Confessions of a Slave Driver

It's Not You, It's Me…

2011-09-29T18:52:00.001-06:00

I'm finding menopause difficult to—

Right now I'm in the middle of a number of things, plus—

deal with. First of all it seems I now —

My mom is all settled in her basement lair. She has two rooms and the run of—

lack the ability to focus on anything longer—

Is your refrigerator supposed to get hot on the sides? Because—

than a micro second. I mean, wandering into—

mine has been for the last two days and —

the kitchen then standing there openmouthed wondering what—

The Utah Romance Writers of America conference is next week, (October 7 & 8, The Canyons, Park City Utah) so as you can imagine—

it's been making sounds like it's—

the hell you came in there for in the first place is one thing. Going from room—

Damn, there's another hot flash. I wonder if I have any batteries in my flashlight? Oh, man, I need to write myself a note to get batteries.

grinding up sausage so either there is something —

to room doing it gets tedious. And when I'm not doing that, I'm flittering between—

The Kid joined the Army reserves. She looks great in her—

wrong with the insides or a small butcher moved into my fridge and is grinding up hamburger.

three different things like a 12 year old with ADHD at Scout-O-Rama, and not finishing anything. I'm —

how I am so completely swamped with crap to do that I even took off—

thinking of somehow turning a t-shirt into a dry erase board to I can write down—

What a beautiful day out! Let's go—

what the hell I was doing to stay on task. It's that or get a Post-It note pad implanted on my left forearm. Which might hurt.

I want candy! I want candy!

Family room, plus her own bathroom. And having her here —

Now I want wine.

uniform, although they had to special order her one; apparently—

the entire month of September and half of October. Part of it was because I finaled in a writing contest and I—

is great. She totally pitches in and smells better than a foster cat, which makes Mr. SD very happy.

ride bikes!

had to finish editing the work in progress just in case the judge, an agent—

they don't get teeny-tiny recruits unless they—

from New York, asked for a full or partial of the MS. But, she did not (she made no requests) which is okay—

Squirrel!

are made of green plastic.

because I will be pitching my second place win at our URWA conference.

So once again I apologize for my lack of posting. Blame it on menopause! I'm going to.

And now I will tell you a love story.

My most favorite co-worker is Cleatus. I've written a number of stories about him, and he is a main character in Splitting The Difference, the short I have on Amazon. Cleatus was working at the barn when I started, some seven years ago. And despite what the ARA's will tell you, Cleatus enjoyed working. How do I know? A while ago he was on the D/L because of an abscessed hoof. Ro would bring him into the barn to soak his foot and then let him roam around the property and eat the grass and weeds. Our horses occasionally double as the landscaping crew. Anyway, Cleatus has been off for about a month, and Ro had him in the barn. She walked outside to get the mail, leaving the two people size doors open. Now, Ro's office has a people door going into the barn on one side, and a people door doing to the outside on another . She went out through the people door to the mailbox, and Cleatus walked through the people door into the office from the barn, executed a ninty-degree swivel in a very small space, then continued to sashay out the front door. Ro, standing at the mail box, was astonished as Cleatus calmly walked by her, heading the direction of downtown. He even jerked his chin at her as if to say, "Hey, sista, what's up?" as he moseyed on past.

Apparently, fed up with not being allowed out on the street for so long, he was heading downtown on his own to see what was shaking.

And anyone who tells you horses are strict vegetarians never saw Cleatus steal a cheeseburger from the hand of a carriage driver who was trying to be polite and hide his food while attempting to sell a ride.

I often times explain that the job is 50/50 between the horse and driver, but with Cleatus, it's more like 70/30, with Cleatus being the 70. In other words, given thumbs and a command of the English language, he could do the job solo.

His favorite treat was Oreo cookies and he would come when I called him, and follow me around like a dog. A dog that's looking for more Oreos.

He passed away last week. I will never again be able to look at Oreos without thinking of my sweet boy Cleatus.

Often Boring, But Rarely Dull

2011-08-05T12:10:00.000-06:00

FAQs (Frequently Asked Questions)

"Is your job fun?"

"Do you need a special license to be a carriage driver?"

"Animal abuser! Why don't you get a real job?"

"Do you meet a lot of interesting people doing this?"

FRs (Frequent Replies)

"Is your job fun?"

Sometimes. The day Ro and I did this gig was fun.

But not always. For example, Tuesday night when it suddenly poured on us for twenty minutes straight, I would not describe it as fun. I would call it painful, awkward and moist. My customers, who were safely ensconced in a carriage with the top up during the downpour, called it fun. Of course they got to go home and change; I remained stuck working outside with a raging case of what we fondly call swamp ass.

"Do you need a special license to be a carriage driver?"

No. The requirements in Utah are as follows: you must be twenty-one and hold a valid Utah drivers license. We teach you everything else you need to know. However, I do believe you need a special license to drive this:

"Animal abuser! Why don't you get a real job?"

Here is a video of some horses who were running "free" in a pasture (out of the public eye, and under the control of only a few people)

One of our horses… no starvation or neglect here, plus hundreds of people see our horses Every. Single. Day.

"Do you meet a lot of interesting people doing this?"

I guess it all depends on your definition of interesting… This guy was hitch hiking around the country asking people what their American Dream was. He used to have a website, but it was shut down because he couldn't afford the hosting fees. I don't know why he hasn't gone with Blogger or another free blog site, but if you're on facebook, here is a link to his page.

This guy was not as interesting:

In fact we had to get Temple Square security to chase him away. But it does make for some lively conversation. And no one has a collection of photos from their work quite like I do.

Middle Of The Road

2011-08-01T13:28:00.000-06:00

I got a call last week from the barn asking me to drive carriage in the Days of '47 Parade.

And now, a short break for some exposition, with a side of rant:

For those of you new to the Confessions of a Slave Driver blog, it would behoove you to understand that I hate, hate, HATE driving in parades. Why? Because they don't pay squat. Most of the time the best you can hope for is a mild case of heat stroke and all the candy that ends up by your feet after being pelted with it by miniature hooligans, AKA children. In the mean time I've gotten up at the crack of ass, driven eighteen miles at dawn to play hurry up and wait while the vehicles are readied/decorated. Then you rush over to the parade staging area where you stand around and wait until it's your turn to join the mêlée. After plodding for what seems like 200 miles at four miles an hour, if you're lucky, and two mph if you're not, you arrive at a massive cluster of disarray and pandemonium reminiscent of the Gladiatorial games in Rome only to have your occupants, who usually have no idea what they are supposed to do next, jump ship with little more than a "Have a happy day."

Yes, thank you and may your day be absolutely fantastic! As it is, I'm roasting, have to pee real bad, and I'm so hungry that the plump haunch of my horse's rear end is starting to make me salivate. So the 'happy' part so far is not materializing… right now I am just having a day.

In fact I dislike parades so much that the opening of my first novel, The Carriage Trade, begins with a frantic dash to a parade where the stress level goes from bad to DEFCON 5.

End Rant. Exposition continues:

Anyway, the Days of '47 Parade celebrates the arrival of the Mormon pioneers into the Salt Lake Valley on July 24, 1847. I am not Mormon, so none of the festivities really applies to me. I have a personal prohibition about working on drinking and/or firework holidays such as New Year Eve, Independence Day, and, in our family at least, Easter. This prohibition also applies to Pioneer Day. Why do I avoid working on those days? Because I'm usually drinking, and blowing off fireworks. But not this time; this time I was bullied into participating by co-workers MBA and Ro. Both of them had agreed to drive. So after MBA pulled the friend card, I was force to capitulate.

MBA driving Tony

I requested to drive Rex because I've driven him in parades before and he's solid as a rock. Plus co-worker Bobbie asked to join me on the box as she had never driven carriage in a parade before. So while Ro, driving Tom in front of us, and MBA, driving Tony behind us, had to serpentine the entire route, thus effectively walking twice as far as Rex did, we went straight down the middle of the road. Which probably looked boring, but at least we didn't come off as intoxicated with the swerving back and forth the whole way. Both Ro and MBA claimed to be a little queasy upon completion.

Ro driving Tom (you just cant see him)

At least the parade was uneventful for us.

For the Royalty Float, which was enveloped in smoke spewing from the motor compartment, not so much. But we went out to lunch at the Red Iguana* after, so it turned out to be a good day after all.

Except maybe for this horse who either cannot read or else is just a scofflaw when it comes to legal parking.

*The Red Iguana is a fabulous Mexican restaurant. Actually, there are two, RI1 and RI2. Red Iguana 1 was featured on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives so it's always packed. Red Iguana 2 is a "known only to the locals" annex around the corner from RI1. The food is outstanding.

Walking The Course

2011-07-11T13:37:00.000-06:00

I have always loved horses, and history. Combining the two, I became a carriage driver. As a carriage driver, I give historical tours. Even when I'm not driving carriage, I give historical tours. Ask my family; I'm sure it annoys them.

So when I was informed by a co-worker that the Utah Heritage Foundation would be giving tours of the buildings at Exchange Place I jumped at the opportunity to go, even if it meant operating the rest of the day on only four hours of sleep.

I met my friend and fellow carriage driver, MBA, downtown and we proceeded to pester the guides with obscure questions throughout the tour. The buildings are beautiful, and while the architecture is mirrored in the twin buildings, they are fraternal rather than identical. I know this because the first question I asked, before the tour even began, was "Why is there a buffalo head on the Newhouse building but not on the Boston building?"

The answer was, "I have no idea."

Obviously we were off to a successful start. But after that the tour was wonderful, except for the part where MBA tried to get me to look down the stairwell from the 11th floor.

Side note: I do not like heights. I'm quite content to stay no higher than the 3rd floor at a hotel. Taking those glass elevators makes me clench my fists and stop breathing. The idea of going on that glass bottom walk way that goes out over the Grand Canyon…well, we're not even going to talk about the puckering that ignites. But MBA took a Zipline through a rainforest, because people convinced her it would be cool. I would have to be drunk to the point of unconsciousness to do that, and still I'd prefer hacking my way across land with a machete, fending off poop slinging monkeys and millipedes the size of my arm, to zooming across the sky wearing an epic-wedgie inducing thong on a cable engineered and installed by people with remedial education.

In other words, it squicks me out.

Anyway, back on topic; the tour was informative and now if I take people down Main Street as far as the 400 South block, I can talk about the Newhouse, Boston, and Exchange Club buildings with some degree of accuracy.

And while I cannot tell you why there is a buffalo head on the Newhouse building I can tell you why there are lion heads on both: it was a symbol of industry.

The Newhouse Building:

The beautiful marble stairs in the Newhouse building. Utah has no native marble, so this was imported from Georgia. The marble is only on the first level because Samuel Newhouse ran out of money. But at least the lobby looks nice!

The stairs in the Boston building were tile and terrazzo.

I'm okay with looking UP a stairwell, but declined when invited to take the same photo looking down.

The lion was a symbol for industry. Both buildings have this detail around the top.

The style of the buildings are the same but some of the decorative details differ.

The building has a mail chute that runs the height of the building. All the mail ends up in this post box at the bottom. I forgot to inquire if it is still in use.

The Exchange Club was like a men's club/gym for the employees of the stock and banking businesses.

The Birds, Without Bees

2011-04-18T12:33:00.004-06:00

I love educating people. I'd be a teacher if it wasn't for the fact that I intensely dislike other people's children. But I've been known to spend long units of time blathering on about horses, food, the weather, Southern Utah's Red Rock country…well, you get the picture.

So it was no surprise that while taking some teenagers around Temple Square I stopped to show them a well known resident. Salt Lake City is home to a nesting pair of
Peregrine Falcons. In my family we do some casual bird watching so I'm familiar with numerous breeds. Plus being that I work outside pretty much next to the Joseph Smith Memorial Building, where the birds have a nesting box, I've seen them and their offspring swooping around downtown. On this particular evening I came around the corner from North Temple onto State Street and happened to notice one of the falcons perched on the top of the front corner of the apartment building across the street. Stopping the carriage opposite the building I pointed the bird out to the occupants and said,

"It's sitting up there, possibly waiting for an unsuspecting bird to fly by, then it will dive down and make a meal out of it."

Because in theory that's the type of behavior they should be doing.

As we're watching the Peregrine, another bird flies into the vicinity.

"Maybe it'll attack that bird," I tell them.

The second bird flaps over, and lands next to the Peregrine. Then we all watch as it hops on the first bird's back, has its way with it, then flies off.

Wham. Bam. Thank you ma'am.

Silence ensues.

Crap, did that really just happen? Did I just expose these kids to Bird Porn? There's gonna be a phone call, I'm sure.

As they say, timing is everything.

You can watch the nesting pair of falcons from the comfort of your computer. That works well for me, because I'm not a big fan of heights.

http://wildlife.utah.gov/peregrine/

One More For The Road

2011-04-15T13:49:00.000-06:00

Don't you just hate it when you run past a blog you follow and it's same old crap as was there the last time you visited?

Yeah, me too.

<-- Insert eyeroll here

The problem as I see it is this: I haven't really been driving carriage much lately, and with the exception of having my horse, Dreamer's, teeth floated a few weeks back, not much equine related has been going on.

And, contrary to public opinion, that is what the whole "Slave Driver" name is about.

We did get one more "Rental Cat" (also known as a Foster). His name is Opi and he's older, a male and foreign (Siamese). He's not as dog friendly as Zita was, but that whole Dog/Cat relationship bordered on very weird anyway.

Opi will be the last foster for either a while, or ever. My mother is coming to live with us, so the whole cat operation is coming to an end. Which is okay with Mr. Slave Driver, because although he is not totally opposed to cats, he is not exactly enamored with the smell of their litter box.

I've been writing my newest work-in-progress; It's a romantic comedy called Another You. Here's the first part of the synopsis/elevator pitch:

Gun shy after two failed marriages, Sammie Fallon finally meets a man who's intelligent, handsome, loyal, energetic, hard working and attentive to her moods. She thinks he's great; her friends all like him, and if it wasn't for one tiny thing, he'd be perfect for her:

She suspects he might be the reincarnation of her dead dog.

Jack McCune was a player, always making time with the girls but never getting emotionally invested. When a tragic accident almost kills Jack, and takes the life of a girl he was dating, he realizes he didn’t even bother to learn her last name. Wracked with survivors guilt, and able to being a new lease on life, Jack vows to find the girl of his dreams and become a devoted, loving companion.

I've also been dinking around with my website. I bought my domain last year but haven't had a chance to find a host and put it online. So if you have a minute go over to LisaDeon.com and let me know what you think. It's still rough around the edges, but that's what DIY gets. And don't bother clicking on the "My Alter Ego" link. It'll just bring you right back here.

And if one more person buys a copy of my short, Splitting The Difference, I'll actually get paid. Not enough to buy that RV I covet, but I get a footlong from Subway.

Blasphemy And Other Avocations

2011-03-27T21:43:00.000-06:00

Living in an area with a high concentration of Christians whose religion is only slightly less restrictive than the Amish faith, it was refreshing to be surrounded by people celebrating the Hindu holiday of, well, Holi Day.

Lathmar Holi, also known as the "Festival of Color," has been going on in other parts of the world for around 5000 years. But according to the coverage presented by our local Fox affiliate, the Lotus Temple in Spanish Fork, Utah is the only place where the Festival of Colors is celebrated in the United States.

Too bad for the rest of you non-Utah people because it was awesome.

This was our first excursion, the Kid and I. I'd passed the Hari Krishna Temple last fall on our way to Moab, and it's a beautiful building.

Situated on a hill surrounded by farmland, cars were parked on the side of the main road for miles. With my penchant for being early, we got a great spot across the street and only paid $5 to park. Being from Chicago, I can tell you that $5 to park in the middle of some dude's cow pasture is a hella deal.

So that was a win, and we didn't have to wait in line very long to buy the colored chalk-like powder you throw in the air, and at people, and on stuff… And sometimes you just rub it in someone's hair. And the powder is also scented, which is good, because if most of the other people were like us, they also eschewed their daily shower until they got home, knowing they'd be covered. What we didn't know was how hard it would be to breathe while the throwing is going on and next year we will make sure we do the following:

Wear a bandanna and sunglasses.

White and black clothes bring out the brightness of the colors.

Cover your camera in plastic wrap.

Bring someone you love.

In other news, Zita, the most recent foster cat, found her forever home this weekend with a friend of mine. We met while volunteering for Sundance, share the same initials, and worked on a movie together a few years back. She saw the kitty on Facebook, decided to visit her at an adoption event, and fell in love. She is both pleased and astonished at Zita's tenacious personality and is happy to be able to give her a forever home. However, our big fluffy white dog Luna, who thought the cat was her pet, has been searching for Zita for two days now.

But she'll get over it.

My short, Splitting The Difference is available from Amazon.com and everyone who purchases a copy between now and December 2012 gets a free Mayan Calendar!*

*Not really. Have you any idea how much shipping would be? Those puppies are made of stone. Plus if you liked it you wouldn't be able to get another one for 2013 because the World's supposed to end.

Monkeys Need Not Apply

2011-03-23T12:03:00.000-06:00

I love gadgets. I get that from my dad. He loved gadgets with a passion that was only surpassed by his affection for watching TV. And if you combined Television with gadgets, he was in Heaven. While other families had to make do with watching a show and then using their brains to remember things about it, we had a VCR. Less fortunate families were stuck cooking with something as archaic as fire. We had a microwave. And I cannot even recall the amount of remote controllers we cycled through in a decade.

So you can imagine my bitter disappointment as an adult that all the things my generation was promised back in the 60's (cities springing up on the moon where we live in big oxygen filled domes; self cleaning houses, flying cars and personal robots to do all the drudge work; a cure for the common cold, etc) have not yet come to fruition. The closest thing we have to a self cleaning house and robots, besides hoards of illegal immigrants doing menial work for low pay and no benefits, is the Roomba robotic vacuum. And the only reason why I have not run right out and bought one is I'm sure the dog hair in my house would kill it pretty damn quick. If I did get a Roomba I'd also have to get a little monkey to pluck the gobs of hair out of it every ten minutes, and monkeys, according to Mr. Slave Driver, make nasty pets. The pet monkey he knew sat on top of his friend's television, masturbated, and flung crap at house guests.

If I want to see that, I'll watch MTV.

Okay, back to the topic of gadgets: Besides having a Kindle, which is a high tech reading device, I recently purchased a low tech reading device called a Book Hugger. My friend and fellow writer Clancy Metzger and I saw this demonstrated by the inventor, Paul,

at the
Tucson Festival of Books and decided it was a "Must Have."

Clancy and I both purchased Book Huggers, because we liked the idea of having something else hold our books for us. In my case it's because, as everyone should have figured out by now, I'm really lazy. And I like to read while I eat. Sometimes propping a book up across the TV remote or using the remote to keep the book open to the pages I'm reading (both low tech uses for a high tech object, essentially using a remote as a rock) doesn’t work out so well. Plus then Mr. Slave Driver, who likes to watch TV while he eats, cannot randomly change channels every 2.3 seconds. Because I'm using the remote for a purpose it was not designed for.

Enter the Book Hugger.

What this device does is hold your book, making reading almost hands free.

When I initially showed my people the Book Hugger they mocked me and said soon I'd develop tiny, useless Tyrannosaurus Rex arms, good for not much more than wobbling around, scaring off crows in a cornfield.

But then I showed them how you can prop it on its side and read in bed and they were impressed. Plus it has a light, and extends. Eventually they became sullen and wished I'd bought one for them, since I was on an out of town trip and am expected to bring gifts upon my return.

I really like this product, and not in a Facebook "Like" way, which only gives you the one option. It's a useful tool. You still have to turn the pages, unless you own a monkey, in which case you can train your monkey to turn the pages for you. That is, when he's not pleasuring himself with the zeal of Charlie Sheen or flinging crap at people from atop your television set.

Book Hugger. Get one. And the light. Buy one of those too.

*Do not get a monkey.

