Beware the Black Widow

So beautiful, wondrous and full of care
she invites you into her waiting lair.

You follow, never to hesitate
for what happens to those who wait?

They know not what could have been
had they been so brave as to come in.

And we seek to know, not be late
but the Black Widow, salacious, wants only to mate.

And when it is done, to masticate.
For you are its dinner, how it will sate
from the moment you enter it is your fate
with darkness and death you have a date.

When all is complete, you thrown from the lair
whispers will haunt you from everywhere.
How it was your fault, how you were the fool
to think you might survive against one so cool.

You are the loser, there is no doubt
it is what being the male is all about...
When you meet the Black Widow.



The spider, so fine in its cloak of black
has claimed one more victim; it does not lack.
It now awaits, soon to attack...another male.

Be ever aware, you must heed the signs
the Black Widow may want you, it always pines...

To mate, to kill, then make you rumor
In death and pain it finds its humor.

Letter to Nicole Hale on the Death of Brian G

Early January, 2005:

Dear Nicole,

On Wednesday, the heavens opened up and began to cry. My tears, the tears of so many, mirror the skies.  We all cry for what is no more; we cry for a man who was so incredibly beautiful.  We also cry for those who knew Brian as you did.  These are the tears of people who know what a powerful and wonderful soul he was, and what he must have meant to his close friends. They are also the tears of those who but wish that they could have known Brian so well as you.  For you are the lucky one here; you were a part of Brian’s heart.  This is your gift Nicole.

I have thought often of you since that day when a storm passed over Prescott and over our hearts. Nicole, I cannot guess your hurt, nor can I pretend to fully understand your suffering.  But I feel with all my heart that the storm within will pass by in its time and you will find again the things that make you like no person I have ever met.  Because you are everything that a man, a woman, can be.  You have found the secret to inner beauty, and it flowers all about you. 

You are a shining smile.   You are a friendly word when one is needed.  You are a hug for a weary traveler.  You are light; you are goodness.

Nicole, I was your teacher for two years, but I find more and more that I am actually the student and you the teacher.  Today, I paid for the rest of a lady’s groceries when she found that she didn’t have the money.  And I felt as though I were paying homage to you and Brian.  I bought flowers for friends.  It felt like the best way to honor your friendship.  Many little things I did today to bring me closer to your beauty. I hope that I can attain but a shadow of it. You shine like the sun on a crisp autumn morning. Your light brings tears to my eyes.

Dear Nicole, your gift is your link to Brian.  You both knew inner beauty and spread it like desert flowers blossoming on March mornings.  I will pray for you tonight that you may overcome your great loss. I will also pray for me tonight, that I might become more perfect, more like you.

Namaste,

Randee Dermer

The Boot Race

Memories from July 6, 2004

It's a hot day, but nothing like last year when the winds felt like dragon's breath. Five minutes before the race begins, my mouth is as dry as the summer air. I ask the person behind me if I might have a drink of his water, promising not to mouth the rim. He obligingly hands me the bottle, and I swallow heartily. My heart has begun to pound a torrid rhythm as I watch the heats flash across the hard, black, unforgiving pavement. I think inwardly that there is no way that I can hope to keep up with these people - they're way too fast. I ask for another drink, promising that this will be the last. Seeds of doubt creep into my mind like plants emerging from the ground after the first monsoons have soaked the hard desert scrabble. My heart jolts a little faster. Knots of worry ball in my thighs like charlie horses and my legs ache like I've already ran a mile. The announcer asks the next group to move to the starting tape.

Here we go, I think to myself as I move to the line. My breath is coming in short, hungry gulps as I gauge the 100 yards in front of me. I look to my left, to my right, to assess the competition. It does not look like as strong a field as last year when I came in third. There are a lot of people I know that I can beat having never raced them before. I do have some advantages after all, not the least of which is my prodigious work ethic; I train hard for this event. And I'm not exactly slow either; part of the genetic material given by my parents includes a coding for being able to really get the legs flying. I've always been fast, I've just never tested that statement in a mono y mono competition - until last year, that is.

