally menace me.

My hesitancy to participate was met full force by my brother’s considerable oratorical and rhetorical skills.  He listed people ahead of me in school, kids I knew and respected, that had already paid up, both in dollar and swollen flesh.  He called upon the ancient adage “pain is temporary, glory forever” which seemed to me like something only someone doing the flicking might say.  He donned a “No Fear” t-shirt, and spoke of Tony Hawk and Don Majikowski, and the litany of heroes who had battled through pain and injury only to emerge dripping irresistibly with glory and respectability.  Schematics were drawn up of an impressive clubhouse, it was to be built in our backyard, and it would host all the club meetings.  “This is what your dues are paying for,” he explained. Finally, and most effectively, he called me a total pussy, and accused me of being scared.

Don Majikowski wasn't afraid to play injured, or to wear a really awesome mullet.

67 flicks to the forehead later, a giant welt throbbing above my eyes, I was deemed treasurer, fourth in command, my brother said, contingent upon my full payment of club dues.  The following week, I forked over the five dollars I’d earned picking apples at an orchard down the street, at the rate of one dollar an hour, and it became official — I was a member of the Wart Hogs.

And then, of course, nothing happened.  For weeks, I waited in anticipation of our first meeting, or for the lumber order to arrive for the clubhouse we would be building.  I finally inquired when we’d have our first club meeting and my brother flashed a confused look.  ”The club,” I pointed to the fading bruise upon my forehead, “When do we meet?”  He laughed heartily and with delight, and revealed to me the truth: there was no club, really.  I was the only person who’d joined – the only person who he’d told, in fact.  It was all a ruse – both to bilk from me my meager savings, and to punish me for my gullibility.  “It’s a life lesson,” he said, as if, as a sixth grader, he was qualified to give them.

My forty dollars?  Spent, I can only assume in the candy aisle, in two neat installments – one of thirty-five dollars, and one of five.

Here's where my life savings went.

And so now, twenty-five years later, it is with much ado and great anticipation that I welcome, at long last, a third member to the Wart Hogs Social Club.   Katie Enright Norman, after your marriage to my brother, your membership is nearly complete.  Considering the substantial pain and suffering you have no doubt experienced leading up to this event, the club’s traditional “induction ceremony” will be bypassed, and you will immediately be named Vice-President.  Please forward a check for your membership dues, forty dollars, payable to me, and your membership will be complete!

Excitedly and with congratulations.

-Kipp Norman
Treasurer, The Wart Hogs

KC and Katie Norman - President and Vice President of The Wart Hogs