On another note, I only need to sell 1,096,632 more copies of my short story, Splitting The Difference, in order to buy that $329,000.00 RV I covet. And only another seven copies to get paid! So tell your friends, it's available through Amazon.com.

*Monkey option not available through Hugabook.com

Cats And Dogs, Living In Sin

2011-03-07T13:39:00.000-07:00

Our foster cat, Zita, has been here a little over a week now, and, well, things are not quite right…

When we disclosed to the director of the foster cat program that having a more dog friendly cat might be better for the cat, we were thinking about how miserable poor Wednesday was. Because of her dog induced anxiety, she limited herself to the basement, and although she craved human/cat interaction, she only got it when someone went downstairs to spend quality time with her. But even around people she could be skittish and shy.

Enter Zita.

At twice the poundage of Wednesday, she began her reign of feline dictatorship subtlety, and with panache. At first, she feigned submission, crouching down and flattening her ears while Luna motorboated her repeatedly.

Luna is a sweet dog, but she's about as gentle as elephant strip-searching a peanut vendor.

After pointedly ignoring Luna's shoving her around, looking for who knows what, Zita finally had enough and began to school Luna in the fine art of diplomacy. A small bite, here, a grabbing of the muzzle there, until finally Luna got a scratch on her nose, and quit her harassment.

And that's about as close as we’ve gotten here to détente.

Here is a photographic play-by-play of the events:

Zita is just hanging around on the coffee table minding her own business...

First come the sneak...

Then comes the nose poke.

Then we have the wrestling.

And the in your face antaginism.

Then...

And finally, a truce in the hallway.

Shamefull, I know.

And at least when the foster cat stands up for herself, I don’t have to get in the middle of it.

Warning: Flagrant self promotion ahead:
My short, Splitting the Difference, is available for download at
Amazon.com in Kindle format. If you don’t have a Kindle, you can download a free Kindle app for iPhone/iPad/iTouch or PC here. I'm working in getting the short up on Smashwords. I am kind of lazy, but you should know that by now.

For Whom The Bell Tolls

2011-02-25T08:31:00.000-07:00

Our last foster cat, Wednesday, was of slight build and timid but loving disposition. And while she craved the attention of the humans in the household, she shriveled, hid and snarled at the canine members. Her demeanor at adoption events was similar to a convict awaiting execution, and at one event she did so poorly the volunteers covered her cage with a towel because she hissed at anyone who looked in her direction.

Not exactly the type of behavior one hopes their foster cat displays in public. It kind of puts a damper on the whole "Looking for a cute, cuddly kitty to adopt" thing.

Eventually Wednesday found a new home with a person who was dogless, and we went about our busy schedules in December and January. During dinner at Fudruckers the other night I received a text from the director of the No More Homeless Pets in Utah foster cat program. She advised me that there was a cat available to foster that loved dogs. Was I interested?

We discussed it during our meal and decided that yes, indeed we could manage another foster now that things had settled down and I arranged to collect the cat the next morning.

I picked up a female tabby named Zita who was very friendly and only cried once on the way home in the crate. After our arrival I put her in the "panic room."

We have a special room in the house where we store an old waterbed and keep the foster cats. This is for their own protection. It's a room with a baby gate in the doorway that allows the cat easy access to its food and water but limits the presence of dogs who only want to maraud and pillage, gobbling down the cat food, then raping and disemboweling the cat toys. I'm not going into detail about what atrocities they manage with the litter box, but bobbing for apples comes to mind.

So the gate is up to allow the cat to dive into the room when taking cover is the best course of action. And with the waterbed, and a few other things we have stored in the room, it's easy to lose track of a kitty because there are fabulous little nooks and crannies for a cat to hide in, on, and under. When we foster a cat we're required make the cat wear a break-away cat collar with an I.D. tag on it. Last time I had Wednesday's name engraved on it and the person who adopted her kept the collar. This time I got a generic tag that says, "Foster Cat; Scan my tag" engraved on a purple heart and attached to a pink collar. A pink collar with a bell. Those little tiny bells that they put on cat collars to warn birds that a cat is about to turn them into a McNugget.

And therein lies the amusement. Because while I was attaching the I.D. tag to the collar, and Zita was tucked safely away in the cat room, the two dogs, hearing the bell tinkle, went apeshit looking for a cat in the kitchen. Because of the bell.

Anyway, for your consideration, Zita, a spayed female tabby approximately two years old, is available. Look for her at an adoption event soon!

(I'll put up a link as soon as NMHPU adds her to Petfinder.)

Life, The Universe, and BYU

2011-02-22T10:04:00.004-07:00

I attended the 29th annual Life, The Universe, and Everything conference at Brigham Young University last week. It's geared towards Science Fiction and Fantasy writers, but as those non-romance writers who have attended some of the Utah RWA chapter's events can attest, there are many things a writer can learn that are valid across the genre board. Plus it was only an hour from my house and a paltry $20. So, what's not to like.

Some of the workshops were geared towards beginners. (What's a query letter? What does an agent do?) I have no problems with sitting in on beginner workshops because it gives me a chance to rest my brain. While my brain is in neutral I watch cartoons in my head, which is my happy place. Since I had my netbook and internet access, when I got bored of my head-cartoon re-runs I watched some You Tube videos. One of my favorites is about a Mini Horse named Cupcake. I love the song that goes with the video.

(Warning: catchy song that will give you an earworm and also make you want to run to the bakery and get a dozen cupcakes. And adopt a miniature horse. Do not do either on the spur of the moment! Both options have consequences.)

Cupcake The Herdmaster*

I also admit to searching eBay for a Hari-Kari swords during one of my darker, more bored to death moments. But my compatriots lured me away from ritual suicide with the promise of wine at the end of the tunnel.

I also skipped some of the presentations because I'm not religious in any way, shape or form and do not figure much religion into my writing. A class on Mormons and the Paranormal or Using the Scriptures as a Basis for Fiction are too chocked full of potential triggers for me to spiral down into paroxysm of donkey-like braying that it is best for all involved if I abstain.

I was intrigued to find out that the presenters had to sign a contract with a non-swearing clause. I would have liked to have taken a look at such a contract; are the naughty words spelled out or only alluded to? It is three strikes you're out kind of thing or can you get a do-over? And does it count if you either apologize or say, "Oops!" after murmuring the offending word? Also, while Damn and Hell are specific (you wouldn’t "Sentence someone to heck for all eternity" as it's weak and confusing) should you get nailed for spirit as opposed to letter? Substituting "Fricking" still gets the initial idea across, although to me it's lame. And while no one dropped the "F-Bomb" the term "F-Bomb" was used. Since people can simultaneously translate "F-Bomb" or "F-Word" into its actual form, are you really accomplishing anything? Plus, it's all subjective anyway. What one person finds offensive another might find wry.

During one workshop about villains I discovered that the instructor had no idea who Hannibal Lecter was, which to me was appalling. I regret missing the lecture titled Zombies! but I had by that time behaved myself well enough during ~~some~~ most of the classes that I had earned several glasses of wine and wanted to reap my rewards. But my most favorite class was titled Lessons on Story from "The Hunger Games" which I enjoyed immensely. Unfortunately the presenter had only read the first book so he could not comment on my question about the love triangle conflict.

BYU, for those who are college geography impaired, is in Provo, Utah. People who live in Provo call Salt Lake City "Sin City". You don't even want to know what they call Las Vegas. When my friend and I stopped for breakfast at Village Inn the waitress asked if we wanted to start off with water, juice or hot chocolate. I had to ask for coffee, and then I had to wait for them to brew it. There was also a woman participant in the conference who brought her infant into Every. Single. Class. Many of which we had together. And her infant never failed to fuss and cry. In one class I heard a woman comment to a man sitting next to her that, "People don’t mind at all, this is Utah." This made me realize she was sitting behind me. I got up and moved. And her answer for every time the baby squawked was to pop the tot onto her breast for a meal.

No wonder we have an obesity problem in America.

Note: Shameless promotion ahead -->

My short story Splitting The Differenceis available at Amazon.com for the low low price of .99 cents. I saw a Motor Home at the RV show last weekend I really like. It's $329,000.00 so if I sell 1,096,645 more copies I can buy that puppy outright!

*Cupcake is a member of BlueStar Equiculture You should go to their website and read all about the great work they do.

Spiderman, Organ Failure, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police

2011-02-07T16:54:00.002-07:00

I know, it makes no sense. Allow me to explain:

The Sundance Film Festival arrived and departed Utah last month. As usual the festival was accompanied by a plethora of fun filled and feckless moments;

Tina, Dena and Slave Driver stood first in line for the Awards party, trying to get in early by using lines like, "We're with the band," and "We're Elmo's stylists…" And while none of the falsehoods worked, we did enjoy making the uber-trendy fellow behind us mutter, "They're sucking out all of my energy," accompanied by an eye roll and a heavy sigh. Which just goes to show you that many moms consider themselves successful if they can not only embarrass/annoy their own child, but can accomplish the same feat with someone else's offspring. Truly, it separates the amateurs from the professionals.

There were some wonderful films. At least that's what I heard. I only saw three, (Being Elmo; Submarine; Buck) one of which I was not a fan (Note to the distributers of "Submarine": while I'm sure based on the fact that the Joe Dunthorne book was popular it seemed like a good idea to turn it into a movie, may I suggest avoiding marketing this film to parents. "Why?" ask the savvy Free Marketeers. "Because," responds Slave Driver, "as the parent of a teenager, I can get all the drama and angst I want at home. For free."

And while I loved both "Being Elmo" and "Buck", many times for me the "real" entertainment is out in the lobby of the theater, not inside where the screen is.

For example, the first Sunday of the evening tends to be pretty tame at our humble Salt Lake venue. After all, most of the beautiful people are in Park City attending premiers, parties, and collecting as much swag as they can pile onto their publicists. Several of us were standing around, waiting for Alexi to introduce our last show of the evening, when in through the doors walked three scruffy looking young guys. After tilting my head and squinting real hard, I realized one of them was Tobey McGuire. They asked if they could still get into the film, Like Crazy, (which eventually won an award.) Luckily for them, it was Sunday night in Salt Lake, the film had not generated a ton of buzz yet, and the house had not achieved critical mass. Miguel grabbed some tickets for them while I escorted the trio to available seats and Alexi made her way to the stage and introduced the film. It was fun having a "name" in the house, and without any of the hoopla and posturing normally associated with arriving celebrity.

On the other hand, the closer we get to the end of the festival, the more intense and downright crazy-ass people become. For example, on the following Sunday, while the theaters in Park City play a lot of the award winners along with a few random screenings of festival fare, the Rose Wagner is the only other venue still showing films in the valley, besides the Sundance Resort, which is way the heck up in Provo Canyon. So where do you think all the local pass holders go? Yeah, that's right, they come to the Rose. Which is great. I mean, we love our regular, loyal, treat them like family, local pass holders. And as hard as it is for you to believe, I am actually being sincere. I get hugs from my regulars. However, the sheer number of locals that decide to show up at our theater the last day plays havoc with the ticketing system and throws all the computer generated models out the window. And what that means is:

The theater gets filled really fast and even if you arrive on time and you have a ticket, you still may not get in.

Which makes people really cranky. As you can imagine.

So on this particular day, for a movie called "Win, Win" starring Paul Giamatti, we turned a few folks away. Although unhappy, most of them were very gracious about it, having played the Sundance Shuffle before. Except for one guy. Claiming, loudly, to be a "Film Critic", he insisted that he was to be allowed to see the movie because he ~~was a major asshat and was full of himself~~ had interviewed Paul Giamatti. Alexi spent a long time with him, being very respectful, repeating over and over that since there was no place for him to sit, he would not be allowed into the theater. The gist of his reply was 1) he was a film critic 2) who had interviewed Paul Giamatti 3) from a foreign country 4) so we MUST LET HIM INTO THE THEATER, NOW, to see this film because 5) he had interviewed Paul Giamatti, and we had not. Plus he claimed to know the festival manager, which makes us shrug, because we too know the festival manager, and he does not make us tremble.

While listening to him rant at Alexi, I realized that the foreign country he hailed from was "Douchebagestan."* Knowing the only way to extract her from the situation, short of chewing her arm off and dragging her away, was to advise the Foreign Film Critique/ Paul Giamatti Interviewer point blank, that there was no seat available for him (I had already checked) and Alexi was done ~~wasting~~ spending her time explaining this to him because I needed her elsewhere.

Later, during an exchange in which I attempted to be nice (don’t snicker, I can fake it when I need to) the Film Critic proceeded to tell me that he would make sure that I would never work in the movie industry again (an industry I hadn’t realized I was employed in, being that I volunteer for the festival once a year and drive horse drawn carriage the remained of the time) and, after offering to have the sheriff escort him off the premise if he wished to make trouble, he countered with sending the Royal Canadian Mounted Police my way to arrest me.

I honestly had no idea the RCMP had jurisdiction in Utah. It just goes to prove that you can learn something new every day.

And last but not least, on the same evening, one of the other managers had to turn another patron away for a showing of a different film. Upon being advised that they were unable to attend the film, this patron told the other manager that they were in charge of the organ transplant department at a local university (I'm not telling you which one; it has a medical school, and their mascot's names rhymes with "fruits") and the manager better hope for the rest of his life that he never needed and organ transplant, because he would be denied. ** Hippocratic oath be damned!

Sigh…and eye roll.

So, I'm sure the title of this blog makes sense to you now.
I have to go, I need to hide from the Mounties while I look for a new kidney on eBay. It never hurts to hedge your bets.

*Not a real country. And although he threatened me with the RCMP I know he cannot be Canadian because all the Canadians I know are very nice. With the exception of one. But she doesn't count because I think of her more as a "Bitch" then as a "Canadian."

**Ironically, the manager who was threatened with Organ Transplant Black-Listing works for the medical school at the same university in another department. The entire exchange was witnessed by yet another university employee, and both of them planned on notifying the head of the Ethics department. Of course that doesn’t compare to being on the RCMP "Most Wanted" list…

If you've purchased my short story, "Splitting the Difference," THANK YOU! And please feel free to go back to Amazon and review it.

Coming To A Kindle Near You…

2011-01-17T12:21:00.001-07:00

Several years ago, for Valentine's Day, I wrote a short story originally titled "Stupid Cupid." Full of promise, I sent it off to a romance magazine, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Eventually, it got all moldy and stinky on my laptop so I wrapped it in Saran wrap, stuck it in a folder, and waited some more like a good little unrepresented author.

I've done the same thing with my novel, except for the occasional attempt to entice an agent to represent my work. Then I got a Kindle for Christmas, and you know what? I love it. I downloaded The Hunger Games on Christmas morning. I liked that book so much that I downloaded the second one in the series one night after I got home from work. Upon finishing that one, I bought the final book in the series. That was at about two am. And all three times, I never left my house. Which was good, because I was wearing mt PJ's and smelled a little like horse.

And here is what I have to say about eBooks.

I love them. I love my Kindle. I love the cover with the light Mr.SD bought me. I love the fact that I don't need book marks. I enjoy having more than one book in the same compact book-like package. And apparently, I'm not the only one who likes it.

From USA Today 1/5/2011

USA TODAY's Best-Selling Books list, to be published Thursday, will show digital's new popularity: E-book versions of the top six books outsold the print versions last week. And of the top 50, 19 had higher e-book than print sales.

Let me emphasize one sentence of that small paragraph: E-book versions of the top six books outsold the print versions last week.

Now, believe me when I tell you that I know paper books will never be obsolete. For one thing I won’t be taking my Kindle into the pool. I'm not stupid. Plus I like to drink a little while I'm floating around so sometimes gravity gets the best of me. Plus, although you can lend Kindle books to other Kindle owners, it's not quite the same as passing a paperback copy of Water For Elephants around. On the other hand, I have no idea where my copy of Water For Elephants is, which would be eliminated via Kindle lending, since they get loaned out for two weeks then come back to your account, as if by magic. And I don’t see a small herd of rainbow color unicorns thundering in my direction with little book bags around their soft and fluffy rainbow colored necks, returning my stack of Sara Gruen Flying Changes: A Novel Water for Elephants: A Novelbooks.

Anyway, all that was pretty much off the track I wanted to be on. But when I tell you the rest of it, it'll make more sense:

I got tired of waiting for someone else to publish my short story, so I published it myself. On Amazon. I know, I know: What kind of crazy ass would choose to ditch the middle man and publish their work on the biggest grossing sales site on the internet. Silly, I know. But what the hell…

The first copy I sold was to myself, because I wanted to make sure it was formatted correctly. Apparently, I goofed up the paragraph indentation, so you'll have to excuse that. Then again, if you're a frequent reader of this blog, you're used to poor spelling and typos anyway.

By the way, you do not have to own a Kindle to read it. There is a free app available for downlaod to PC's. iPhones/pods/pads and Android based phones and tablets. In other words, you don't need a Kindle to read Kindle books.

So, for your consideration, available for the low, low price of .99 cents, is my charming little short, Splitting The Difference. I hope you like it. And if you do, I'd appreciate it if you’d tell your friends.

And if you don’t, go ahead and tell your enemies.

Watch This Space...

2011-01-13T15:04:00.000-07:00

Kindle Wireless Reading Device, Wi-Fi, Graphite, 6" Display with New E Ink Pearl Technology

This is kind of a test, but more about that later...

Once More, With Feeling

2011-01-11T14:35:00.002-07:00

Yes, slacker. That's me.

The Christmas Carriage season went well, with the exception of a couple of nights with a lot of snow. If people paying for a totally frivolous form of entertainment can be used as an economic indicator, then things are picking up.

It's a strange occupation I have; some nights I'm so bored, cold, sore or crabby it's all I can do to not growl at the people in my carriage. Other nights we have front row seats to "Weird Shit Window On The World."

For example: I was on a ride passing North Gate and I noticed two guys unloading one of the ugliest loveseats I've ever seen out of the back of a pickup. This caught my attention only because the North Gate of Temple Square is not a typical place to unload furniture. Then they unloaded what looked to be the base of a motorized scooter. Now, being that we travel at a whopping four miles per hour, we get to see a lot of stuff, and much of it, I don’t give a second thought to. This was one of those instances, until Carriage driver Kar later mentioned the motorized loveseat zipping down the road at warp speed.

(Photos courtesy of Carriage Driver Kar)

Ok, it was warp speed for a couch. They usually don’t go from 0-7 in two minutes. They usually go from 0 to 0. At least all the ones I've ever owned.

Then, of course, there was the Barking Dog From Hell experience. A bunch of us were stopped at the light on North Temple and Main street, with traffic stack up like pre-teens waiting for the doors to open at a general admission seating Justin Bieber concert. A little dog in a car two lanes over noticed the horses and started barking, barking, barking. The owners, as usual with annoying dogs that bark continuously, thought it was cute, so they rolled down their windows. enabling the rest of us captured in traffic to enjoy the festive sounds of Sir Barksalot.

"Bark, bark, bark."
Rest.
"Bark, bark, bark."
Rest.
"Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark."
Rest; repeat.

This continued forever.

The stoplight, by the way, for whatever reason, was not functioning properly, so we sat there for a while, and finally I yelled to the barking dog people, "Doesn’t he know any other songs?"

They looked confused.

So I demonstrated for them by barking "Jingle Bells." Behind me, Crazy Shelley joined in. We sang one chorus, then we changed to a Salsa beat. Shelley sang the words this time, and I barked in appropriate places.

At long last the light changed. But not before we taught that dog a new song.

I'm Handing Out Signs...

2010-12-17T12:34:00.002-07:00

I love Bill Engvall. His "Here's your sign" saying is most appropriate in so many circumstances. If Bill was in Salt Lake (I understand he has a house in Park City) I would appoint him the official "Sign Giver" to the following people:

**
The parking enforcement officer, a woman we call "The Parking Nazi" because of her anti-equestrienne bias, was double parked on the west side of the Conference Center, writing out tickets for the illegally parked vehicles. She was stopped in the right hand lane, double parked with her lights flashing when an elderly lady, late for the concert, pulled up behind her and got out of her car.
"When you move can I have your spot?" Elderly lady asked the Parking Nazi.
Elderly Lady, here's your sign.