I visualize last year's event as a prelude to what is about to happen. Last year I had put in so much time and effort that my confidence was bordering on hubris. I knew that I was prepared as I pulled the thick leather boots over my feet, making sure that they slipped in just right, then strapping the leather tight to my legs with every do-it-yourselfer's panacea - duct tape. I tore across the 100 meters of pavement in wicked speed, running neck-and-neck with someone to my right all the way to the finish. I had come in third, but second was so close that the judges didn’t know who to crown. It finally came down to asking the assembled masses. In a surreal two minutes, I watched as the crowd argued over who it was that had crossed the line second. I ended up with the third place trophy, but it was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my adult life. That day I smiled from the moment the race ended until I went to bed. I was probably still smiling then. First place? That went to a man who comes up from Tucson every year; he's in a league of his own, eating up the pavement with giant strides that make mine look like a baby's first, hesitant steps. He blew away the field by some 7 yards.

Thirty seconds until race time, the judge announces. My mind is a flurry of activity, my mouth like parchment. I drop into a 100 meter racer's stance, low to the ground with the left and right feet separated by a full yard. All of the other runners take a more conventional upright stance.

ON YOUR MARK - my hands are on the tape line, legs at the ready. GET SET - my body tightens like a bow string, ready to be plucked. BANG - the gun fires and we all break from the blocks. I fire out like a steam catapult, but slip just enough on the smooth surface to lose my advantage. At twenty yards I have gained back what was lost and am cruising along at full clip. The race, I already see, is a two-man event between me and the man from Tucson. But again, he is mowing through the course with unlikely grace for a man so tall. At forty yards I know that, barring a muscle pull, this is a race for second.


With thirty yards left, I begin to tire. A year ago I gained speed throughout the race, all the way to the finish line. This year, with both teaching and taking a class, my condition is not nearly so honed. There is a hitch in my giddy-up that is barely perceptible to anyone but me. It is a testament to the remarkable condition I was in last year. Then I make a fatal error, looking back to assess my chances. Fortunately, no one is even close. With twenty yards left I know that second place is assured. Ahead of me is the man from Tucson whose stride seemingly chews up the pavement in big swatches.

I cross the finish line, much more tired than last year, and not nearly as pleased. What could I have done had I been in the condition that I was last year I think as I slow down. Second place is not so bad though, especially considering the circumstances.

It's a full year until I'll run again. The race is always a springboard for the following year, a shot of mind adrenaline that will hold and push me. One year. What is one year? I'll be a year older? There will be new competition next year, especially considering the fact that I showed obvious weakness. But they have no idea the person I am.

I will not be weak next year. I will work harder than ever before. I will try to beat the man from Tucson through sheer will and determination. It's possible; Frazier beat Ali in his prime. I can do it.

This is my promise.

Let It Be

When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Just over three years ago, a magical moment occurred in my life. Sometimes, even now, I think that the moment wasn't so much magic as miracle.

After playing the part of a single man, sometimes rather poorly, and oftentimes begrudgingly, an apparition appeared and all that ever was disappeared in an hour-long hike of Thumb Butte. The angst and palpable fear - fear borne on the wings of the conclusion that I would never experience true love - was lifted in that sixty minutes.

True love is so raw and powerful that to experience it is to never question its existence or its overwhelming potential to transform a person into someone, something, he or she had never been acquainted with nor aware was hidden deep in the recesses of his or her feelings. It is an electrical storm, alive with the wonder of lightning and the sound of thunder, that turns the barren desert into a carpet of gold. It is an experience that turns everything a brighter shade of beautiful.

It is a dream that happens to too few of us.

But it happened to me.

And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

My hour of darkness lasted twelve long years, from the moment I was divorced until that warm May evening when we hiked Thumb Butte. Yet, through all of that time, she was standing right in front of me. All those years at the YMCA when I sought to gain strength, strength of mind and body, she was standing right in front of me.

I just didn't know it.

We became one.