**
I was stopped at the light at the corner of State and South Temple, waiting to make a right turn, when a van pulled up alongside me. The front seat passenger rolled down her window and asked,
"Isn’t your horse cold?"
"No," I replied.
"Really? How can he not be cold?"
"He's wearing a fur coat."
Concerned van lady, here's your sign.

**
A woman walked up and down the carriage line last night, petting all the horses, and asking their names. When she got to me she asked,
"Does your horse have a name?"
"No," I replied, "I just say: Hey, you!"
Lady, here's your sign.

**
A man in the same group walked up to Charlie (which is the name of the horse I was driving) looked underneath him, and asked,
"Is that a stallion?"
"No," I replied, "we rarely use any of our stallions on the street. They get a little feisty."
"Oh yes," he said, "I've seen those wild stallions in Hawaii. I'm not from here."
Obviously, sir. Here's your sign. Hold it up high so the mother ship sees it and takes you back home.

**
Last Saturday I went out to help Ro stage. It was extremely busy. Usually, I bring my metal "Carriage For Hire" sign and park in the unused east side of our staging area. That piece of prime real estate is ours. We pay for it with our yearly licensing fee, and it's where Ro parks (with the sign in her window) when she stages. I, however, forgot to put my sign in my car before I left the house that day, so I had to park at the barn, put all my gear on, walk two blocks to the train, take it three blocks to the station closest to South Gate, and walk another block to the staging area. All while wearing my 17 layers of winter wear. And I only had on one pair of socks so my feet were slopping around in my boots, making walking a chore.
Slave Driver, here's your sign…

Absent Friends, Empty Lockers

2010-11-29T11:52:00.004-07:00

A blog doesn’t write itself, but there are times I wish it would. This is one of them.

Several weeks ago, we lost a driver. His name was Don, and he'd been with us for a couple of years. He was brought into our employment by his wife, Audrey, who also drives. Previously the employees we'd had named "Don" had all been as dumb as a box of rocks. So much so that at one point we imposed a moratorium on hiring men named "Don", just because the quality of Dons we'd experienced had been so incredibly subpar.

This Don was the exception to that rule.

Don was a quiet man, quick with a funny quip, there to assist if you needed help, and always willing to pitch in where needed. He had a gentle hand with the horses, and took exceptional care with his favorite co-worker, Libby. We were shocked by his unexpected passing of a heart attack, and his absence has left a hole in our small tribe.

And we not only lost Don, but Audrey has decided to be taken off the schedule for the time being. We're patient people; we know she’ll be back when she feels the time is right. And we'll welcome her with open arms when she returns.

Every once in a while I find myself saying, "Damn it, Don."

It's a reaction to his not being there. He wasn't there when I needed a roll of electrical tape to wrap my shafts with. He was tall, and wasn't there to help those of us like myself who are vertically challenged and need stuff from high places. He wasn't there when we were trying to figure out the best person to send to South Gate to place our traffic cones prior to the mayhem we knew Black Friday would be. He wasn't there when I had to change the time on my very confusing watch from Daylight-Savings-Time to Not-Daylight-Savings-Time. His turquoise truck wasn't parked in its usual spot in front of the barn when I turned the corner yesterday.

But I'll tell you where he was; He was with us when we toasted him Friday night at Dees for breakfast. He was there when we discussed how he took care of our carriage batteries. He was there when we talked about the person who would be driving Libby, wanting to make sure she was paired with a co-worker that would love her like he did. He was at South Gate with us last night when we talked about his funeral service, the moving music that reduced the most stoic of our clan to tears, and his gravesite up next to the fence in the cemetery with a great view. And he's there every time we look at the sign-up calendar for December: He was looking forward to the Christmas carriage driving season, and his signature is on every single day from November 26 to December 31. Ro couldn’t bring herself to scratch it out, so when they make up the schedule, they just work around it. And it's appropriate, because he's still with us in spirit, hanging around the carriage barn, just like he did every week from Tuesday through Saturday. And his headstone sits in the office, custom designed by the last trainee he had, waiting for spring to be set on his grave. By the time they set it, it will have acquired that special "horsey" smell we all love.

The day after Don's funeral, I ran into one of his step daughters; She thanked me again for everything the carriage company had done. For the horse drawn hearse that took Don from the church to the cemetery. For the drivers that showed up in our finest carriage driving attire. For our support in this trying time.

I replied that we hadn't done anything special. Don was part of our family too.

And damn it, we miss him.

These Boots Are Make For Walkin' (In Snow)

2010-11-15T11:03:00.003-07:00

One of the most important pieces of equipment I have for winter carriage driving are my boots. Working in winter without the proper footwear is, simply put, insane. Because, for me, if I'm warm and dry I can go for hours; If not, I'm screwed. The winter weather in Utah comes in varying degrees of moderately cool, cold, and cold & wet. Cool and cold don’t need much preparation for me. My winter boots are not the stylish type one could pick up at a regular shoe store. Mine are the heavy duty kind you buy at places like Sportsman's Warehouse or Cabela's. In other words, boots heavy enough to use as a weapon.

Not all boots are carriage driving ready. Unlike some winter activities that allow the participant to walk, thus helping circulate blood flow, we do a lot of either sitting or standing around, sometimes in several inches of snow. I have two metal screws in each of my feet due to bunion surgery several years ago, so cold transference happens at a faster rate for my feet then to other, non-metal infused folk. So I take my footwear seriously.

It helps to start with a good brand of boots. I've used Coleman, Sorel and Ranger. The Sorel boots were warm but because I used a charcoal foot warmer, the sole melted, so I do not find them durable. I like the Ranger boots the best because they have removable liners that can be dried separate from the main part of the boot, thus expediting the process. Plus I have yet to melt the bottoms. However, even though the Ranger boots as labeled "Water Proof", they are not, in my experience, 100% waterproof. They are more like "Water resistant." And in my field water resistant doesn't cut it.

First I check my boots for any damage. If I have any separation issues, cuts, or melted spots I use Shoe Goo.
I "repaired" the soles of the melted Sorel boots with Shoe Goo, but I don’t wear them for work because the Shoe Goo soles don’t work as well as an insulator as the original rubber plus there is no longer any tread on them and that makes them slippery to walk in. I keep them at home and wear them when shoveling the driveway.

Next, I remove the liners and laces because they just get in the way. Then I brush off any dirt/shavings/manure still clinging from the last time I wore them.

Then to the suede/leather I apply a product called "Sno-Seal." It is a beeswax based water proofing ointment-like substance that comes in a jar. It works best if the boots are warm because it helps melt the product deep into the leather/suede.

After I apply the Sno-Seal, I let the boots dry for a while, then I apply Kiwi Camp Dry to any fabric areas of the boot.
It is a silicone spray water proofing agent. I usually apply two coats, just to be sure. Then I let then whole thing cure for a day or two and test it under running water.

Finally, I have a warm water-proof pair of boots I can use five nights a week night for the six weeks of Christmas carriage driving, so my feet stay warm and dry.

New Listing:

2010-11-04T12:50:00.005-06:00

I have all this irrelevant stuff I'm doing over here;

Getting ready for the upcoming Christmas Carriage Driving Season ( I need to find the rest of my winter gear)

Writing and addressing my Christmas cards (I won't have any time after November 25)

Shopping for Christmas gifts (see previous statement)

Cleaning my house (both my mother and my brother are coming to visit. The level of chaos and clutter shame me. We're used to it, others, not so much. So I clean)

One of the things I've been contemplating is getting rid of some stuff. Not junk, mind you. And not crap I want to donate to the D.I. or Salvation Army. I'm talking good stuff that I just don’t do anything with any more. Stuff that I love, or that I use, just not so much. Could I live without it? Yeah. I just drag my feet about the actual getting rid of part. I used to sell a lot of stuff on ebay, but now I'm too lazy to deal with the mailing of it so I put stuff on KSL.com to sell locally then I don't have to mess with the shipping.

For example, in my garage I have a thing called a Hit-Away. I'm thinking of selling it. It's basically a softball on a string attached to a pole. You whack it and it winds around a pole, then as it unwinds you whack it again. It's for people to practice their batting skills with. Hand/eye coordination. But I’ll tell you what it's really good for: bashing the shit out of something without getting arrested. That's right. Have a fight with your kid? Don't pull a "Facebook Mom" stunt and shake them to death. Go out to your Hit-Away and crack the crap outta that softball with that Louisville Slugger until you feel all that pent up rage Melt-Away.

You know, maybe I'll wait a bit on selling the Hit-Away. At least until after Christmas. Or maybe when The Kid goes away to college.

Anyway, one of the things I'm contemplating selling is the best gift ever. It's one I gave mind you, not one that I got. But I love it just the same. And I would have killed to have this when I was a child. We had to use carboard boxes to make our "stables".

Available for immediate occupancy; spacious two stall barn on acreage only limited by your imagination. Comes complete with hay storage up top, wall to wall shavings, and sliding doors front and back. Exterior features full fencing, jump standards, and cavaletti. Also included are appliances such as grass cutters and hedge trimmers. Methane gas heat. Border Collie security comes standard. Owner willing to include some amenities such as bagged corn and oats, and tack trunk. Don’t miss out on a fantastic starter barn.

(No, I did not put Wednesday the cat in the barn. I was taking the photos and she climbed in it herself. Distracting in a Catzilla kind of way? Yes, but it does give an idea as to the scale.

And trust me, if I had the time, and someone else willing to play "Breyer Horses" with me, I probably wouldn't get rid of this either.

Spaghetti Western... Kind Of

2010-10-25T20:13:00.004-06:00

I've been trying and trying to edit a video we made about two weeks ago at the barn. Nothing subversive, mind you, I just wanted to put some text over the video. And… for whatever reason, my editing software keeps freezing up. Maybe because it's the crap that came with the computer, who knows. Anyway, since it's been a while and I cannot seem to get this POS program to do what I want it to, here for your viewing pleasure is a regular day at the barn. With apple spaghetti.

(MBA has a food dehydrator. To make dehydrated apples she needs to peel the skin and core the centers. She decided that instead of throwing them out to bring them into the barn and sharing with her co-workers. That is what Ro is handing out to the horses.)

MIKs* And Other Stuff...

2010-10-13T15:39:00.003-06:00

Sorry; I've been away, leaving this stale and sad reminder of a bad year. It's been a nasty rotation around the sun for a lot of people and I'm blessed with all the good things that have happened in my life. I apologize for my public wallowing in the pity pool. Too much all at once. I should not have dumped on you, constant reader.

I attended the annual Utah Romance Writers of America conference this past weekend. Our keynote speaker was New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan,

along with noted authors Jessica Day George, Bree Despain, and Victoria Dahl. Along for the ride, and to scout out new talent, were literary agents Laurie McClain (Larsen/Pomada Agency, San Francisco, CA) Heather Osborn (Tor) Amy Moore-Benson (AMB Literary Agency) and Borders Books romance buyer Sue Grimshaw. Tagging along with Christine Feehan was her agent Stephen Axelrod, who is not looking for new clients, (and with a stable of folks like Jayne Ann Krentz, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, and Julia Quinn he's already pretty busy) but he did sit in on an author agent panel and gave his valuable input into the agent/author relationship.

The atmosphere was both festive and emotionally charged. After all, get a group of mostly women (with the exception of three male writers and a couple of tag-along husbands) and the estrogen levels expand like an erupting volcano. Add in a lot of ambition and a dash of desperation and you have a mix of people driven to succeed.
Plus we had these two guys wearing kilts serenading us during dinner and the book signing.

And these two guys hung around all weekend, until Annie and Laurie won them as a door prize.

Anyway, I should get back to writing my regularly scheduled blog next week. I have a synopsis to make ready and twenty pages to submit and I've been working like crazy to tweak it.

* Men In Kilts.

The Year Of Intermittent Sorrow

2010-09-28T13:19:00.005-06:00

The Rollercoaster of Stress has been ricocheting around the twisted track at full speed this year.

It started with a fire at Ro's house in the early hours of New Year's Day, and continued when back problems, and car problems threw a big ol' wrench into the mix. Losing two dogs of our own, plus Harley the barn dog, a dear friend's medical issues, her dear friends freak accidental death, and this morning the passing of Mr. Slave Driver's father have labeled 2010 as "The Year That Couldn't End Fast E-Freakin' Nough."

I like it when the pendulum of my life swings in a low, slow, methodical arc. We don't win the Lottery, but nobody falls off a donkey on the way down the Grand Canyon. Literary Agents don't knock each other over to sign me for representation, but nobody's says, "Quit now. Take up golf. Or croquet."

At least not yet. There's still three months to go…

So today, in honor of The Year That Sucks Ass, I'm showing you my happy place. I love it there. It's a beautiful, spiritual place, ethereal with quiet grace and stunning vistas.

Moab.

The original Moab, according to Wikipedia, is "the historical name for a mountainous strip of land in modern-day Jordan, running along the eastern shore of the Dead Sea."

Our Moab is in Utah, south of I-70, close to the confluence of the Colorado and Green rivers.

So if your year has been anything like mine, take a deep breath, have a relaxing beverage, and enjoy.

Does This Carriage Ride Make My Butt Look Big?

2010-09-22T08:19:00.005-06:00

The Grandkids riding out on one of the teams. This sport is a family affair.

When I'm at work sometimes a customer will jokingly ask if they or their party of passengers are too heavy for the horse. It's one of the stupid rants that the RARA's use in their Litany of Lies: That the carriage and passengers are "too heavy for the horse to pull." I explain to people, "The carriage weighs about four hundred pounds and is balanced on the four wheels. This makes it 'rolling weight.' At about a *buck-fifty, I pull the carriage in and out of the storage barn. The average horse can pull at least twice his own weight, and that's dead weight, not rolling weight. We limit our passengers to four adults and two small children (as opposed to four adults and two children who look like they just ate two small children.) So for a horse like Tony, who was once a competitive puller and weighs in at around 1800 pounds (at a conservative estimate) the max weight he could pull would be around 3600 pounds. Subtract the weight of the carriage and driver, and divide the balance by six, that would give a cushion of 500 pounds per customer. At which point, by the way, the wheels would probably come off. So are you too heavy? Not unless there's something you're not telling me…Like you're wearing lead underpants and have pockets stuffed full of Plutonium. Otherwise, we're good.

The "Boat"

We went to the Draft Horse Pulls at the Utah State Fair last week. To those of you who have never been to a horse show where they have "Speed Events" (Pole Bending, Keyhole Race, Barrels, etc) speed horses love love love what they do. They get cranked up at the gate even before they break the laser beam timer thingy. The same thing happens with these competitive draft horses. They are trained to pull when they hear the hook hit the metal, and if the "Hookers" (the guys holding onto the doubletree that the hook gets hitched to) don't get the heck out of the way they'll end up with smashed ankles. Because when it's time to go, this team juggernaut goes!

They started with the "Lightweight Division" and MBA fell in love with a Shire team named Briggs and Stratton.

Briggs and Stratton, waiting for their turn.

They were the first team out of the competition, but they win in our book for Best Looking Boys. The "boat" or sled, which you'll notice is NOT balanced on four wheels and is in arena sand, weighs 4000 pounds empty (which everyone pulled quite easily) while none of the teams (light, medium or heavy weight) exceeded 5000 pounds in their combined weight.

Everybody is watching the action.

The winning pull in the Lightweight division was 9000 pounds. The winning pull in the Heavyweight class was 11,600 pounds. Or there about. They weighted the sled with roofing shingles, and they ran out at 10,000 pounds and had to ask people to be the weight.

So the winning team was less than 5000 pounds and pulled dead weight of 11,600. So are you, your husband, your teenage twins, change-of-life toddler and Goldendoodle "Fritzie" too heavy for a ride?

A team of the "Big Boys"

Not so much.

This was the Heavy Weight winner's Victory Lap, complete with grandson riding the horse.

* I weigh about 150 pounds, not counting my lead underpants.

Love For Sale

2010-09-13T09:18:00.007-06:00

On Sunday The Kid and I stopped by the Super Adoption event hosted by No More Homeless Pets in Utah and PetSmart. They have this event twice a year, filling the PetSmart parking lot with huge tents full of pens and cages. The idea is to get as many of the local rescues and shelters together to showcase the pets they have for adoption all in one central location.

I have to admit that I had toyed with the idea of getting one more dog, but after seeing the dynamic currently going on in the house, with Luna and Mindy getting along well, I decided that bringing another dog in right now would be too soon. Mindy just last week realized that she was here to stay, not just a guest. The turnaround came after we took her with us to a bar-b-que at a neighbor's house, where everyone brought their dogs. Luna ran around like, well, a lunatic, playing and chasing while Mindy hung back, shyly, eventually going from person to person, making friends. She wasn't allowed to make friends with any of the dogs; Luna, in protection mode, growled at any of the canines that got close enough for a butt sniff. It was just as well, since Mindy was the tiniest dog there and might have gotten trampled in the raucous fray anyhow. When we returned home, her entire attitude changed. We'd brought her to a place full of other dogs, and then we'd brought her back home. She pranced, she bounced, she displayed an attitude of happiness, joy and self confidence she hadn't before. So I'm okay with the status quo.

But I did want to foster a cat. Not adopt a cat. Foster. Which I think several of the people who know me in real life were a bit shocked by. I'm not a big fan of children; I love my own child. I don’t want to hold your baby, or watch your toddler, or even hear funny stories about what you kid did with a booger. I often say, "I like other people's children as much as I like other people's cats." But you have to understand that at one point in my life I had not one cat but two. Tigger and Sparkles were barn cats we had when we owned our farm in Missouri. And when we moved, knowing we were going from a rural area where the cats had the freedom to roam, explore and hunt, trying to turn them into house cats just wasn't going to work. So the woman who purchased one of our horses, Nightmare, for a Hippotherapy program, also took both cats. It allowed the felines to stay in an environment they were familiar with, a stable, and do what they loved to do, hunt. So, just as I love my own kid, I loved my own cats. Enough to give them up for a life they would enjoy.

So when the call came out via Facebook that NMHPIU would need foster homes for both dogs and cats after the Super Adoption event, I answered. After all, I have platforms available to me (my blog, Twitter, MySpace and Facebook) that enable me to promote a specific animal for adoption, which I know the fine folks at shelters are unable to devote time to, due to their quantity of animals. Plus I have room for a cat; literally. I have a bedroom in the basement which is used for storage. There is enough area for a cat to climb and explore, yet also have seclusion if they want. The cat will slowly be integrated into the dog domain, so as not to traumatize her further. And hopefully, someone will see her profile and decide to give her a forever home.

So may I introduce to you Wednesday. If you are looking for a sweet cat that needs a home, please consider adopting her.

The 95%ers

2010-09-08T09:47:00.002-06:00

Our success rate for trainees is low- only 5% of the people we bring in to train actually continue as an employee for at least six months. Even though we "pass off" a driver after 4-8 nights out, once they've shown proficiency at the job, we still ~~bitch at them~~ continuously correct bad habits when we see then doing something which is either not sanctioned or unsafe. I tell my trainees that I do it to make them a better driver. After all, they go out with a different individual each night, and while we will occasionally compare notes, there is no set training format. So somewhere down the line we might have forgotten to tell them what to do if their wedding party is late (wait time is charged at $20 for every 15 minutes), what to do when they damage a car and the owner isn't around (leave a card), or which hotel canopies they are not allowed to go under (the Hilton).

As a trainer I can never tell if, once trained, a driver will stick around long enough to be considered an "success." As Crazy Shelley put it, it's not worth the brain space to remember someone's name if they're not going to be around very long. We go through so many people that the few brain cells that I haven't nullified with copious amounts of alcohol cannot manage to keep all the names straight. I have much better luck remembering the names of the dogs (but not their owners) I encounter up in Memory Grove or going for walks that pass us at South Gate (Juno the Border Collie, Etienne the Saint Bernard, Jack the Pug puppy and Lola the miniature Australian Shepherd).

There are candidates that I remember because of their quirky behavior or outright stupidity, but being that this is a public forum I won't mention names. I don't relish a law suit because I call someone stupid and it becomes a matter of public record. But I will say that there is a sector that I pity because while I as a human can recognize that an individual is useless and will soon be gone, either through trial and error error error or attrition, half of our workforce never knows what they will come up against next or how long they must endure them.

And that would be the horses.

Whether it's a heavy hand at the bit, commands that come out as either a squeak or a roar, or continuous flapping of the lines as an indication to pick up speed, our training horses (Cleatus, Tony, Charlie, Rex) go the distance when it comes to babysitting. For example, Cleatus, when asked to make a right turn on the way out to South Gate at a street that we normally do not turn right at, will stop, turn his big head to eyeball the driver, and wait for the trainee to change their mind and go straight. It is his way of correcting them. He is patient (more so than I will ever be) and forgiving when faced with an idiot. I've told many people that Cleatus, if he had thumbs and spoke English, would render my job obsolete.

This occupation is one where attention to detail is of the utmost importance. It's the difference between having a successful evening or a nightmare in progress. Safety is our number one concern, for the horse, the passengers, and the driver.

Note the order in which I placed those.

So if a trainee isn’t continuously watching the flow of traffic, getting over to the right out of the way of vehicles, properly holding the correct kind of lead rope, or leave their hooked up horse unattended in the barn lot while they go and get the one thing they forgot to put on their carriage before they left the barn, it's an issue. So when I see an issue, I’ll call the new driver on it, because it'll be that one time that I don’t which will lead to bad habits and sloppy safety. So if I ~~bitch~~ correct them, it's for their own benefit.

And if I happen to kick them off of the box and into the path of the oncoming Trax Train, it's for the horses benefit.

The Replacements

2010-09-01T19:04:00.002-06:00

Mindy's car ride home.

We acquired another dog. She's not the dog we originally went so see, but she's the one we came home with. Mindy is her name, and she wiggled her way into our laps and hearts at the Utah Animal Adoption Center.

This is a bad photo, she isn't that bug-eyed.

As far as they can tell, because she was a stray not an owner surrender, Mindy is five, and classified as a long haired Chihuahua. I think she's got some Dachshund in her, because she has a v e r y l o n g b o d y. Also, because of her ears, some Papillion, which would make her a Papshundhuahua, which is not only difficult to spell but hard to pronounce when drunk. Whatever her breed, she's been at the Humane Society for six months, arriving on her last day from the pound. In other words, she was sent to the Humane Society before she was to be destroyed, having used up all her allotted time at the county animal shelter.

Right now we are in the "getting to know you" process. She's a little thing, but both vocal and fast. So far she's exhibiting signs of separation anxiety and hoarding. Plus she's aggressive towards Luna, who just wants her to play the "Chase me!" game. We know it'll take time; it's not like we haven't been through this before.

Mindy had a heartbreaking way of working her head between the crook of your elbow and your chest. She is content to simply push her weight, all 10 pounds or so of her, up against you and cling like Velcro. She doesn't squirm, dig or paw, she just rests, as if disturbing you might make you go away. Living in a shelter must be a tiring thing, since all she wants to do is sleep. Except when we go for the occasional walk. And her Most Favorite Person is The Kid.

She likes to sleep a lot.

Luna, adopted on April 1st, has turned into a model citizen. Of course, making sure she cannot get into trouble has helped exponentially. She no longer has an all access pass to the backyard via the dog door, as anything left around made its way out there. For a while the lawn looked like we decorated with shredded newspapers, dissected flip-flops, and discarded pool filters.

One night, Mr. SD and I were walking her when the neighbor's Pit Bull, usually in a high fenced yard with a "Beware of Dog" sign on the gate, charged across the street at us. Mr. SD ordered Luna to "SIT!" which she did, and I used the Aggressive Dogs in Memory Grove trick, saying in a rough gravelly voice, "NO! BAD DOG! GO HOME!" The dog did retreat a bit, but turning it charged me again, teeth bared, all business. I repeated the "GO Home!" command and it did finally returned to its yard.

Luna loves her pool.

After returning to our house we witnessed this dog charge another family on an evening dog walk, and with the help of another neighbor got the aggressive animal back in the yard and the gate secured. Mr. SD was pleased with Luna's reserve, but also stated that if the Pit had come after me he would have released Luna to defend me. I was thankful that we didn't have Mindy with us, because that would have been a chaotic mêlée of epic proportions.

Luna likes to keep an eye on things going on out front.

Anyway, our inventory is back to "Main dog and Auxiliary dog."

In other news of interest, my submission of the first 25 pages of my novel, The Carriage Trade, finaled in the Utah RWA's Heart of the West contest, and will go on to be judged by a literary agent out of San Francisco. I won’t find out how I placed until October 9, 2010, but it's a win anyway, because an agent is looking at it, and I didn’t have to write a query letter or a synopsis.

The Pirate Gig!

2010-08-24T15:55:00.007-06:00

Last April Ro got a call from Christus St Joseph Villa, a senior living center in Salt Lake City. August of 2009 we hauled Charlie Horse and a carriage over and worked their Pirate themed Family Day. We had a blast. Prior to last year, "The Boys", also known as Hardrock and Coco, were the employees responsible for this job and they approached it with their normal laissez-faire attitude. In other words, they never dressed up for the part. But because Ro and I did, the lady in charge of the event fell in love with us.

Anyway, last April Ro got the call, "Would the carriage company please reserve August 21 for St Jo and could Ro and Slave Driver be the employees who work the event?" Because the Pirate theme was so popular last year that they were thinking that they'd do it again, but only if Ro and I were coming, otherwise they'd go with a different theme.

Thank god, because if it'd been a Luau, our choice of costume would have been a 'Hula Girl' or the 'Roasting Pig'. Neither of us can pull off 'Hula Girl', at least not without making everyone sick.

Well, Ro responded, "Hell YES we'd be there!" And then she called and had me circle the date in big red marker in my appointment book. And then she reminded me several times over the course of the summer. And when I signed up to work on that night because I forgot she erased my name and reminded me again that we were doing what we lovingly call "The Pirate Gig."

This year St Jo had a surprise waiting for us, a big ass Pirate Ship stationed at the entrance… Charlie is just about the most "street broke" horse you'd ever see, but I still asked Ro to jump down and walk next to him while we passed it. Charlie has to work with frail and old, and getting him jacked up right before we stick frail and old into the carriage is not a great idea. But he passed it with only a glance, and was his usual funny yet professional self.

Some of the residents don't want to ride, but they do want to see Charlie.(Obviously, Ro and I play second fiddle to Charlie. Just like downtown, nobody gives a crap about the driver, it's all about the horse…) So, their assistants will wheel them right up under his nose. Charlie is great with both kids and people in wheelchairs. The chair doesn’t bother him a bit, and he drops his head so they can cuddle with him. We have horses at South Gate who, if given the opportunity, will use a human as a scratching post, rubbing their big head all over them. But Charlie never does that, which is good, because a horse can head toss a child like a Hacky-sack.

We integrated a few new features to both Charlie and the carriage this year. On the carriage, we added a big flag complete with wire so it's continuously waving (thank you, MBA, for the suggestion) and little flags on the back. The parrot we got for Ro ended up on the carriage dash, as it wouldn't exactly sit on her shoulder without looking like a prop in a Monty Python sketch.

I added a beard and moustache to my costume, to enhance the air of scallywaggery to my pirate carriage pilot character, and Charlie got a hat with a red plume and a colorful little hair extension with carrots on the end. Sorry, but pony beads in a horse's mane is too much of a pun.

Anyway, I know the real reason you tuned in is to see the photos. So here they are:

How To Tack Up Your Draft Horse For The Vertically Challenged:

2010-08-18T16:51:00.005-06:00

1) Ask to work with the tallest damn horse in the herd.

2) Get your horse's headstall.

3) Beg your horse to "Please, please, please, drop your head."

4) When the begging and pleading fail, get a ladder.

5) Climb up the ladder, risking a neck-breaking incident, and apply bridle.

And, of course, right about that time your horse will drop his head for you.

A Carriage Driver's Work Is Never Done:

2010-08-09T12:33:00.004-06:00

Educating The Equus-Ignorant, One Person At A Time.

"A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals and you know it."

—The Character of "K" from Men In Black.

Last week I took two photos of Charlie Horse's legs and uploaded them to facebook. This is what they looked like, accompanied by the captions:

"Ooooh, is your horse's leg broken?"

"Yes, see? Now the other one is broken."

I was joking. Mocking people who walk up and tell me that my co-worker has a broken leg. It's amusing at best and irritating at worse. However, it's not nearly as annoying as people who feel compelled to tell me about the episode of Seinfeld where Kramer feeds Rusty the carriage horse Beef-a-Roni. Because really, people, that shit never gets old.

( Insert eyeroll here —> )

But I digress…

On Saturday evening I noticed a drum-circle type young man skulking around the street side of Kar's carriage. She went around, found him taking cell phone photos of Bart's rear leg, and asked if she could help him. He immediately launched into an angry diatribe about documenting the fact that the poor wretch couldn't even put weight on his leg he was in such bad shape.

Kar stood in front of him, bent one knee and asked, "You mean because he's standing like this?"

"Yes!"

"He's resting that leg, just like I am."

(Had it been me I would have added "you dumbass" at the end of the sentence, but Kar is way nicer than I am.)

Then Kar asked him if he just wanted to make assumptions, or would he like to be informed. He actually chose information, and by the time they were done conversing, he came away with a new understanding of equine physiology.

Kar was also admonished to "Free your horse, you bitch!" while walking Bart on Main Street, which would be a little awkward being that we're smack dab in the middle of downtown.

Oh well, one moron at a time, I guess.

Don't Call Us, We'll Call You...

2010-08-03T16:11:00.002-06:00

I found out this week that I will not be working Gardner Village this October. Did they call and say, "Thanks for doing the witch thing for us but we're going in a different direction this year." No. Did they send us a pink slip to let us know we were no longer of service? No. How did I find out then, you might wonder…

I went on their website and looked on their October Calendar, where it states that "Ride to a Witch" will take place select weekends from Oct. 1—31, and you ride on a restored antique truck…

Okay, so that means we're out. Because I don't haul the folks around on the bed of a restored truck (which, by the way, is beautifully restored. And I hope it's mechanically sound. Because we kept two tractors out there, just in case one broke down, and two flatbed trailers, for the same reason. At one point last year Hard Rock had to run to a tire store and buy a new one because he got a flat and the tire shredded. So if their truck breaks down, they're f*cked. Because for $5, nobody's gonna "Walk to a Witch.")

Sigh.

I'll miss Gardner Village. It was an easy yet lucrative gig; it was eight minutes from my house, and I was home and in bed by 10 O'clock. Plus I got to work with Ro, which is always fun.

Okay, onto the "real" blog.

Last week carriage driver Kar and I were standing around shooting the breeze, trying to look busy when she suddenly said, "Guy in a skirt."

I, being my usual intelligent and observant self replied, "Huh?"

Kar pointed down the sidewalk and repeated, "Guy.in.a.skirt."

So I squinted, and tilted my head sideways and finally saw him waaaaay down the block.

Now, being me, I grabbed my camera and tried to get a photo but of course he was so far away it was difficult to make him out. So I left my camera on my carriage within grabbing distance and waited. Eventually he arrived at our location and instead of giving us a "WTF are you looking at me for" look he walked right up, introduced himself, and asked us if we would be willing to write down our idea of "The American Dream."

So I ignored that and right away asked if I could take his picture.

He actually has okay posture, he's just all hunched over like that because of the backpack. Turns out his name is Aaron Heideman and he's travelling the lower 48 states, asking people to record for him their version is of the American Dream. Yes, citizens, he's a writer. Now, back to the skirt. It's not often we see men wearing what is traditionally considered women's apparel. And when we do, they usually have their arms wrapped around a set of bagpipes, which indicates that they are not in fact in a skirt but are wearing a kilt which is different. Plus if you call it a skirt they will beat you senseless with their bagpipes. Anyway, what Aaron is wearing is not a kilt, nor it it exactly a skirt, it's a utilikilt. And he says it is very comfortable and good to travel in.

Imagine if Carhartt made cargo skirts in that ugly Carhartt tan, for men. Now imagine if all the construction workers started wearing them. Now imagine they all have to climb ladders, and ask you to hold the ladders for them.

Ugh. Never mind. That's just nuts.

Anyway, you can read all about Aaron's exploits at
American Dream Or Bust

Name That Ass

2010-07-28T18:07:00.006-06:00

I promised you a contest, and I'm delivering…

This contest idea came to me as a result of 1) being bored, 2) having nothing to look at but a big, hairy ass, and 3) noticing that Tony's tail dock resembled a heart (hint hint...) Upon checking a random sample of our other horses, I noticed several had very distinct tails. Now some of these will be easy peasey, especially for our employees. But the rest of you have a fighting chance of matching the name to the butt.

I've posted tons of pictures over the last three years, plus descriptions of some of our horses. So your job, if you choose to accept it, it to match the name with the horse's ass.

I've simplified it a bit; after all we have five blacks and five Belgians, so I'm keeping the numbers down by only including the horses that you, if you've been a regular reader and paid attention, should be able to identify.

Like I said, there are no prizes, just glory. You can either put your guess in the comments or email me at slcslavedriver@gmail.com.

Good luck. Have fun! See how your ass knowledge compares with those of others…

#1

#2

#3

#4

#5

#6

#7

The above butts belong to the following horses, in no particular order:

Tony, Cisco, Charlie, Rex, Jerry, Bart, and Cleatus

Bits And Pieces

2010-07-21T22:08:00.003-06:00

We had the honor of taking Arnold Friberg to his final resting place. He was a renowned artist and a member of the LDS church that lived and worked right here in Salt Lake City. I was not there to take photos, but you can learn all about it and watch video of Jim and Charlie here. On a side note, Jim is famous in our stable for, um, letting his "pride" show so to speak… which he did all during the funeral.

I don’t know, maybe it's a horses way of showing respect.

Speaking of walking around with your dingle hanging out; The horse named Kid, who had a long and illustrious career as a carriage horse and retired last year to northern Utah with Wease passed on last week after a valiant fight with, um, not being able to put his junk away. I'm sure there was something else going on there, but during a short, terse conversation with Wease, that's what I took away from the conversation. So, Kid has shucked his mortal coil and is probably posing for Arnold Friberg right now. Hopefully Arnold can slap some pretty on him, because Kid was one fugly looking horse.

How do you know when a horse is tall? You can't tell with Ro & I we're kinda shrimpy, but when Kar has to stand on a wagonette to hose Cisco down, you know he's tall, because Kar's up there just shy of six foot.

And that's about it unless you want to hear about my new cell phone (EVO, and it's way bigger than my last phone) or my new netbook (Acer, and it's half the size of my laptop) or how it's been as hot as the surface of the sun out here. Or how we were mentioned in an article about the bike riding ice cream vendors (except they called us horse carriage riders instead of horse carriage drivers.)

I'll be doing a contest next week. There are no prizes, just glory. The only way to study is to run through the blog and look at the pictures of our horses.

There Is No Warranty Against Insanity

2010-07-12T11:57:00.003-06:00

I have a pool. It's nothing grand; people who usually vacation at the Atlantis Resort on Paradise Island in the Bahamas will not flock to my backyard any time soon. It's large enough for me to get into, as opposed to Luna's pool,
Luna's Pool
which I would not want to get into because it's dirty and has a distinct "Eau de Moist Chien" aroma about it.

Anyway, I purchased a solar cover for my pool. Living as I do in the desert with the low humidity, it can be very hot during the day but as soon as the sun goes down it rapidly cools. With a solar cover, the idea is that as the sun warms the pool, the little bubbles create extra mass (similar to a serrated blade being "longer" than a straight blade. The serrations add length; the bubbles add surface space or volume.) The cover also allows the air in the bubbles to heat up with then helps heat the water, and the cover helps retain the heat and also decreases evaporation.

So, I have a solar cover. Over this past spring into summer I've noticed after removing the solar cover a bunch of the "bubbles" have remained in the pool. In fact, often times it looks like I'm swimming with a jillion contact lenses, or very tiny appendage-less jellyfish. So, unable to locate my receipt (of course) I called the company I purchased it from, asked them to look up my sale via my customer number, and found out that, contrary to usual M.O. I did not in fact buy the cheapest piece of crap they sell, but one with a 2 year full and 8 year partial warranty.

And, the item is still under warranty. The helpful operator advised me the steps I needed to do to submit a claim:

Cut a 12x12 piece of the cover out.

Write a letter with my information on it so they can verify the purchase.

Slip the cover sample and the letter into a padded envelope…

???

Excuse me? A PADDED envelope? To ship stuff that is essentially really thick bubble wrap?

Insane.

Kick Me...

2010-07-06T14:26:00.007-06:00

Working as I do for a carriage company there are not a whole lot of perks. The hours are long, and those long hours are usually hot, cold or wet. You can't use the john unless you wrangle another carriage company employee into holding your horse for you while you disappear into Temple Square for a stolen moment of relief in the heated/air-conditioned comfort of the Visitor's Center. And you pack a lunch or brave the yuckyness that is the Carl's Jr's drive thru, because decent restaurants just don't see a need to add "Carriage Parking" in their lots. However, the one perk I do have, the one that makes me shudder at the thought of looking for a "real" job (ie one with actual schedules) is the benefit of being able to pick and choose the days on which I do work.

This is my benefit package. It's the reason why others were jealous because I traveled to Chicago last August for two weeks, returned home for four days, then took off camping for another week. And while it tends to drive Ro insane, ("Who the hell am I supposed to get to cover this weird wedding? It's goofy, and I need you to drive it!") She cannot complain over much because she also takes off whenever the spirit moves her.

Which bring us to this: I do not sign up to work holidays that involve drinking and/or fireworks.

Why?

Because on those days I usually find myself drinking and blowing off fireworks, that's why.

However, this past Friday I conceded to work the Riverton Fourth Of July (but held on the Second of July) Parade. I assumed it would be easy, fast, and painless. Three words I adore.

What I got was what I always get: long, tedious and so-not-worth-it. I won’t go into all the details, because the blog will only spiral down into a rant, which is not unusual, however I have given Ro permission to beat me senseless the next time I agree to drive in a parade. And after she has beaten me into a heap, I've encouraged her to then give several swift kicks, lest I ever forget and agree to work a parade again.

Anyway, although our parade ended much better than some others did, here are some observations regarding it:

I drove the Grand Marshall, Cleatus Hamilton, and his lovely wife Sharon. Cleatus is a relation to the carriage company owners, and my favorite horse Cletus is name for Grand Marshall Cleatus. They even got to meet, although I don't think either one was too impressed with the other.

And while Cleatus (the human one) and Sharon are nice, they are getting up there in age, so when they realized the quantity of candy they would be required to toss to the crowd they blanched a bit. And I must admit that for a little while there the begging from the sidelines was so intense I felt like I was roaming the streets of Calcutta with a pocket full of coins. So I assisted, tossing taffy high into the air and watching it bean bystanders on the noggin.

Okay, I admit, that part was fun. Pelting people with candy left me with a warm, fuzzy feeling. Giddy, even.

Plus it gave me plenty of ammunition to use when children ran into the street and tossed "poppers" at Rex's hooves. I "gave" those kids extra candy. At a high rate of speed. Aimed at their heads.

Oddly enough, they thanked me for it.

Silly people.

Anyway, for your viewing pleasure, here are a few photos from the Riverton Parade.

And while you enjoy them, I'm going to get a big ass glass of wine and shoot bottle rockets disguised as Tootsie-Rolls at the neighbor's kids.