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

I let it be everything that I could open my heart to. I let it be secret trysts at a little apartment whose floor creaked like it came straight out of Hollywood's haunted house department. I let it be wonderful conversations that spanned the gamut, from the politics of the election to the politics of love. I let it be a sublime vacation to Colorado, where our love rose higher than the surrounding snow-capped peaks. I let it be thinking of her with the warmest smile when sleep was overtaking me. I let it be a part of my being.

I let it be.

And when the broken-hearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer, let it be. 

To the wind I begged that I might not be blown forever, but rather be like a seed, to land in the fecund earth, be buried and to grow again.  And the wind and the rain answered my entreaties, and I was set free from the past and put on a new course - to rise from the mundane and blossom.  My body and soul became one and flowered joyously.

I had found an answer.

For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see, there will be an answer, let it be.

Just as night becomes day and mountains return to dust, everything is ephemeral, it is but a dream whose awaking comes at a time unknown.   And by the time the crisp of early October was settling into the earth the shock of seeing something so beautiful disappear was not so great, but rather somehow expected.  We all deal with are demons in different ways, and this was hers.
t, but rather somehow expected.  We all deal with are demons in different ways, and this was hers.

I cannot say that I was overwhelmed with grief, for this was the first time in my life that I had given all that I could give, and I think that sated a heart hungry for completeness.  I was prepared to move on and smile at what had been.

The human animal is eminently adaptable.

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.  There will be an answer, let it be.  Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.  Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.  Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.  Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

I moved on with my life.  It was the best wisdom I could muster.

And I had a lot of fun times along the way.

And when the night is cloudy there is still a light that shines on me.  Shine until tomorrow, let it be.

The Beatles are an amazing story, more spell-binding and unimaginable than fiction.  That four young men should come together and create a perfect musical synergy, out of all of the possible permutations and combination of people that compose the infinite string of humanity is equal to the chance of a planet forming at the perfect distance from a its mother star, form an atmosphere, contain an abundance of water, and slowly evolve into lush wildernesses, stark deserts, vast oceans and a sea of humanity.   

My mind's eye goes back to our home at 2029 Ave I, in Scottsbluff, Nebraska.  As a child, I shared a room, and a bunk (the top) with all three of my brothers at one time or another.  The room was adorned with many posters, but the one(s) that lasted the many changes in wall decor throughout my youth were the four minis - Paul, John, George and Ringo - the famous shots from the White Album.  They were haunting and beautiful.  George with eyes of obsidian, Ringo and the lacy collar.  Paul with stubbly beard.  And John, so white as to appear unhealthy - or angelic.  I often looked into those faces and pondered what they were thinking. 

They took me through my childhood, arriving on the scene at the same time that my parents added yet another Dermer to the growing tribe and ushering me into the 1970s.  By the time the Beatles broke up, I was working on my eighth year of being a general pest to my older brothers and sisters (and, more importantly, my parents).  

So when I was faced with being single again, I turned not so much to my friends in Prescott, but rather inward, to those four faces and the music that was their contribution to the world.  How many times have I listened to A Day In the Life?  I would like to say more times than I have awoken to a new morning, but that surely can't be true.  Yet the music is as fresh now as twenty years ago and forty-five years ago.  

 I wake up to the sound of music, Mother Mary comes to me. 

Above the din of the many Dermer's talking, yelling, and running across the upstairs floor, I   woke up to the sound of music - a piece of Americana now.  Spinning at thirty-three revolutions per minute and topped with a platter of black, warped plastic, the record player brought music to life.  I used to watch those platters wobble on their axes as music poured forth from two tinny, fake-wood speakers.  The sound was crude with a premium on scratches, something unfathomable in the age of the MP3.  Yet somehow that made it even more precious, beautiful and real.

Simon and Garfunkel,  Arlo Guthrie, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Country Joe and the Fish, The Rolling Stones and all things hippie poured forth from those crappy little speakers, and it sounded to my young ears like manna from heaven.  My older siblings had indoctrinated me into the world of music. 