The Grand Marshall sign. It's a good thing I drove Rex, if I'd driven Cleatus he would have been confused by all the people lining the parade route shouting out his name.

Human Cleatus with his wife Sharon.

The Cleatuses meet.

Slave Driver and Rex.

Hardrock and Cleatus: they brought up the rear.

Parade veteran Scooter,(driving Tony) who for reasons I cannot fathom, loves to drive parades.

Scooter again.

Scooter and I were at the front of the parade, Hardrock at the end. We had to sit and wait for it to be ove to get back to the horse trailers. I spent five hours of my life working this parade, none of which I will ever get back.

She

2010-06-29T11:21:00.003-06:00

She arrived unexpectedly on a Christmas morning in Missouri

She never met a person she didn't adore.

She turned the hearts of Pomeranian haters, dog groomers and vet techs to mush with her always wiggling so-happy-to-meet-you smile.

She would stand on my folded arms leaning against my chest for as long as I could stand her little nails digging into my skin.

She travelled, and was welcomed, everywhere with us and was only kenneled once when there was no other option.

She sat in the basket of my bike and rode on the trails with me, loving every minute of the ride.

She was never a yappy little barker, unless she saw my suitcase and then she's do her darnest to sneak out the kitchen door to the Jeep with me.

She had a bark that went, "Arf!"

She would sing with me.

She could high-five, but of course her high-five was only about seven inches off the ground, so it was a really low high-five.

She loved going camping because there were people.

She would "assist" you in picking her up by, just when your palm wrapped around her middle, giving a little jump, to help you out.

She loved to snuggle in my arms, and would stand on my side of the bed waiting until I'd reach down and pull her up.

She had luxated patellas so attempting to go long distances was hard, but she enjoyed going for "walks" in her stroller.

She was so unlike the other Pomeranians I have known there will never be another like her.

She left my world as unexpectedly as she arrived in it.

She died last week from an infection we didn’t know she had until it was too late.

I loved her beyond words.

Sammie Two Chews

2002-2010

Crazy Sh*t Magnet

2010-06-21T11:07:00.003-06:00

Most of the time when I'm working absolutely nothing happens. No.thing. It gets so dull out there on the street I'm forced to watch the cartoons on my head to keep my brain occupied. Other times, one thing might happen that's memorable. Then it makes the evening a little more interesting, and you can chat about that one thing for the rest of the night until you've beaten it to death.

Then there are the nights like this past Saturday, where so much stuff happens you would think we're a magnet for crazy shit. I had a trainee, and the first time I whipped out my camera she seemed a little surprised. Later on, after the last set of pictures I took, she said, "I can understand why it could be beneficial to carry a camera with you."

And of course that goes double for me because I take the pictures and then come home and blog about it, for you.

First I had a wedding up in the Grove. Wedding are not unusual; we take the bride to the wedding or take the bride and groom from the ceremony to the reception. Most common is taking the bride and groom from the reception to their hotel. Once we had a couple get married on the carriage (there is a local minister who will marry you wherever you want. Don't think the idea hasn't crossed my mind about getting ordained on the internet and offering to be both the driver and the minister… I'm all about value.) And occasionally I've done a combo ride, like the one this weekend. I took the bride, her dad and the flower girls from Memorial House down the road to where the ceremony occured, then I took the bride and her new husband on a ride for about 20 minutes and dropped them off back at Memorial House for the reception.

The unusual part about his wedding was, besides their wedding, another wedding party came up to the Grove for photos. It was an African wedding and I have never seen so many tall skinny people in my life. The women were all around 6ft tall, and on top of that they wore high heels. The men who accompanied each woman was at least as tall as the female and that was without him wearing heels. So, first unusual thing: African Wedding.

Then, while standing around waiting for my bride to get ready (actually she was ready but the delivery of the rest of the chairs for her guests was late so I'm sure she was tweaking) a beautifully dressed couple walked past us. I asked if I could take their photo. They were quite nice, and when I inquired if something special was going on, they replied, "No, we're just out for a walk."

Which kind of surprised me because I thought Vampires would turn to dust when exposed to sunlight.

So I finished my wedding, everything went just fine except Cletus kept trying to pee where we were standing waiting for the Bride and Groom to return and I can't allow him to do that because it smells and is really icky to stand in. (Plus, he knows better and should have done it before we arrived.)

I got back to South Gate and my friend Bill was waiting for me. We chatted for a couple of minutes when a kid who looked like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo rode up on a bike jerry-rigged with a tote containing two coolers, a sunshade, and a loudspeaker playing calliope music.

The Ice-Cream Man!!!

We were all so damned excited you'd have thought the Publishers Clearinghouse Prize Patrol had arrived with one of those huge fake checks for ten million dollars made out to "Salt Lake Carriage Drivers."

Everyone there bought something and I said, "Dude, (yes, I say dude a lot actually) you MUST come back here EVERY NIGHT!" And he was happy to make so many sales in one spot he said, "Ok I will!"

So, even if the night is dead I still have the ice cream man to look forward to. I should have taken his picture, but I was busy scarfing down a vanilla Drumstick.

And the final fun-o-rama thing that happened, occurred while I was yet again up in the Grove. Crazy Shelley, one of our tribe, called over the radio because someone else asked why there were cop cars in the intersection of Main and South Temple, which is half a block from our spot.

Crazy Shelley explained that while on a ride a slowly moving, but weaving auto entered the intersection. It almost hit her carriage, almost hit pedestrians in the crosswalk and came to a stop when the driver passed out at the wheel. Her passengers jumped out of the carriage, turned off the car and took away the keys from an obviously drunk driver, and then Crazy Shelley called 911.

When I finally passed the fiasco there were no less than eight police cars, two motorcycle cops, a Gold Cross ambulance along with a Gold Cross supervisor truck, a fire truck, and a UTA vehicle. Finally the tow truck arrived and the intersection eventually cleared out but it was jam packed full there for a little while.

So, as you can see, Saturday was an adventuresome evening. And I'm so glad I had my camera. Because nights like that just don't come around all that often.

The Warrior Way

2010-06-14T07:27:00.003-06:00

The weekend of June 5, 2010 I attended a much anticipated day-long workshop presented by New York Times bestselling author Bob Mayer. For those of you unfamiliar with Mr. Mayer, he has over 35 fiction and non-fiction books in print, runs limited participation A-Team Warrior Writer workshops, presents full day writing/publishing workshops, just co-founded his own publishing company, and is a popular keynote speaker at literary conferences around the world. As a former West Point Graduate and member of the Green Berets, Bob brings to the writing table a unique perspective. He utilizes Special Forces concepts to ignite the creative fire in writers and encourage them with sometimes unpopular facts about the publishing industry. Using his own experiences as a long time published writer, he's not afraid to tell the truth about the industry, review their mistakes, (along with his own) and speculate about its future. The workshop was great, and if you are a writer I highly recommend it.

I believe that the true test of any class or lecture is if it either gets you to think or gets you to change. Double bonus point score if it does both.

I first attended one of Bob's presentations at the Jackson Hole Writers Conference back in June of 2008. I was torn between attending a lecture by Michael Perry and the presentation by Bob Mayer. I chose Bob; Michael Perry, while a very talented and funny author, writes narrative non-fiction. Narrative non-fiction is what my blog is, with the exception of the few times I've posted excerpts from my manuscript or short story. I do not now nor do I ever plan to make any money from my blog. Plus, my blog is already "published." I actually have "readers." Bob, on the other hand, writes fiction, and fiction is what my manuscripts are. Not memoirs, not self help books, or a collection of Poetry intended to lift your soul and leave you with a warm, fuzzy feeling; fiction.

In Jackson, after Bob's workshop, a young man lamented to me that he disagreed with the information presented, and vowed that he would continue to write even if he never got published, because although his writing may not have mass appeal, it was his "Vision." It was his "Art."

Well, that's all fine and dandy. He can keep crafting his "vision," keep churning out his "art." He can reach down into the very bowels of his soul, open a vein, and vomit it all on paper in whatever font he feels best expresses his id, as far as I'm concerned.

But he needs to do it on the porch and stay the fuck out of my way because, frankly, I want to run with the big dogs. I want to get published, and I haven’t gotten published yet because I'm lazy. It has nothing to do with craft, opportunity, global warming, my astrological sign, or luck. I'm. Just. Lazy.

Someone once asked me why I decided to start writing. I explained that I have always been a storyteller, but had grown tired in recent years of finding new people to verbally tell my stories to, trapping them in a corner and yammering at them until one of us had to pee, then finding they'd escaped my clutches and run off. By committing the words to paper, it's much easier on all of us, and the reader has the opportunity to pee whenever they feel the need, instead of looking for an opening and slinking out of my grasp.

So, dear reader, you might ask, "What the heck, Slave Driver, does any of this have to do with anything? And when are you going to tell another urination story featuring Cletus?"

I've been pretty good about blogging twice a week over the last three years. On occasion I managed to throw in a special extra bonus blog if something interesting happened. Sometimes I miss a scheduled post. After all, I always figured that blogging was writing, so it counted. But lately I seem to be writing less and less fiction, and I have to quit that shit. So I've decided to cut the blog down to once a week or so. Frankly, my life is not nearly as interesting as some of you believe it is.

So, I'll still be here, just not as often, because it's time for me to explore strange new worlds; to seek out new life and ~~new civilizations; to boldly go where no man has gone before.~~

Crap. That's Star Trek. Cancel that. It's time for me to manifest a destiny, people. It's time for me to really work at getting published. But I'll be around. After all, as the RARA's have found out, I can’t be gotten rid of quite that easily.

No Validation

2010-06-10T12:52:00.002-06:00

I know I'm a little behind over here but it's been a busy couple of weeks so…
Today's post is about food. No surprise there— I blog about food every once in a while. I've never been much of a "snacker." I have no compulsion to graze my way through a day, eating everything within reach. I've never drilled my way to the bottom of a quart of ice cream, although cradling a container of Baskin & Robbins Rocky Road without snarfing the entire thing down is a test of strength.

I abhor the taquitos and hot dogs perpetually running on the food treadmill at 7-11. I don't consider that stuff food. But…to each his own. If I'm going to put it in my mouth it either better taste damn fine or give me a buzz. And when in direct competition with each other, depending on if I have to drive or not, buzz usually wins. So in a contest of Dove Chocolate vs. Wine, wine wins hands down. Give me that "squeak" and "pop" any day.

Anyway, none of this has anything to do with any of that except last week we tried two restaurants that we hadn't visited before. We (carriage drivers) like to try out places before we recommend them to tourists, because it's nasty when you do that and it comes back around to bit you in the ass.

Thursday Ro and I went to lunch at The Sand Bar. It's a place I've passed while working many times but never ventured into. Why? Well, because I'm working and it's so hard to find horse parking these days. Anyway, we entered the restaurant and were greeted by John Stamos's little brother. Or at least he looked like he could be his little brother. So right away the place gets points for hiring good looking staff and not trolls or fugly carriage-driver looking people.

It was easy to get a table because we were the only customers there. The interior was cute with a beach theme and two free-standing bars, plus the patio seating, I can understand why it's a popular spot. We both ordered Buffalo Chicken wraps which were very tasty and reasonably priced. Ro bought lunch because she felt she owed me for delivering flowers to a dance recital for her, and our lunches, with one ice tea, were around $16.00. Ro left a $5 tip because we tip well and the waiter did a good job. Plus, you know, he was cute. So lunch with a view.

On Friday, Ro, MBA and I went to a brand new place that we have been waiting to open with great anticipation. It is located directly across the street from where we stage at Temple Square and is called The Blue Lemon. We've looked up the menu on line, discussed the various entrees and soups we were interested in trying, and made a date to go. And we're very happy because they have a full coffee bar. You might not think this is so special, but I live in Salt Lake, where the predominant religion eschews coffee like it's pure evil in liquid form.

First, when we get there we decide to park underneath the restaurant because the parking signs were plastered with —>"Blue Lemon Parking Here"<— notices.

MBA grabbed the parking ticket, and we head upstairs to the restaurant. It's considered "Upscale Casual." That means you stand in line to order and pay a lot of money then they bring it to your table. You know, like at Sizzler, except with higher prices, and smaller portions, but nicer plates.

MBA and I both ordered the same item: Chicken breast with roasted artichoke hearts and tomatoes, glazed onions, over herb-garlic mashed potatoes with a roasted red pepper and spinach cream sauce. Ro ordered the Blue Lemon Steak which was topped with bacon and gorgonzola cheese on top of a bed of succotash and the herb-garlic mashed potatoes with gravy.

When our meals arrived, mine and Ro's only, Ro moved her steak off of her potatoes (she's on a very restrictive diet) and held up a squiggly red thing that was stuck between the steak and taters.

"What's that?"

Ro displayed it like Vanna White turning a letter.

"Twist. Tie." She said.

Just then our waiter, who was not nearly as cute as the one from the day before, walked by.

"Pardon me," I said very nicely, which we all know is rare for me, "is this a new type of garnish?"

He peered at it and asked, "What is it?"

"Twist. Tie." Ro repeated, doing her Vanna White impression for him.

"Where did you find that?"

"Under my steak, in the succotash."

The waiter, (did I mention that this waiter did, in fact, pale by comparison to the Sand Bar waiter. Not that I'm obsessed or anything) apologized and asked if she wanted a new one. She declined, but put the twist tie in the center of the table as evidence.

Eventually, MBA's meal arrived. She started in on the artichoke and tomatoes and said to me, "These are cold. Are yours cold?"

"No."

"Mine are."

Our (looks nothing like John Stamos) waiter walked by;

"Excuse me," says MBA, who, unlike me, is always polite, "are these vegetables supposed to be cold?"

"No," the waiter replies, "they're sautéed."

"Well these are as cold as if they've come straight from the fridge," MBA advised him.

The waiter apologized and asked if she wanted another one.

Now, people, if I'd ordered a steak rare and it came well done, I'd want another one. But having worked in a restaurant, I don’t send stuff back. I want it taken off my bill. I've never spit on someone's returned order, but I know staff that have.
MBA said no.

So, we finished our meal, and our waiter, who was looking kind of ratty by then, brought us a (that would be one) complimentary slice of carrot cake. Now, not taking into account that TWO of the people at the table had received f*cked up food, both Ro and MBA are on diets.

Die. Ets.

Then, to add insult to injury, they were not "equipped" to validate our parking.

Two things to note:

We told several people who worked there that we were Carriage Drivers. Now, I understand that it doesn’t qualify us as New York Times Food Critics. However, on average per shift, anywhere from four to ten people ask us to recommend a place to eat. Now, the Sand bar is three blocks down West Temple. I'll be sure to send customers there. The Blue Lemon is right across the street. We're going to wait a month or so, and give Blue Lemon time to get their shit together. Because right now, I can't really in good conscience send people to that restaurant.

Not without validation.

Dogzilla vs. MENSA

2010-05-26T18:17:00.005-06:00

First of all, on Sunday, I put up my pool. It was sunny and in the upper 60's. I wore shorts, and started working on my base tan.

Then Monday morning came, and along with it, this:

Unfreakin' believable.

Anyway, here's the "real" blog.

I've often told carriage driver trainees:

"You don’t have to be real smart to do this job, but you do have to be smarter than the horse."

Most qualify, some do not. I've had trainees who were barely smarter than the carriage.

I believe it's the same with dogs. It doesn’t take a genius to anticipate a problem. If you know your dog has issues, for example, chewing on everything it can get its teeth around, then you must accept the fact that if left to its own devices your dog will, as a matter of course, plow through all of your posessions like Godzilla snacking his way through Tokyo.

Every year I put my little above-ground pool up in my back yard. As such, the pool requires two main things: power to the filter, and hoses running from the filter to/from the pool. These things are external, and thus susceptible to dog-noshing. Especially if the dog in question could be transported back to the Jurassic period and hold her own. Easily. So, knowing this, I planned a pre-emptive strike in an effort to avoid unwanted surprises.

One: To keep my dog from chewing up the power cord, I used the frame from a previous pool to create a power cord pipeline.

Two: To keep my dog from chewing the flexible water hoses we installed two eight foot segments of PVC fence which keep her from accessing the area behind the pool where the pump is.

Three: to keep her from further chewing the rubber caps on the end of the pool ladder (Although my yard is fenced, I keep the ladder out of the pool so as not to allow unauthorized access. Read: my neighbors free-range children) I have turned the ladder upside down. Although this is inconvenient, it's easier then replacing the ladder.

A policy has also been instigated in our house of "No door left open." So, each and every portal to each and every room is closed up tight. This prevents our shoes, used Kleenex, and ball point pens from ending up strewn across the back yard in various states of disembodied, unrecognizable matter. That policy has been put in place because of this:

The carriage company owners require that the drivers tilt the seats in the passenger compartment "up", so the barn dogs, Harley and Rudy, can't sleep in them and ruin the upholstery.

Why not just teach the dogs not to sleep in the carriages in the first place, you ask?

Because, as the owners are fond of saying,

"It's easier to train the humans than it is to train the dogs."

$512.00

2010-05-24T07:58:00.007-06:00

I was monitoring the fundraising for Strut Your Mutt last week- watching the clock count down and our goal slipping away. It was a lot like watching a marathon- seeing the runner heading for the finish line and then slowing down, out of energy, stumbling as they approach the end…

And then at the last minute, three people saw my Facebook plea, took pity upon us, and donated enough money to put us over the top.

Thank you to everyone who donated. You really made a difference!

Saturday morning dawned rainy and cold, and we knew that we had to attend no matter what. Often when the weather is shitty, people who have not signed up in advance bag it, which brings the numbers down exponentially.

After we arrived and checked in the weather cleared up a bit and the walk went off without a hitch. Sammie Two Chews did it in her stroller, and Luna did it dragging Mr. SD all around the park.

And to place the dollar amount into a tangible perspective, here are some of the things that $512.00 can accomplish:

Twenty cat spay/neuter surgery, resulting in hundreds of fewer births and that means thousands of lives saved.

Ten dog spay/neuter surgery, resulting in hundreds of fewer births and thousands of lives saved.

Five dogs or cats rescued and placed in a loving permanent home.

OR

Help provide food and shelter for 17 feral cats.

My "good" camera died shortly after we arrived, and apparently I had my second best camera on a close up setting, so I apologize for the quality of some of the shots.

Celebrity Carriage Ride

2010-05-17T08:43:00.006-06:00

I've had celebrities in my carriage before. Several years ago I took Adam Baldwin and his son for a ride. He was in town making a movie titled "Little Fish, Strange Pond," which I have yet to see. So it was no surprise when two people escorted Zach Efron up South Temple Street. Of course the fact that one of the two was carrying him seemed a little odd, but hey, I don’t judge.

Okay, actually, I do. Once I mentioned to Ro that we carriage drivers are not judgmental. She replied, "Hell yes we are." The I revised my statement, and explained that, yes, while she was correct that we are judgmental, because we have such low standards, we don't judge people on the same scale as others. So while people who are not involved in the carriage trade might consider someone "Strange", "Odd" or "Low Class", to us they're normal. Some even rank as "Superior."

In other words, we judge on a curve.

Anyway, back to my story. So these two people were walking up South Temple carrying Zach Efron, and as they passed I said, "Alright, Zach must go for a carriage ride." And they not only agreed, but they were delighted. So here are my photos of Zach Efron with my carriage.

Zach get a kiss from one of his escorts

Zach bonds with Charlie Horse
And the fact that when I say "Zach Efron" what I mean is a card board cut out of Zach Efron, is totally superfluous. It still counts. Like I said, we judge on a curve. Living, breathing Zach vs. paper Zach, it's still a win.

(Yes, I do live a strange life, why do you ask?)

More Randomness

2010-05-14T08:39:00.004-06:00

We will not be adding another dog to our tribe- his owner found him a new home. So, the status quo remains the same.