I would slowly drop the needle onto the record's surface, right before the song I wanted to hear.  You could tell where songs were separated by the fact that that single groove that wound inextricably inward would have small regions where there was no music etched onto the vinyl, making it look different, cleaner.  The grooves looked like concentric circles, but of course a record is composed of only two grooves: one on each side

With my kid dexterity, oftentimes the landing was like a car in a movie chase scene, after the speeding vehicle topped a rise.  The needle would bounce up and down creating a cacophony of sound, its internal "shocks" bottoming out.  But it got me to where I wanted to go, even if the record and its player were the worse for it.

Just like those movie chase scenes, I wanted to escape, but my escape was into a wall of sound that took me to my inner thoughts and my innate happiness. 

My favorite all those years ago: Let It Be.

It had special meaning on those evenings two-plus years ago, when the days were growing shorter, the nights longer.  It lent me strength.

Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.  Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be.  There will be an answer, let it be.  Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be. 

We got together again, but magic only strikes once, and that if you are lucky.  Try as we might, there was no way to get back to our secret garden.  We were cast out just as Adam and Eve were from their Eden. 

Try as I might, I could never find the key to the lock to the dream to the garden to the miracle.  

Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

All things must pass, as George Harrison so famously wrote about his time with The Beatles.

And so it was.

I awoke one day from the dream that was so much like fantasy that to grip it was to try to hold sand with a sieve.   I awoke one day from a dogmatic slumber that had arrested me for nearly three years.  The seedling that had grown into a mighty oak tree was, at its heart, still an infinitesimally small part of the earth from whence it came.  Just as the smallest of creatures must pass, so too must the mightiest. And the seed returned to the earth.  Or did it ever leave?  That I will never know.

And on a cold evening in January I said goodbye to a dream.  I turned my back on a seed that I had cultivated with the greatest of care.  I said goodbye forever.

I landed back to the place that I hoped to never see again, but saw coming as surely as death comes to all who live.  I drove home that night, my car cutting through the crisp air, and never looked back, aside then to reminisce and draw an inward smile.

For though I had lost at love I think that Alfred, Lord Tennyson was right when he famously penned, "Tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all."

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.  There will be an answer, let it be.

The haunting piano starts off the score with a somber yet soaring tonic chord intro.  I am moved to dichotomous emotions: melancholia and great hope.  Like a siren, Paul layers his vocals on top of the piano score.   Together they form a sound that is instantly memorable.  Paul's words seem to be a prayer - the rest of the band harmonizing in the background add to the feeling that this is a spiritual dirge -  that all that has passed will be forgiven and that in that forgiveness there will be redemption and, ultimately, growth of the spirit.   Then Ringo begins a soft percussive echo.  And as the Let It Be transforms from an almost gospel-inspired lament to a passion-driven rock' n' roll song, Ringo and George place more urgency in their respective spheres.  Yet, there is still the haunting gospel note as John emerges with a mournful organ score that adds yet another layer of grace.   

The drums come in more heavy, though never bombastic, and George's elegant guitar licks beg me to fall into the music, which I readily do.  The song builds and builds in 4:04 of perfect musical craftsmanship.  But it is not until George rips into a soaring solo, squeezing out every ounce of emotion from his six-string that we hear the Beatles at their complete greatness.  The guitar cries and rejoices with each searing note.  Paul's voice echoes this as, like George's Gibson SG, it becomes increasingly impassioned and emotion-filled.  Following the crescendo, Paul, George, Ringo and John sustain the intensity at a level that is never reached again in their careers.  They were masters and this is their opus and each note begs to be listened to, to be absorbed. 
Let It Be would be the final single the Beatles would release while still together.

A Weighty Issue

Today is January 5. I'm about to embark on a journey to unexplored territory.


I'm assuming here, but I think I made the same New Year's Resolutions as 50%, no 80%, of America. Well...sort of.

Yup, I've got to do something with that ten pounds, and I've certainly got to visit the gym more often.

I've thought about it for a long time, but thinking and doing are in two different galaxies, one the Milky Way, the other somewhere past Orion's M42 nebulae. How many milk shakes away is M42, by the way? Light years of them, I'm assuming.