This week has been pretty quiet. I'm noodling with my current WIP. I sent emails to a friend who is a former Exotic Dancer, and another friend who is Native American. This is how I do research. Luckily I have a number of acquaintances who have had some unusual occupations or are of a culture more diverse then my own. I'm just a slice of dull white bread.

I'm still pimping for Strut Your Mutt. If you want to donate, use the little box up there to the right. The charity that organizes this event typically has 2000-2500 participants every year. So far they've had less than 500 sign up, and they are frantic since this is their big fundraiser.

Yes, believe me, I know the economy sucks… On a scale from "Absolutely Essential" to "Once in a Lifetime, Maybe," guess where "Take a Carriage Ride" lies… It's a little above "Getting permanent implants that make me look like a Klingon" and far below "Buying a week's worth of groceries."

Even five dollars will help, and anything over $5 is tax deductible as they are a 501( c ) 3 charity.

In other news, my RWA chapter is hosting a Utah Writers Book Signing, featuring New York Times bestselling author Bob Mayer (who is not from Utah, he's from the Bronx,) but he's giving a workshop the next day for our chapter so we jumped on the opportunity to include our own local talent in the event. So if you are a local or have a lot of frequent flyer miles you need to use before they expire, come see us at the Gateway Barnes and Noble on Friday, June 4 from 6-9 pm. Along with Bob, the local writers are:

Judy Baker
Jaleta Clegg
Victoria Dahl
Sara Fitzgerald
Heather Horrocks
Mary Martinez
Denise Patrick
Paige Shelton
RaeAnne Thayne
KyAnn Waters

I'll post more about the workshop next week. I was fortunate enough to see Bob at the Jackson Hole Writers Conference in 2008 and am a fan of his solo work and his books with Jennifer Crusie.

So, June 4, 2010, 6-9 pm, stop by, say "Hi," buy a book and get it autographed.

Because what else have you got to do?

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Back In The Water…

2010-05-11T10:00:00.002-06:00

I apologize for being remiss in my posting, but when nothing is happening it's hard to pull a post out of thin air.

Then this morning Mr. Slave Driver advised me that the family of a friend of a fellow he works with (you know, the old "friend of a friend…" connection) has to move and they must either find a new home for their dog or surrender it to a shelter because they cannot take it with them.

It's a seven pound male Pomeranian.

ARGH! This is how a collector starts. I was tempted to go dog shopping at the recent No More Homeless Pets in Utah/Petsmart adoption event but I maintained self control by telling myself, "You do not need another dog. Your family is still adjusting to the adoption of Luna. Hell, your other dog is still adjusting to the adoption of Luna. You do not need another dog."

We talked it over for a bit, Mr. SD said, "It's not like a seven pound dog takes up a lot of room." And I was of the opinion that if said dog likes other dogs (as opposed to Sammie, who much prefers the company of people) it would take the heat off of her and Luna would have a dog to play with instead of harass Sammie and thinking it was play. I told Mr. SD that I would be willing to "meet" with the dog in question. You know, kind of a "Dog Test Drive."

My tag line up at the top of the blog says, "Random ramblings from an idiot" for a reason.

Because, obviously, I am one.

So, we'll have to wait and see just how big of an idiot I am. But I'm pretty sure which way that vote will go.

The Law Of Averages

2010-05-05T11:56:00.006-06:00

Recently I read a comment on the internet that said:

According to both Peggy Parker, formerly of the Carriage Horse Action Committee, and Elizabeth Forel of the Coalition to Ban Horse Drawn Carriages, the average working life of an urban carriage horse is less than four years, as compared with that of mounted police horses who are able to serve an average of fifteen years before being retired. One of the worst horse and mule slaughter auctions in the nation takes place every Monday morning in New Holland, Pennsylvania. At times you will see horse trailers belonging to some of the New York City carriage horse operators in the massive parking lot at the auction. It could be that they are there to buy horses for their trade, but there is also the possibility that they are selling old, used up and/or injured horses and that usually means a horrifying trip to the slaughterhouse.

You'll notice that the "It could be that they are there to buy horses for their trade," is buried at the bottom of the paragraph.

There is an organization, Blue Star Equiculture, with whom a Philadelphia, PA carriage driver I know is closely associated, that goes in and purchases horses at auction to retire or re-home them. But, of course, the ARA's also fail to mention that "possibility".

I've posted about this before. The ridiculous statement that as soon as a horse has outlived its usefulness it's immediately sent to slaughter. I also got into the same discussion last year on a radio talk show board with an idiot who stated the same thing. When I mentioned that all slaughter houses in the US that sold horse meat specifically for human consumption were legislated out of business some time ago, she said, "Oh, I didn’t know that."

Well, that's because she is not in an equine related field and knows nothing about horses except they are big and pretty. That's something we can both agree on. Horses are big, and they are pretty. They are also livestock, but that's a discussion for another day.

Most of our horses were, to quote Ro, "Somebody else's problem." There is, quite frankly, not a huge market for draft horses in the US. Especially not cross breeds or non registered draft horses. Many of our horses are aged to begin with and/or are rejects in one way or another. We like "aged" horses, it means they've seen the world and have their wits about them. A lot of them come to us thin, and are loaded up with groceries before they ever get put to work. Tom was headed for the kill pen from the rodeo circuit. Jerry walks like he has eggbeaters for legs. Rex and Ace came from a competing carriage company in Salt Lake that went under. We bought Libby from the people running the horse concession at "This is the Place" State Park. Tony was used in a bicentennial re-enactment group, and before that he was a competitive puller. We get Amish trained plow horses that no longer can work sun up to sundown in the field. In other words, our horses are from someplace else before they came to us. We do not breed/raise our own work force.

So the ARA's go around saying that we in the industry treat carriage horses as if they are disposable. They make it sound like a driver dressed as Snidley Whiplash goes out into that mythical pasture full of clear running streams and rainbows, ropes a wild horse, beats it into submission, bundles them into tack like an unwilling participant at a bondage festival, and sticks them out on the street where they are tortured and terrified by honking horns and brass bands. After working them 24/7 in temperatures that are either -20 ̊F or 137 ̊F for four years straight, they are whisked away to auction and certain doom.

Sorry, ARA's, but that just isn't so. As of April 1st, I have been employed as a driver for 6 years. When I started at the carriage barn, the following horses lived and worked there:

Jock, Jack, Sonny, Chief, Vea, Annie, Morris, Sam, Pete, Prince, Kid, Belle, Max, Tom, Cletus, Rex, Charlie, Ping, King, Jim, Bob, Ace, Bart, and Tony. (24)

During my time as an employee the following horses were also added to the string:

Jerry, Ralph, Ben, Ben Belgian, Smith, Wesson, Libby and last fall we acquired Hank and Cisco. (9)

Of the previously listed horses the following either passed on or were put down due to injuries sustained in the pen, old age, colic, or disease:

Jock, Max, Chief, Ben Belgian : Old age. (4)
Ben : Cancer (1)
Jack and Annie : Colic (2)
Vea and Sonny : Injury (2)

The injuries sustained in the pen were inflicted by other horses, and anyone who knows anything about horses knows that they occasionally fight, colic, and get sick. And while we prefer to wish otherwise, all living things grow old. Nobody gets out of this life alive.

The retired horses are as follows:

Morris, Kid, Sam, Prince, Pete, Ping, King, Belle and Ralph. (9)

The horses still working there, who have been working there since before I started six years ago, are:

Tony, Cletus, Charlie, Jim, Bob, Ace, Rex, Tom, and Bart (9)

Along with the horses that came after my employment began:

Libby, Jerry, Smith, Wesson, Hank and Cisco (6)

So, in response to the ARA's statement that the average carriage horse is in service for four years, I say "Bullshit". Our co-workers are valuable assets. They are painstakingly desensitized to the noise and traffic of our city before we ever put customers in the carriage. The ones who have the right personalities to do the job stay in service as long as they are fit. The ones who don't, get re-homed, like Belle. She lives in Wyoming with her owner, a former carriage driver whose screen name is "Belle's Personal Assistant" for a reason.

So, let's crunch the numbers, shall we? And average it out together:

Total horses= 33
Passed on= 9
Retired= 9
Balance of horses still at work= 15
Average number of animals sent to slaughter after working as a carriage horse for 4 years= 0

For our guys, I think the odds are pretty damn good.

Ace

Tony

Tom

Smith

Rex

Libby

Jim

Jerry

Hank

Cletus

Cisco

Charlie

Bob

Bart

Wesson

We Do Have A One-Way Ride...

2010-04-29T09:15:00.008-06:00

Ro and Cliff

Besides the usual historic tours, engagements, weddings, birthdays and anniversaries, the company I work for, Carriage For Hire, also provides the final ride for horse enthusiasts— their funeral.

Tony, waiting for this gig to begin.

Several years ago, when Tony's original owner passed on, we provided the hearse for his services.

Last week, Tony's dad's brother, (so Tony's human Uncle) expired, and we were asked to participate.

Unlike carriage rides downtown, providing the hearse involves hauling both the horse and the conveyance offsite, usually to a location close to the cemetery, and transferring the coffin from a modern hearse to the 1840's Cunningham. A while back I wrote a blog about needing to "do" a funeral for research for a scene I was contemplating, because in order to bring the emotion and ambiance to the written word I prefer to experience some things first hand. So, when I found out that a funeral was booked close to my house, I asked Ro if I could assist.

Since the mortuary was located quite a distance from the internment, the plan was to meet up with the funeral procession along the route. Ro and Cliff found a gravel parking lot large enough to accommodate the stock trailer, unloaded both Tony and the hearse, and waited to intercept the departed about a quarter mile from the final destination.

Circa 1840's Cunningham Hearse

"Wait", here, is the operative word. Because you just can't rush a dead guy.

While the three of us killed time, we were approached twice by random strangers asking about our plans. The first person got out of his car and started asking questions about the provenance of the hearse. He seemed quite knowledgeable about varieties of horse drawn funerary vehicles, and we had a pleasant conversation with him. The second man was more interested in who died.

Warming up in the parking lot

While standing around waiting to rendezvous with the procession, we watched as a silver hearse drove by, and tried to flag it down. When they did not immediately flip a u-turn, Ro called dispatch and advised that they'd missed us. A few minutes later she was informed that it had been a different funeral procession, and our customer was still enroute.

Ro and Tony, waiting for our passenger to arrive

Whew!

The correct deceased finally showed up, and the transfer process began. It was good for me to be there in person and observe, because if I am ever called on to work a funeral, on the job training is not necessarily the best way to go.

While Cliff assisted the pall bearers in guiding the beautiful natural light pine casket onto the rollers and into the hearse, Ro stood by Tony's head and held him steady; having a horse decide to walk off while loading a body into the back can be a Very. Bad. Thing.

Next it was determined that no one from the family wanted to ride up top with the driver (Cliff). This is an option offered to a representative of the deceased. Some do it, some decline. So Ro climbed up and rode shotgun with Cliff and I stopped traffic on the busy road so they could make a left out of the parking lot, then I kept traffic stopped while the balance of the funeral procession joined in.

I drove down to the cemetery in Ro's car, and walked across the grounds, meeting up with them in time for the pall bearers to remove the casket and proceed to the plot.

The thing about arriving in a horse drawn hearse it this: Most often it is because the deceased had some connection with horses. Whether it was that his family once owned the animal hauling the hearse, or the person loved horses, it represents an aspect of their life. Many of those in attendance took photos of their loved one's unconventional arrival, and several people wanted to pet Tony. One gentleman asked if the horse was Tony or Tom (Tony's equine brother and team mate, who passed long ago.)

After the beloved was removed, we headed back to the parking lot to pack up. On the return trip, Ro drove her car and I rode up top with Cliff. And let me tell you, it's high up there.

The Cunningham's interior

Now, anybody that knows me, also knows that I, upon learning that someone has an unusual occupation, will ask a series of questions that typically encompass the same theme.

And since the ride back took about 15 minutes, and because Cliff's done a lot of funerals, I had the opportunity to interview him about some of his experiences.

Note: The questions and answers are not verbatim. It's just a recap of our conversation;

SD: What is the weirdest thing that ever happened?

Cliff: We did a funeral where we used the buckboard instead of the hearse. Getting the casket in was difficult and it kept rolling backwards, which loosened the wheel nuts. When we finally got the casket in, we started forward, one of the wheels fell off and we dumped the casket. So we had to hurry up, lift the buckboard, put the wheel back on, tighten all the nuts and reload the casket.

SD: What was the funniest thing?

Cliff: The deceased's brother rode up top with me and kept cracking jokes the whole time. I laughed so hard that the hearse was weaving all over the road. The carriage company owner was driving behind us in her car and said it looked like I was driving drunk.

SD: And the saddest?

Cliff: A little girl 9 or 10, died in a freak accident. Her coffin was so tiny back there; it was like putting a match box in a car trunk. Very tragic.

SD: And the most memorable?

Cliff: We were in a small town out by Spanish Fork. The procession went from one end of town to the other; it was quite a distance and most of the mourners walked behind the hearse, which is customary. Little old Grandma rode up top with me and after a while I asked if she wanted to drive. She was delighted and drove the hearse for a little while, but as we got closer to the cemetery she handed back the lines and said, "Here, there are a lot of people walking around. I don't want to run any of them over, I've already killed several people that way you know…"

(And this is how it all goes back into the trailer:)

First in goes the hearse

Then...

In goes Tony

and...smoosh!

(I'd like to thank Ro and Cliff for allowing me to tag along. It was definitely a memorable experience.)

Will Walk For Donation…

2010-04-26T11:25:00.007-06:00

It's that time of year again. Time for our annual Beg-A-Thon to support No More Homeless Pets in Utah.

Our family has been supporting Strut Your Mutt and No More Homeless Pets In Utah since we moved to Salt Lake in 2003. So you could say that the annual Strut Your Mutt is near and dear to our hearts. As was Cowboy, our Border Collie and member of our family for 14 wonderful years. Cowboy passed away this last March, so this year we are walking in his honor.

We're also bringing the new used dog, Luna, who we adopted from Pet Samaritans. This will be the first of many Strut Your Mutts to come for her. Unless, of course, she eats someone's Chihuahua. Then her SYM career will be over pretty quick.

Sammie Two Chews, resident Pomeranian, will also be joining us, but in her stroller. Sammie has luxated patellas and it's difficult for her to walk long distances, so she'll be pushed along the route. Plus Sammie doesn't like other dogs, so anything that puts a barrier between her and the rest of the common canine rabble is just fine and dandy. And she, like me, is a little on the lazy side, so any time someone else can do the work is good with her.

Because of the current economic downturn, shelters in this country have seen a rise in the number of animals surrendered. Owners find themselves in dire financial circumstances and have to tighten their budgets, which many times means the family pet is the first thing to be jettisoned. Fortunately, shelters have also seen a rise in adoptions. However, shelters still have to house, feed, spay/neuter and administer any medical treatment to the animals while they await their forever families to adopt them, and that's expensive.

So I show up here once a year and ask anyone out there with a few spare bucks to make a donation to save a life. Okay, I show up here about twice a week, but I only ask for money once a year. So that's what I'm doing. If you are looking for a good, tax deductible organization to make a donation to, go here and donate securely online. The animals thank you, and so do I.

And, because I am in fact shameless, I'll just add these pictures of cute dogs to make you feel just a little bit guilty…

We, The PeTA

2010-04-22T14:08:00.004-06:00

This from my friend and fellow carriage driver, Christina, who works in Philadelphia:

As many of you know, there was a carriage accident in Philadelphia, on Monday, April 19th at approximately 9:30 AM. It is believed that a car driven by Thomas Gordon of Claymont, DE was stopped behind a line of five carriages stopped at a red light at 6th and Race Sts. Eyewitnesses report that Gordon was honking at the rear carriage driven by Jane Stansbury, 23, and revving his engine. He is reported to have tapped her rear wheels a couple times with his bumper, then when the light changed, he accelerated through the line of carriages, colliding with her carriage, and pushing it into several other carriages. One carriage, driven by Brian Lafler, 52, was overturned. Thomas Gordon continued to accelerate, pushing Jane's carriage across the intersection, colliding with a fire hydrant and eventually coming to rest on the fence in front of the College of Physicians. Jane was ejected from the carriage. Brian Lafler and Jane Stansbury remain in Jefferson Hospital's ICU, Brian with severe head and facial injuries and Jane with spinal injuries. Another carriage driver, Kym Moak, is out of work for several weeks with a sprained knee.

All horses involved escaped injury beyond a couple of superficial cuts.

Two nasty carriage accidents in the same week, one in Atlanta where two douche bags were drag racing, and another in Philadelphia, has brought PeTA to the forefront of the news again. Why? Because whenever there is any type of incident involving carriage horses they gleefully circle like vultures, ready to invade the city where the incident has occurred, waving their anti-equestrienne posters in the horse's faces.(Which, by the way, horses do not like.)

As one would expect, the radical animal rights activists are already planning on exploiting this tragedy to further their radical agenda (which ultimately is to ban horse-drawn carriages in Philadelphia, and beyond, and eventually to BAN the use of horses for any sort of activity other than pasture puff... if that).

If working horses are banned in Philadelphia, they will of course be at risk for neglect and slaughter once they are re-homed, since NO company can afford to keep 20 working horses as "pets" in the city for the rest of their natural lives.

They try to bully the mayor or city council into banning horse drawn carriages (there is a standard letter; we got one when Jim decided to test his boundaries and ran for half a block…) and occasionally swoop down to do a little protesting so they get some face time on the news.

The National Park Service cannot prevent the animal activists from coming to the park and standing in our stands, waving banners and pictures of the accident mere feet from the carriage drivers, all of whom are still understandably upset, shocked, sad, and angry as a result of this "accident"/attack. However, the National Park Service MUST allow counter protesters equal access and opportunity to voice their SUPPORT for the carriage horses and the carriage drivers.

Same old tired crap. You know, the morning after the Atlanta incident a car here in Salt Lake blew a stop sign and plowed into another one, sending three people to the hospital. Did PeTA show up or send a strongly worded letter to Ralph Becker cautioning him about the dangers to people from cars? No. Why? Because PeTA doesn't care about people.

PeTA cares about money. And every time there is an incident they can use it to get free publicity and ask for money to help save the poor carriage horses. And considering their "success rate" with seized or surrendered animals, I think our horses would say, "Thank you, NO."

PeTA likes to talk about Animal Rights. Guess what, animals don't have "rights", any more than your couch or your bicycle have "rights". And you know what? You don't want animals to have "rights", and here's why:

Because the second the laws of our land give animals "rights" (and to be fair and equitable, they would have to apply across the board, not just for animals that are cute and cuddly, but the ones we set traps for and consider dangerous or a nuisance, too) some asshole will decide to make money by suing you on behalf of your animal.

Thinking of getting Fluffykins spayed? LAWSUIT! You are depriving her of her reproductive rights. Does Mr. Tomcat have a disease which is curable but will bankrupt your family if you pursue treatment so you're opting to put him down and end his suffering? LAWSUIT! You are depriving him of his right to live. You found out that your toddler has developed a life threatening allergy to your pot bellied pig Petunia? Better not even think of shipping Petunia off to the petting zoo (which RARAs would have you to believe is the ultimate in cruelty, Petunia being exploited by forcing her to take food from people and get petted and her picture taken! Horrors!)

Now, I'm against animal cruelty. Beating, burning, torturing, starving an animal is cruelty. Giving an animal a job is not abusive or cruel. As caretakers, I believe that we owe it to our furbabies to make sure they have proper care, food, housing and attention. And as the steward of my pets, it is my responsibility when they do something either destructive or dangerous to other animals or humans. That's why if your dog bites the UPS guy, he sues you, not your dog.

Please, if you can in any way come out on Saturday in Philadelphia (or can encourage others to attend) to protest peacefully in support of horses and in support of carriage drivers, the time is now to make your support known. These ghoulish activists are giddy with glee that such a tragedy has befallen us, and intend to use it to their advantage.

And why, you've probably wondered, is the "e" in PeTA so small? Because it stands for ethical.

Please Don't Eat The Tulips!

2010-04-20T13:02:00.003-06:00

When the children of Luna's foster mom confided to Mr. Slave Driver that "she eats everything" they weren't kidding. Not that it matters, much. So far Luna's kill count includes a pair of flip-flops, a piece of PVC that holds up the Tiki-Torches, numerous toys, and my tulips.

Not the bulbs, mind you, which are toxic, just the flowers.

The flip-flops belonged to The Kid, and she had been warned. "Do not leave your shit lying around!" I'm trying not to set this dog up to fail, so everything I could think of that might be a problem had, I thought (foolishly) been addressed. The fact that Luna drags huge hunks of wood destined for the fireplace from the woodpile into the middle of the yard to chew is not much of an issue— after all they're just going to be burned anyway, right? Maybe she feels the need for a more fibrous diet. So there is no need for them to look all pretty and shit. But the tulips, well, it's not like I can put them up high or anything. I know I'm going to have to fence off my strawberry patch, but I didn't think I'd have to do anything drastic with the tulips.

I also have a plethora of raspberry bushes. So many that I often get tired of picking them half way through the season and just let them rot on the vine. I'm lazy like that. Every couple of years I go out and do a slash and burn, pruning them back to stubs. It's a Neolithic way of gardening, but I'm not into horticulture enough to care. Plus the stickers on those bastards hurt. And, apparently, they snag a lot of dog hair. So much so that it looks a little like we're growing a hybrid form of cotton out back.

Also, we're going through toys like KFC goes through chickens. There used to be two boxes of dog toys in the house. Now, every toy that was in one of the dog toy boxes is out in the yard. Once removed to the yard, covertly, they are systematically destroyed. Every toy is first given a squeaker-ectomy. Then, after a bit more torture, for the stuffed ones the coup-de-grâce, a doggie style Hari-Kari is performed. It looks like Gettysburg for Care Bears out there, people. I kid you not.

The plastic toys are chewed into small pieces. But in a very precise manner. Luna begins at one end (usually the end that once housed a squeaker) and shreds it into small bites, not swallowing but discarding the plastic in the grass. I suppose I should be thankful for her not eating them; I hate trying to recognize stuff when it's wrapped in a package of dog crap.

Several years ago I was enjoying an adult beverage while floating in my pool. The Kid, whose chore it was to pick up the dog messes in the yard, was cleaning up when she came across a pile with two bright orange pieces of foam rubber, intact, in one of the piles.

The Kid: "Mom, Cowboy ate your earplugs!"

Slave Driver: "Uh, okay…"

Pause.

The Kid: "Do you want them back?"

Slave Driver: "No, I'm good."

Readin' Writin', And 'Rithmetic

2010-04-17T19:07:00.006-06:00

I'm currently in Park City, Utah, for my RWA chapter's annual retreat. It's supposed to be all about having time to write, write, write. So far I've attended a URWA board meeting, a workshop, a critique group, sat in the hot tub, wrote out checks to reimburse people for expenses, missed seeing a moose, and watched while a couple of the ladies used Tarot cards to do a character profile. In an hour we will have our Paul Sheldon ceremony, which is something that is hard to explain and really, 1) it's a writer thing, and 2) you have to be there. Plus it's a little weird, but so are we.

Anyway…

I've done a little bit of writing. I bought a program called "Snowflake", which is supposed to assist with character development, plot outline, and once filled in will essentially give you an almost submission ready synopsis.

Let me tell you, if the only thing I get out of it is a synopsis, it was well worth the $40 bucks.

I've worked on the first chapter for book 3 (book 2 is temporarily on hold, half finished because it's a sequel to book 1, which is currently with an agent. I figured that if the agent doesn't like book 1 why work on book 2?) This is the same agent who asked me for a synopsis for an idea I pitched, off of the top of my head, mind you, which will end up being a Romantic Suspense, and, best of all, she will be staying in our room this fall at our conference. So, since she will be my our ~~captive~~ guest, I will be able to ~~force my manuscript on her while I've got her tied up~~ inquire if she is interested in seeing the full MS while she is here, and pitch it to her yet once again, just in case she's forgotten it.

So, that's where I am. Doing some reading, a little writing, and of course, arithmetic.

Lights! Camera! Nike!

2010-04-12T11:12:00.003-06:00

Charlie all dressed and ready to visit Park City for his movie role. I hope they're filming in "wide screen". they'll need it to get all of his butt in the shot...

I've probably mentioned this before, but besides carriage rides around town, weddings, engagements, and the odd specialty like the Pirate Gig Ro and I did last August, the company I work for occasionally is hired out for movie shoots.

Hardrock being upstaged by a smiling, happy-to-be-alive Harley in the background.

One night last week they filmed up at the local amusement park, Lagoon. This past Saturday they had to load and drive up to Park City for the same film. Hardrock and Coco, part time stable employees (ie whenever they need someone to do something goofy, and they have to be boys, as opposed to asking Ro and I) were part of the shoot. Hardrock got the horses ready

No, it's not snowing, there wasn't enough light apparently.

and then changed into his costume. Here he is, in all his western splendor (it's not a western but it is a historical so there are period costumes involved.)

Hardrock, head to toe

And he looks pretty good, considering he's driving the vehicles and being a stuntman. But he did sneak a little "modern guy" into the mix.

I hope they don't shoot any close-ups of his feet…

Just Another Post About Mostly Nothing

2010-04-09T09:05:00.007-06:00

The new used dog, Luna, likes to smile a lot

She also has a freaky floppy double dew claw. It's really weird looking. Plus it means there is one more nail to trim.

Apparently water provided in a small, Pomeranian size bowl tastes much better than water from a larger, Great Pyrenees size bowl. That is, according to Luna. How do I know this? Because instead of drinking from the big bowl in the hallway, Luna prefers to continuously empty Sammie's water bowl in the bedroom.

Who knew?

I was supposed to work last Monday with MBA, but because the weather-persons predicted a huge snowstorm, we were called off. And it did snow, but it did not nearly become the cataclysmic blizzard of epic proportions that the prognosticators warned us of. Still, I was glad not to be in the middle of it trying to sell carriage rides. I know futility when I see it, and that would have been a huge waste of my time.

The tourist season is in its pre-vacation phase right now, and those folks wanting to miss the Memorial to Labor Day crowds will be visiting Salt Lake and, specifically Temple Square, soon. Across the street from where we stage the flagship store for Deseret Books opened last weekend. It is in almost the same spot where once there was a Borders Bookstore. We really liked the Borders. Not because, while out some pleasant evening one of us would suddenly feel the urge to ask another driver to hold our horse and cross South Temple to peruse the current list of best sellers and purchase a riveting novel to read while standing around waiting for a ride. But because on the second floor of Borders there was a small café with a barista willing to craft for you a delicious cup of coffee or a frothy hot chocolate. This was a lifesaver when we would be cold, tired, thirsty or bored and be in dire need of something to perk us up.

This was what the building looked like last spring.

Deseret Books doesn't offer amenities like coffee. They might, however, have a water fountain.

Deseret Book's flagship store.

Also across the street a new, fine dining establishment is opening. Now, this is something that we are interested in because, as I have often lamented, there really is no place for us to get a bite to eat besides the drive-thru of Carl Jr's, and I'm not a huge Carl Jr's fan, so I've never taken a carriage through there. I have, however, gone to the Applebee's at The Gateway Mall and utilized their Phone Ahead/Pick up spot. It's nice because the server brings your order right up to your vehicle, runs your credit card, and hands you your food, piping hot, complete with silverware. It’s a little tricky trying to cut up a sirloin while piloting a carriage, but hey, if you’re hungry enough, you manage.

The new restaurant location last spring.

So soon this new, classy restaurant will open and I'm sure, knowing our penchant for eating, we'll wear a horse poop littered path from our staging area through the crosswalk and into their lobby, leaving a scent that, without a doubt, will prove what big fans we are.

What the restaurant's location looks like now.

Unless, of course, there's a dress code, and they won't let us in the door. Of course, if fancy is what they require, I do have a tuxedo jacket. But I'll still smell like horse.

(The rest of these photos are for the benefit of those drivers who no longer work in Salt Lake. Because inquiring minds want to know.)

Progress of the 32 story condo building at the corner of South Temple and West Temple. It looks good, and we'll be happy when they start to fill it with people.

The skybridge across Main Street.

The Agony And The Ecstasy

2010-04-05T12:19:00.003-06:00

Mr. Slave Driver is in heaven.

Okay, not literally. It's not like he died or anything. But he is in a constant state of euphoria. He loves, loves, loves his new dog, Luna, and couldn’t be more pleased with her.

Yeah, she pulls on the leash some, and she digs in the yard a little. But otherwise, she is smart, (he already has her trained to wait while he pours her food in her bowl, and wait still until he tells her, "Okay." Then she gets to eat.)

But she really is a joy, for us, and everything is fantastic… With one exception: Sammie Two Chews absolutely, unequivocally, and without one shred of doubt, hates her. Now, I know that my little dog has a, well, a little dog complex. She is suspicious of other dogs, and avoids them at all costs. When she was a puppy, because she's a Pom, I wanted to make sure she was socialized with people because we had had a problem with another dog not allowing anyone but family around. So I took her everywhere there were people. Soccer games, 4-H, AWANAS, you name it, that dog was exposed to people. The only dog she was exposed to was Cowboy. And all he ever did was stare at her. Now, the new dog, Luna, well, here you go:

So the things we thought were going to be a challenge (chewing issues, digging issues, I caught her sneaking out the dog door with one of my shoes...) will be nothing compared to getting Sammie to accept her.

Teaching A New Dog Old Tricks

2010-03-31T10:58:00.004-06:00

Excitement reigns supreme in the Slave Driver household. We have applied for and were approved to adopt a new member into our family. She's a beautiful girl, only 12 months old, of central Asian descent, desperately in need of a forever home.

What's that you say? A baby? Are you insinuating that we are adopting a human baby? Uck! Not a snowballs chance in Hell. It's a puppy. Kind of. A very LARGE puppy. A Great Pyrenees puppy.

(They don't call 'em "Great" for nuthin', ya know.)

The placement choice for the foster mom boiled down to a lady in Colorado or us. Being locals, we won. YAY! Us!

We went to visit the dog last Monday. As we entered the house we were surrounded by wagging tails and lapping tongues. The foster mom already has a Border collie and an Australian Shepherd. She told us the Pyr's story:

Apparently an 18 year old girl had her puppy in an apartment in the same town we live in. Foster Mom Ruth saw an ad for the dog on one of the local classified web sites and called about purchasing her. Except Ruth's husband wanted an Irish Wolfhound, not a Great Pyrenees. So Ruth didn't purchase her. The next thing Ruth knew, the dog was in the shelter. Ruth made a deal with Mr. Ruth; let her foster the dog until a suitable family to adopt could be found, and after that Mr. Ruth could get his Irish Wolfhound.

Now, as I'm sure you can relate, a dog which when full grown that will top out at over 100 pounds is not necessarily the best choice for an apartment unless you can spend several hours a day exercising it. And I don't know about you, but when I was 18, I had way better things to do then running a mini-marathon every day.

So this beautiful girl greeted us with a huge smile. She's the most laid back puppy I've ever encountered; friendly with strangers, cool around other dogs (which was a concern because Sammie Two Chews, resident Pomeranian is only ten pounds and a bit suspicious of other canines), doesn’t bark her fool head off (unlike the five dogs our neighbors keep locked in their yard with no attention what so ever all damn day long), walks well on a leash, is highly intelligent, and is generally a good citizen.

At least, that's what we were told.

Mr. Slave Driver, whose turn it is to choose a new dog, had to sleep on his decision, because he wanted a Bernese Mountain dog, Newfoundland, or a Leonberger. None of which are in abundance on rescue sites. In fact the only thing this dog and those dogs have in common is "Big." But he decided that she would be a fabulous addition to our family, so he called the next morning and told Ruth that we would be happy to adopt the dog.

On Tuesday evening, Ruth brought the pup to our house to inspect our yard (is it fenced? Is the fencing tall enough that the dog cannot jump it? Is it free of holes that the dog can squeeze under?) And we passed with flying colors. We've been dog people long enough that we know all the tricks.

And I mean all the tricks. So while the foster family extolled the pup's virtues, they also omitted some of the negative aspects of her personality. And there always are, it's just a matter of being forewarned is forearmed:

Her healing and leash skills are not what one would consider good. In fact, "Walks well on a leash" is inaccurate; "Drags you around to where she wants to go" is more appropriate. And while I sat in the living room and consoled Ruth, because clearly she adores this dog and is only releasing her because of the deal she made with Mr. Ruth, Mr. Slave Driver spent time out in the yard with the pup and Ruth's daughters, whom he pimped for information.

Thus he found out the following:

She eats everything. Everything.

She steals food off of the counters/plates/anything she can reach.

If there is a hole, she will exit through it and run off.

They told us that the dog occasionally likes to dig, but Mr. Slave Driver observed that the dog showed no interest until the children began digging in the sandy area of the yard (the Swimming Pool corner) and the dog followed suit. So he believes it is a child instigated behavior, along with her unwillingness to retrieve. She will fetch, but then the kids chase her around, which she finds a barrel of fun, and thus there is no compulsion to return the object to the handler to throw it again.

Both of these issues are easily solved, and The Kid (ours) is a teenager and therefore has no interest in chasing a dog around the yard because, frankly, it’s too much work. She will, however, throw a toy that has been returned.

So we have our work cut out for us over the next year. We're used to well behaved dogs that are trusted to remain in our house while we are absent and not destroy everything they can reach. And we know how to train this behavior into them, because over the years we have had unruly, annoying, destructive animals and have turned them around to be model citizens.

Of course, we will also have to modify our own behavior so as not to set this dog up to fail. We need to:

Keep all the trash cans empty or off of the floor.

Make sure food is pushed waaay back on the counter tops.

Keep a steady hand on the leash.

Never leave an outside door open or unattended.

Put down the lid on the toilet seat.

So, here's to teaching old dogs new tricks, and new dogs old tricks.

Changing Sh*t Into Sugar…

2010-03-25T09:16:00.005-06:00

In case you haven't noticed, I'm a writer. As such, I belong to several writing organizations. Occasionally, some of these groups have contests. Once in a while (and for tax purposes) I enter them. I don't ever expect to win. There are a lot of people out there who spend hours, days, sometimes, crafting the subtle nuances in a paragraph. Not me. I'm more of a "What you see is what you get," kind of a girl. When it comes to me bleeding on the page, I write directly from the gut. I know I'm not creating great literature that will be utilized in the educational curriculum to mold the minds of young scholars for ages to come; but my stories have interesting and flawed characters that people identify with and want to follow their exploits. But I also believe in being true to the characters I create. In that vein my characters, like people in real life, occasionally use language that conservative readers consider to be very bad words. Words like "F*ck."

(Note: I have been trying to change the spelling of certain words on my blog so the People Who Run The Internet don't mistakenly flag my site as porn. I do, however, do it in such a way that you still know what word it is I'm writing.)

Now, I personally believe that there are much more damaging words in the English language then f*ck. The "N" word, to me, is way more damaging to our society then f*ck. In fact, any ethnic, racial, or sexually oriented word or slang word aimed at a person in an attempt to demean or disenfranchise them are very bad words. Conversely, I also do not believe in censorship. So if a person makes a statement about how they do not like or appreciate a (fill in hurtful very bad word here to indicate a specific group of people), although I do not agree with what they say, I believe in their right to say it. And besides, allowing everyone freedom of speech also helps us identify individuals in society that we might want to avoid. Or at least not friend them on Facebook.

So, here is the deal; I want to enter my novel into a contest. You are required to submit the first three chapters. However, in reading the rules and regulations of this contest, I ran across the following qualifier:

Submissions that do not follow the guidelines or are in poor taste (pornography and profanity) will be disqualified and the entry fee forfeited.

Now, as I said earlier, my characters tend to swear a bit. In fact, I went thought the first three chapters and noted use of the following words;

Crap- once (and before you hurt yourself with an eyeroll, understand that I live in an ultra conservative state where a large portion of the population do not watch "R" rated movies. I'm not talking "NC-17" here, I'm talking "R".)

Bo*bs- twice. (See above statement)

"Damn"- once.

"Sh*t"-is articulated on three occasions.

And of course the mother of all swearwords, "F*ck", is utilized in the dialogue six times. Six. That equates to twice a chapter.

Now, don't think of an elephant.

Haha, you just pictured one, didn't you? So, should I be true to my characters and submit my entry, knowing that as soon as someone encounters that first F*ck, they'll bounce my entry, keep my fee, and I'll be secretly blackballed from any further contests sponsored by this group? Or, should I stifle my voice, change "Sh*t" into "Sugar" and "F*ck" into "Fudge" knowing that each time the reader judge runs across those words they'll know, subconsciously, what I meant to say? (Don't think of an elephant.)

My other choice, besides not entering, which I feel denies me my right as a dues paying member who was not required to adhere to any particular set of guidelines upon joining, (unlike, say, a well known organization that disallows girls, gays, and atheists,) is to enter it as is, get bounced, sue them for denying me my rights protected under the First Amendment, and end up wallowing in a court system that is already overburdened by frivolous lawsuits because we live in a litigious society just so I can make a point?

I'm thinkin', "F*ck that."

Spring Ahead, Fall Far Behind…

2010-03-22T11:39:00.001-06:00

I've signed up to work again and thank Bob for Ro who reminded me that LDS Spring Conference is the weekend of April 3 and 4th, which is also Easter weekend. I almost signed up to work that weekend too, but then she whispered, "Conference…Conference…" and my brain kicked into gear and I said, "Never mind!" with the appropriate amount of panic because I almost messed up.

None of that really has anything to do with me other then the fact that 1) I hate to work conference because the annoying protestors make me want to slug someone and 2) I'm not religious so I'll be skiing on Easter Sunday, providing the weather is nice… Apparently holidays like "President's Day" are big skiing draws, but things like "Easter" and "Thanksgiving" people prefer to spend inside with their extended families. Well, we don't have any extended family here, and we like to spend our holidays on top of the mountain. That's our spiritual experience, thank you very much. And we like it like that.

One year, in Missouri, we spent Easter having a bar-b-cue and shearing sheep. It was a beautiful day, and we all got sunburned. It was one of the most memorable Easters I think I've ever had. In 2008 The Kid and I spent Easter morning at Angel's Rest, the pet cemetery located in Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Kanab, UT. It was sunny and warm, with a light breeze that coaxed the wind chimes into a soft and delicate concert. We were surrounded by the headstones of pets loved so much by their owners you could feel it. That was a great Easter, too.

The ~~chaotic clusterf*ck of a mess of epic proportions~~ construction downtown continues to progress. Main Street has been closed for a few days and will be closed until this coming Saturday (just in time for Young Women's Conference Saturday evening…) because the controversial Sky Bridge linking both sides of City Creek Center, the mall and residential complex which has been the reason for the ~~chaotic clusterf*ck of a mess of epic proportions~~ construction, has to be installed.

Many people have been against the Sky Bridge for various reasons and it will be interesting to see how the horses react. Horses like Charlie and Jerry typically have an attitude of "Hey! Look, they put up a big shady thing just for me, yay!" While individuals like Cletus and Tony take a more suspicious approach; "Wait just one minute…THAT wasn't there before… Is it gonna EAT me?" So driving each horse under it will be an experience, I'm sure. But all of our guys take stuff like that in stride, and have been so very good during the ~~unending eons of wreckage and upheaval~~ years of construction. I'll take photos tonight so I can post them for your viewing pleasure. In some of the backgrounds of previous photos you can see some of the buildings in progress. The condos they've constructed right across the street from where we stage are almost ready to be sold, thus filling the mall with people before the actual "Mall" is even open yet. That'll be fun for the occupants I'm sure (snort) and think how lucky they are… to have Carriage Drivers as neighbors.