Each year brings the opportunity to reinvent little parts of one's life; we call them resolutions, the word having a talisman-like quality. I'm going to reinvent a small part of my life, my own talisman. That ten pounds...I'm going to finally do something with it. Welcome to a New Year. Houston, we have liftoff.

My resolutions: to gain ten pounds and to exercise less. I'll visit, and only visit, the gym more.

Yeah, I know: easy enough - just eat more. Sure...

That's as easy for me as it is for Rosie O'Donnell to drop down to five chins without the help of some well aimed staples. That's as easy as the fat twins, of Guinness Book of World Records' fame (You remember the guys on the poor, overtaxed motorcycle? Bingo.) having a tea and a crumpet for breakfast each morning.

I don't know if it's a real phrase or just something that I added to my lexicon on the morning after New Year's when I looked through some pictures of the night before, pictures that were positively mortifying. What stared back at me was a face that had more angles and lines than a trigonometry text. It was a face that I barely recognized as my own, although I had been busy "perfecting" it for the past twenty-five years. It was a face, aged and haggard. I looked in the mirror for the first time today.

Do you know what "bodybuilder's face" is? If you don't, think about Albanian refugees who work the streets for small change to earn their daily bread (literally). For them, it sadly comes natural. For us fat, happy cats in the good ole' US of A, the land of milk and honey, we have to work for it. Many literally starve themselves (I don't) while spending more time in the weight room (guilty) than any logical person would consider. Then, and only then, can one earn a bodybuilder's face.

It comes from hours, turned to days, on an exercise bike. It comes from forgoing the pumpkin pie and ambrosia at Thanksgiving for another helping of broccoli. It comes at the movies too: "I'll take a large buttered popcorn, hold the butter." It comes from dedication turned obsession.

But those days are over. I'll take pumpkin pie; the whole thing. And the buttered popcorn? Please soak to the legal limit! Damn, that's yummy stuff.

On January 5th, 2008, I took a picture of myself, using the autotime function. It appears at the top.


Today is February 20, 2008.

Six weeks ago, I weighed in at 135, a super lightweight or junior welterweight, depending on which boxing abc acronym affiliation you follow. Today, I'm a hefty 143 lbs. (a welterweight, the different boxing commissions all agree, this being a rare occurrence) The almost-skeletal face is receding (that's probably the wrong word) behind a layer of fat, so too are the once-mighty abs. I knew there would be compromises; no problems there. But, geez, I'm really tired of eating.

Short of spooning white, gooey dollops of lard straight out of the bucket, into my mouth and arteries, I'm the second coming of Rush Limbaugh when he was tipping the scales at 300 bills+ (minus the bad politics, of course). I'm consuming like Imelda Marcos at a shoe store.
6:30 am: A fruit, protein, nut, peanut butter smoothie weighing in at a heady 1500 calories
8:00-4:00: Everything I can get my hands on goes in my mouth - another 500 calories
6:00 pm: Dinner for two: two huge chicken breasts, a sweet potato and broccoli - 1000 calories
9:00 pm: A "midnight snack:" 1 lb. ground turkey with chips to dip - 1,000 calories

4,000 calories/day, for six weeks! What do I win? Just a perpetual stomach ache? What? Well, there is the fact that I'm not being compared to the Green Goblin every time my head pops out of the door. Willem Defoe may be one hell of an actor, but he's not a Hollywood pinup. And while I'm certainly not aiming for pinup status, I've had enough of the, "man, you know who you look like?" comments to last a lifetime, maybe three.

About that stomach ache: How do people become obese? It feels like a whole lot of work when the dividends are achy joints, diabetes, heart disease and a host of other ailments. I'll be happy to reach the day at which I can eat only what my body wants - no more forced marches to the fridge.

I've turned a new leaf, a new me is appearing, popping out a little more every day, especially in the gut. I'm happy with the changes though. Still, I wonder: How do people gain so much weight? Bravo to the fat people of the world - the very people who make clothes shopping a near impossibility (size "small" is disappearing faster than the polar ice caps) - I never realized how dedicated they were. They all deserve medals - extra large, of course - for gluttony and sloth.



I've joined the ranks of the un-thin. I'm not in a select group, though; memberships are growing as fast as waistlines. Fare thee well carrots and celery; I miss both of you. Perhaps we can become reacquainted soon.

Can someone please pass the chips and dip?

Randee Dermer

Bonkers (October 6, 1999)

I lost my best friend today. She meant more to me than I can ever hope to explain. She was truly my everything - the love of my life. She was my kitten, Bonkers.

I know my mind well. Already it is hard at work erasing the vast slate of memories of my old friend as fast as it can. It is deleting them so that they will not be relived with the vividness that now I feel. Usually, we work as a team - I wish the thought to be discarded, and it is. Today, and for perhaps the rest of my life, we will be in a struggle for control of these memories.

My kitten, Bonkers, was the one constant in my life over the past 13 years. She saw me through a marriage, and a divorce. She was there for me during the horrible years of my illness, seemingly understanding my every pain. She was there for me in my loneliness, and in my periods of great joy. She was everything that a best friend is supposed to be.

Today I woke up knowing that this was our last day on earth together. I looked at her this morning and I saw in her eyes nothing that said she knew her time was ending. I retreated to the confines of my thoughts as I readied for school. Somehow I felt as though I were betraying her.

God it was painful shutting the door behind me as I left home. The drive to school seemed in no way long, but in every way painful.

The hours ticked by slowly, inexorably, as I waited for classes to end. The hands on the clock moved with excruciating slowness.

I wore sunglasses to school today; it seemed a good idea. 12:30 arrived, and it was time for my last goodbye. I stopped in the library and took a quick peak at the USA Today. I think now, as I write, that it was a way to take my mind off of the impending storm, but it felt horrible to be reading box scores when Bonkers was soon to be a part of my past.

The drive home was a horror chamber of thoughts. I thought of all the good times that I had spent with my friend. This sad little nostalgia brought me back, often, to a time when I was married to a beautiful young lady named Dawn. Each remembrance opened up a Pandora's box of bittersweet melancholy. I thought of Bonkers first day in the trailer - how she seemed to know that that was her destiny. I thought about that cement pad, and how she loved to fall and roll on it. Also, I thought of the deck, and how she fancied that she was queen of the underside of it. I pictured the drive to Arizona, and the pitiful, panicked cry she emitted during those interminable miles. Mostly, though I reflected on the last 18 months.

I say 18 months because this is how long I've been single. But really, I've never been single - Bonkers has always been there.

An amazing and wonderful transformation took place in that time. Where once I felt that Bonkers was there for me, I began to realize that, with her deteriorating health, I was here for her. Often at night she would cozy up into the curl of my body as I slept on my side. I never protested despite the sacrifices to my personal comfort. It was my turn to return her unconditional love. I could tell you a thousand stories of how I took care of my baby. I could tell you of how she frequently got sick in the middle of the night, and how I would get up, pet her gentle head, clean up the mess, and carry her back to bed with me - soothing her constantly. I could tell you how I searched far and wide for a diet that her sensitive intestines would accept; and of the money - money that I don't have - spent on trying to make her healthy once more.

I could tell you all these things, but I haven't the time or the energy. This is why I will pray tonight. I will pray that my mind doesn't betray me and erase the slate that is Bonkers' memories. I loved her with every ounce of my being.

The vet came over at 4:00 today. There was a bit of business to be finished. I had been with Bonkers for three hours by then and I could tell she was annoyed. Sure she loved me, but she was still a cat; and she had no idea... I wished so very hard that I could explain to her that this was it - no more frolics on the patio.

I held Bonkers tight as the needle was pushed into a minute vein near her paw. She gave out a horrible scream, which made my body slump. I was crying uncontrollably now -- thirteen years of love were coming to a close.

I watched through a flurry of tears as Dr. Luse pushed forward the stopper. I begged aloud to Bonkers for forgiveness for taking her life. I cried loudly over and over; “I'm sorry Bonky; I'm sorry Bonky.”

Then she fell limp in my hands. I looked into her wonderful bright eyes and saw only darkness, blankness. It reminded me of the movie, “The Terminator”. A living creature's eyes carry a light of their own - the light of being - that can only be extinguished by death. This last memory is perhaps one I hope to forget.

There I sat, slumped over a limp, warm body, still unable to control my outflow of emotion. Dr. Luse had given my body a hug and walked silently to her car. I sat with Bonkers' dead body in my arms. But, you know what? I couldn't let go! I carried the light warm body around the house for easily forty minutes; I just couldn't let go. How does one explain an abstraction such as pure, unconditional love? I held my cat until her little body began to cool.

It was so very hard to place my friend in the hole that I had dug. She looked so horrible lying limp in the dirt. I couldn't stand it, so I arranged her body as though she were taking one of her frequent naps. I picked flowers and gently arranged them around her body. Then I buried her.

Bonkers is no longer with me in body. In spirit she will be with me until my own unnatural light fades. I hope that I may reunite with her then and continue our friendship. It was far too perfect to end so quickly.

Dear Bonkers, constantly I expect you to come up to me and nudge me with your wet nose. My thoughts quickly diminish into reality. You are gone. I am alone. This is pain beyond pain.

Robin Hood Is In the Building

The story of Robin Hood, perhaps more metaphorical than real, has been told from generation to generation since the 14th century. Whether one is apt to believe in the man is moot, the point is what one might call paleo-populism, or in some corners, paleo-socialism: steal from the rich and give to the poor. It clearly applies to the current economic environment in AZ. But with a twist.

In the midst of the greatest budget crisis in Arizona's history, a "reverse Robin Hood" syndrome has afflicted the state's legislature. From Lake Havasu City to Phoenix, on through Mesa and all the way to White Mountains, a group of well-healed Republican legislators has decided that the top priority of the state is to take care of its most wealthy on the backs of Arizona's middle class and low-income citizens. This is trickle down economics, a Ronald Reagan standard, on steroids.

Those corporations which are apt to be bailed out (ostensibly because they are too big to fail) when they make egregious mistakes (call them accounting errors, if you will), the same corporations whose income tax rate was at a lower percentage than the number of fingers one can count on his or her left hand after an accident with a large knife, are the beneficiaries of the AZ state legislature's largesse. It seems like slight-of-hand that a state which is not only broke but in a deep shade of red (rather like blood) can be shelling out over $100 million per year to the group who needs it least. It feels like prestidigitation...because it is.

In a magic trick that would make Harry Houdini green with envy, Republicans have said that the meek shall inherit the debt and the rich will inherit a zero tax rate. How was this amazing trick pulled off? One can call it sorcery, but others might say that the Republican-led legislature knows how to run a propaganda machine, the type that Joseph Goebbels and the Nazis would blush at. Count most Arizona citizens baffled; they know not what hit them or that anything did hit them. In fact, some are calling it a victory for democracy that the wealth wasn't "redistributed to the poor." Others would say that Robin Hood's alter ego, his Mr. Hyde, has made an appearance across the Atlantic from Sherwood Forest.

For whom did the AZ legislator see fit to serve a nice helping of Upton Sinclair's "The Jungle?" None other than those effete, liberal, union-loving, America-hating educators, the very bane of modern society. One need only read the opinion column of the Arizona Republic to know that teachers are in the same company as thieves and...anyone else who makes less than $50,000 per year.

Witness the damage: AHCCCS took a $500 million hit (sick people are apparently non-essentials, too); education funding was reduced by $420 million. These are the victims, the very entities that are bleeding red not only from lack of funds, but also from the legislature-inflicted wounds borne upon them.

However, we have a balanced budget in Arizona (shhhhhhhhhh, don't say a thing about how the state is asking local municipalities to help foot the bill in order that the rich get even richer. It's our secret, OK?), and that's what matters. Robin Hood's alter ego would unequivocally agree.