I, Too Am A Trophy, Um, Something…

2010-03-19T08:49:00.002-06:00

I met a real life trophy wife this weekend. I've heard stories of them, and there seem to be quite a few on TV these days, but until this weekend, like many of the folk who stare in wonder at our carriage horses, I'd never seen a "real one."

I recognized her species almost immediately: she wore a beautiful, delicate and expensive looking dress, large fake boobs, flawless makeup, diamond everything, some kind of shoe that I'm sure did not come from Payless, and had a plethora of yoga muscles. In the ladies room, a modern day watering hole where we women tend to gather, I waited patiently for an empty stall while she schooled her young, mirror images of her finely groomed self, in the art of primping and presentation. She couldn’t have been over five foot tall and maybe weighed 100 pounds soaking wet, but she was discussing her $42.00 control top panty hose—

Cue the sound of an automobile coming to a swerving, screeching, crashing halt:

Hold. The. Phone.

Like a deer in headlights, I was stunned. Immobile. Shocked into a stillness I usually cannot ever achieve.

Did she just say she paid FORTY-TWO DOLLARS FOR A. PAIR. OF. NYLONS???

When I finally recovered my senses, I looked this stick of a tiny thing over again.

Slave Driver then stares off into an imaginary horizon (being that she's in the bathroom and is surrounded by cinderblock walls it takes more than a little imagination to do so) and wonders WTF would someone who is as big around as her entire thigh needs control top panty hose…

And who in their right mind pays $42.00 for them?

Snort.

Me? I wish L'Eggs would come up with a Control-top Burka I could shimmy into (after being liberally spritzed down with Pam for lubrication purposes) to make everything look thinner, but I find that I usually just end up looking like a sausage. And if I ever did spend that kind of cashola for nylons (which, BTW, I usually immediately and irreversibly jam my thumbnail through, causing a HUGE run, which, due to their super tight control top features, usually causes an extra lump of cellulite of pop out, thus changing the sausage look to one more like a stunted Calamari)

Where was I?

Oh yeah, if I ever put out that kind of serious cash for panty hose I'd better get a lap dance, a pony, and my car waxed out of the deal.

But, you see, that's what makes me a trophy wife also. Well, at least to my husband. See, what I may lack in high, tight boobs, a tanned, toned body and pearly white teeth so big they could pass for Chicklets I make up for in being frugal, subjectively hardworking, and not at all interested in name brands, trends, or Vogue magazine. Instead of going to a studio and doing Pilates, I mow the lawn. Instead of making reservations, I make dinner. I can fix my own car heater switch, rewire lights on horse and boat trailers, and am versed in reviving muddy suede chaps by washing them with Murphy's Oil Soap and tons & tons of fabric softener then laying them flat (away from any heat source) to dry.

Plus, and I suspect one of two reasons why he hasn't traded me in for a younger, toned and polished model, I make Mr. Slave Driver laugh. A lot.

The second reason is my muscles are the kind you get from lifting heavy things repeatedly. So he knows that if confronted with a thin, delicate sweet young replacement thang, I could easily snap her neck, thus handily elimination the competition.

Wherever You Go, There You Are

2010-03-17T08:46:00.005-06:00

Sunset in Southern Utah

First, I'd like to congratulate Doree, the winner of the Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner! Contest. Doree received a copy of Ignite Your Passion eBook. Thank you to all the folks who entered and I hope you keep entering contests and win big. Maybe next time you'll win a car or a luxury vacation. Not here, mind you, but somewhere…

We traveled to Buckeye, Arizona last weekend for my cousin's wedding. My cousin is considerably younger than me by about 25 years, so he's always been more like a nephew then a cousin. His family used to live in Ellwood City, Pennsylvania but they moved to Arizona a few years back so, along with my Mom in Tucson, they live closer to us than anyone else in our combined families.

Kanab, Utah

We drove. Driving 1200 miles over the course of 6 days sucks, especially when 1) you go through long stretches of landscape that is blah, 2) there is a bored teenager in the car who is missing Prom because of the trip and 3) your back hurts from sitting in the car for hours at a time. But I don't like to fly and we brought our travel trailer to stay in while in Buckeye so there you go.

The Palm golf course in Goodyear, AZ.

The wedding venue was a golf course, and it was beautiful. And it was great to see everyone. Now I have to catch up on all the things that fell to the wayside while I was gone. But here are a few pictures to amuse you until I write again.

My brother has taken dance lessons, so he decided to teach The Kid how to dance. The problem with the women in our family is we always try to lead.

The Kid and her dad during the Daddy/Daughter dance. Yes, that is blue in her hair. She has a fabulous GPA, doesn't drink or do drugs, is employed and generally is a good kid. One learns to pick one's battles... Plus, ironically, it matched the wedding colors.

My uncle and his daughter during the Daddy/Daughter dance.

We brought Sammie Two Chews along because she travels well. She sits on the arms rest between the front seats in her bed. The thing she found most annoying was there were all these great new people she wanted to say "Hi" to at the RV parks we stayed at, but they all had dogs with them. Sammie loves people, she hates dogs. So she was very frustrated. And by the time we arrived home, She.Was.Done.

The One Left Behind

2010-03-08T08:24:00.003-07:00

We've been coping with our grief over here this week. Fourteen years with the same guy, suddenly he's gone, it leaves a big hole in your life. I find myself doing things that I became accustomed to doing to accommodate an elderly pet whose vision, hearing, and spatial concepts have been compromised as the years have taken their toll. I used to have to make sure the power cord for my laptop was either up higher then my knees, or way lower. Of course, that was no guarantee that he wouldn't catch it on his toenails.

Sammie Two Chews is the lone dog in the house now. She has been looking for her Big Guy to no avail. To show her displeasure she's pee'd on the carpet twice and pooped in the living room once. To add insult to injury, last week she also needed her annual shots, had her teeth cleaned, nails trimmed and I brushed the heck out of her because she's blowing her coat and was looking kinda ratty. So now she's in hiding under the bed, wondering, I'm sure, what new torture awaits. So I've been trying to do things she enjoys, like allowing her on the bed to cuddle, taking her for extra walks and rides in the car, which she likes a lot. I've also been sneaking her treats from the table, for which I get disapproving looks, but I don't care.

I'll be on the road this week on a trip to Buckeye, Arizona for my cousin's wedding, so blogging might be sporadic. The Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner! Contest is in its last week, so if you haven't entered, go here and do so.

And thank you for the sympathetic emails and comments. Cowboy was the most awesome dog. We miss him terribly, and the place in the hallway he called his own is a big empty spot, a mirror image of the one in my heart.

Border Collies don't go to Heaven, they just herd in Another's pasture for a time.

2010-03-02T09:45:00.004-07:00

Half of my heart has left me today,

"It's for the best" won't make the ache go away.

It's useless to say you're at rest, this I know,

You don't know anything other than "go",

Somewhere in a pasture you've cornered a Ram,

Or you're herding a foal back to its dam,

And make sure that the cats stay out of the yard,

For you work is fun, doing nothing is hard.

Your hearing and sight will again be restored.

You'll no longer sigh to show us you're bored.

Along the way you'll find you a boy,

Who will chase you and pet you and throw you a toy.

Ginger will be there, waiting for you,

Stormy, Bandit, and Tasha-Bear, too.

And once I arrive and reunite with my Pack,

We'll grab all the toys, and find our way back,

And go 'round again on this earthly plane,

Young and vibrant as pups, free of old age and pain.

And together the World to our will we'll make bend,

My buddy, my partner, my Cowboy, my friend.

Brown Dirt Cowboy

2/12/1996 -∞- 3/2/2010

I love you, buddy.
You'll always be in charge.

XXX's & OOO's

2010-02-25T20:36:00.003-07:00

There is a movement on the East coast sponsored by the simplistic RARA's to punish Nivea for a clever advertising campaign they initiated on Valentine's Day. As usual, the Anti-Equestrian Eco-Terrorists have gathered their pitchforks & torches, twisted their undies into an unpleasant and chafing bunch and are trying to hit a company that produces a legal product advertised in conjunction with another legal business. So, you know, the same old tired crapola.

You know what would be great? If the RARA's would go and help horses that actually needed it instead of ours that don't warrant any of their unwanted "attention."

Well, two can play at that game. The RARA's have started an emailing movement, sending vapid letters to management listing their concerns about the "exploited, dispirited creatures." So, if you feel that giving an animal a job is not cruel or abusive, may I suggest that in a show of solidarity you do the following:

Send these people an email showing your approval for their ad campaign and the horse drawn carriage industry. Tell them that you support free enterprise, and you will buy their skin care products.

Nivea Executives, Beiersdorf, Inc.

Iain Holding-President iholding@bdfusa.com

Kathy Shea – COO kshea@bdfusa.com

Gary Sharpe – CFO gsharpe@bdfusa.com

Thomas Bellina - Treasurer tbellina@bdfusa.com

Leslie Kickham – Nivea promotion lkickham@bdfusa.com

PMK-BNC, Public Relations firm

Maggie Katz maggie.kaatz@pmkbnc.com
Christina Stejskal, christina.stejskal@pmkbnc.com

May I suggest you cut and paste something along the lines of the following into the body of the email:

Dear Person Who Works For A Company That Didn't Do Anything Wrong But Is Being Persecuted By A Group Of Self Righteous Morons Who Have No Idea What They Are Talking About,

You go, girl! (or guy; change the designation according to who you are sending this to. If their name is Pat, Chris, or Sal, consider using "Person" or "Citizen" so as not to offend.) Thank you for utilizing the New York carriage horses in your campaign. Not only does it show the world these productive, healthy and well cared for animals, but it also displays your superior taste and above average intelligence.

To show support for your fabulous advertising initiative, the next time I am at a store that sells your product I'm going to buy a butt-load of it. Really. Because I have dry skin. And when I say "Dry Skin" I mean that Armadillos and Gila monsters mock me because their hides are luxurious and glowing compared to mine.

Anyway, your ad caught my eye and fueled my imagination. Not only that, but the next time I pass a horse drawn carriage I think I'm going to take a carriage ride. And tip the driver. Big.

My skin thanks you for producing a superior product. And the carriage horses thank you because they have jobs, which apparently the RARA's don't have, which explains all the free time they have which they use to instigate imbecilic letter writing campaigns instead of, you know, looking for a job.

Sincerely,

Then, you know, add your name. And feel free to change the above text so it doesn't sound quite so eclectic. Or frightening.

*********************************

Don't forget! The Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner! Contest is still active~ make sure to get your entries in. Intrigued? Go here to find out more…

Winner! Winner! *Chicken Dinner! Part 1:

2010-02-23T12:08:00.004-07:00

As some of you know last fall an eBook was published containing an essay I wrote about my life-long obsession with horses and how I have incorporated it into my life. The book is called Ignite Your Passion and it has stories and suggestions about taking what you love and turning it into the thing that motivates and inspires you to get up in the morning.

Here is a little info about the woman who pulled it all together:

*****************************

Subject: Where does the energy in your life come from?

What do you call the source of energy that flows through your life like a spring? Sometimes it’s so full and fast it can carry you away. Other times, it’s slow moving, stagnant. When you’re doing something you love, the spring is right there with you, sustaining you, refreshing you, taking you to wonderful new places.

My friend, April M. Williams, calls that energy Passion. About a year ago, she found herself thinking about it a lot:

What is it?
Where does it come from?
Why was she fortunate to have so much of it?
And what happened that so many people don’t have a drop to spare?
Are there ways to nurture it in your life?

She started talking to the many people she met in her life and through her profession. April is a Career Coach who helps people through job transition. She saw the stark difference among her clients: those who had the grace of Passion running deep in their lives tended to have shorter job searches, more fluid transitions, and were better able to meet their goals.

Those who had, well, you might call it a Passion deficit, had a more difficult time overall. They often worked just as hard, but things came harder to them. She noticed something else, too. She felt different around people depending on their level of Passion. People who had more seemed to call her own Passion out of her and into the moment. People who had less often left her feeling drained and needing to replenish.

April was especially fascinated by people who seemed to have found a deep, ever-flowing source of Passion and energy in their lives. They loved what they were doing, even when they took on difficult challenges. Some of these people were able to talk articulately about the Passion that flowed through them. They had wisdom about the gifts of Passion balanced with the demands of Passion.

She asked these wise folks if they would be willing to help her write a book on Passion with the goal of helping everyone get in touch with their own source of energy.

“Ignite Your Passion: How to Find and Ignite Your Fire Inside,” April's E-book, is the result of that collaboration. 18 authors share with you stories of how they discovered the Passion that drives them, the difference it’s made in their lives, and insight into how each of us can tap that energy in ourselves.

April Williams is one of the best Career Coaches I know—maybe the best—and I know that her clients are benefitting from what she learned during her search for the sources and wisdom of Passion.

******************************

"So," a faithful Confessions of a Slave Driver reader might be asking themselves right about now, "what the heck does this have to do with a *Chicken dinner?" (You knew I'd get around to that at some point, right? As off topic as I usually get, I ~~most of the time~~ occasionally wander back to the original idea…) Well, I only used "*Chicken Dinner" because, not only does it sound tasty, but it rhymes with "Winner", and that's what we'll have one of if you enter my super fabulous contest to win a free copy of the eBook, Ignite Your Passion.

Here is what you have to do to enter:

Go to Cyberlifetutors.com , scroll to the bottom of the page where you will see blue letters that say

"Don't let this happen to you: "

Beneath that is an excerpt from my essay. Copy that blurb and paste it into an email. Then send that email to me at SLCSlaveDriver@gmail.com along with your name (first name only is fine if, like me, you distrust the internet and really don't want your *real identity bandied about the Interverse willy-nilly).

I'm running the contest from now until 11:59pm, March 11, 2010. (I know a lot of you only visit every two weeks or so..) On March 12, after I wake up and scarf down a couple of cups of coffee so I can see straight, I will, using the exacting and scientific method of pulling a name blindly out of a hat, or a bucket, or some kind of container, and choose a winner. Then I will notify the lucky winner via email along with the coupon code to download a free e-copy of Ignite Your Passion!!!

See? Easy peasey.Click on link, find my blurb, copy, past, hit "send."

And I promise that none of the entries or email addresses will be released to anyone else even if they torture me by forcing me to watch American Idol or even (shudder) anything on the Hallmark Channel.

*No chickens were harmed in the writing of this blog.

Now for all the legal mumbo jumbo:

Only one entry per email address allowed. Period. All duplicate entries will be sent to the recycle bin. Only one copy of the eBook will be awarded to one winner. Ineligible entries ( ie: no blurb cut and pasted into the body of the email) will be disqualified. Odds of winning are based solely on the number of entrants. Cash value of this blog is 1/20 of 1 cent. eBook available only in English and as an eBook. Void where prohibited by law. Be kind, rewind. TYFSAK.

Rock Of Ages

2010-02-22T10:59:00.006-07:00

I don't have all of my ticket stubs, but I do have quite a few...

Nope, I didn't suddenly curl up and die. I got new bedroom furniture which precipitated a round of painting the walls and moving stuff around and… well, you get the picture. I was busy!

Friday night we attended a concert for which I've had tickets in my possession for eleven months now. It was supposed to happen last November but then one old man got sick, then the other old man got sick and…well it was rescheduled.

I have been an Elton john fan since I was fourteen years old. I mean, a big time EJ fan. The first concert I ever attended was the Elton John Band performing at the Chicago Stadium. I went with my two best friends, Lynn and Carol, their mothers, and Lynn's brother Tommy. My friend Carol's Tanta (Aunt) Frieda had a nephew who was working his way through medical school by scalping tickets. (In Chicago it's not about who you are, it's all about the friend of a buddy who knows a guy…) He was able to get us main floor, third row center seats and generously charged us face value.

We ponied up $8.95 a ticket. A man seated next to us using a zoom lens on his camera told us we were 17 feet away. It was the best concert I've ever been to.

A few of the photos from the 1977 Elton John concert I attended. he jumped around a lot more then.

Over the years I've seen Elton a number of times, and in 2001 my older brother bought me a pair of tickets to see Elton John and Billy Joel during the Kansas City stop in their Face to Face tour for my 40th birthday.

That concert was awesome.

I also drove from Kansas City to Chicago with The Kid and my friend Shelley to see Bernie Taupin's (Elton's lyricist) band Farm Dogs perform at the House of Blues. I was able to tick off an item on my "bucket list" of "Meet Bernie Taupin" before I die.

Bernie Taupin with Slave Driver from 1999 or so.

That's how dedicated (and insane) of a fan I am.

Several years ago we took The Kid to an EJ concert, and before the encores she was telling us, "It's a school night and we should be leaving because I have to get up early tomorrow morning."

I laughed at her. She's not a fan. I should have omitted her ticket and used the extra money to get us better seats. She is however, a Billy Joel fan, and that's all my fault. We used to cruise the gravel roads of Platt County, Missouri in a Le Baron convertible with the top down and the stereo cranked, blasting Billy Joel tunes out into the universe. Her slightly warped version of a bucket list (it's good she's starting young) included "See Billy Joel before he dies."

I guess, given the age difference, it's all a matter of perspective.

Billy Joel

So we went to the concert last week and it was phenomenal. I expected that, being that they are two consummate performers.

Elton John

The Piano Men

What I didn't expect was the variety of people in attendance. We noticed an elderly gentleman (70's or so) being assisted up the stairs by another gentleman in his 50's. The Kid sat next to a woman who looked about 10 years older than myself (she was alone) and the two of them danced the entire night, a 16 year old and a 60-ish lady, having a grand time together.

The Kid and her new friend bustin' a move

So that's why I've been MIA. Sorry, but once in a while I have to ditch the internet, and deal with real things.

The Evils of Preparedness

2010-02-11T12:39:00.003-07:00

I've been dog shopping. It's a fun yet sad way to waste time, looking on Petfinder at all the doggies in need of homes. Happy and hopeful smiling canine faces, trying to catch hold of someone's heart with their tales of woe. Some of the copy is written in a very antiseptic manner, name, rank, serial number … just the facts. Yet other, more creative humans have done their best to pique your interest. It's called a "hook", and is what fiction writers do to grab and hold the attention of their readers.

Johnny Cash caught my eye, mostly because of his expression.

* Hi! My name is Johnny Cash. The man in white…the big man in white. Sometimes life doesn’t turn out the way you expect. One day you are home, safe and loved. And then, like in my case, you find yourself walking into a shelter – and not walking out with those you thought would always be there for you. I guess I wasn’t totally out of luck since I was transferred to rescue and on to another chance at someone to call my own.

Did I mention I am big? I am big in affection, looks and love…oh yes, and in pounds so I am on a little diet. I get along great with other dogs, but please no kitties. I know basic commands and have terrific house manners. What’s missing from my life? Well, at present it is a second helping at dinner and MOST importantly…you. Will you be mine? I can’t wait to meet you (Johnny Cash: German Shepherd, Male, White, DOB ~05/06, 145 lbs. and losing)

No, Cowboy hasn't passed yet. He's still holding on, snoozing away most of the day. His appetite is good, which is why we haven't taken the Big Sleep step yet. When Mr. Slave Driver comes home from work, Cowboy occasionally tries to engage him in a game of "Throw this slimy dog toy for me and I'll bring it back to you." Wease visited last Sunday, bringing her cluster of dogs down from Cache Valley. When they visit Cowboy reverts to his natural herding state, trying to force her dogs into submission by utilizing his patented Border Collie Glare. We try and discourage this behavior (yeah, right, like that ever worked…) because after they leave he's stiff and sore for several days.

Tiny looks like a sweetie...

** Tiny is an adorable Husky/Pyrenees mix who is about 5 years old. He is very loving and gets along well with children, cats and other dogs. He rarely barks, and walks very well with a pinch collar. Tiny's ideal home would have another dog there to keep him company when the family is away as he will escape if left alone. Tiny is better suited to be an outside dog, although he is calm indoors he needs to be watched carefully inside as he tends to be mischievous when the family is not watching him. With time and training Tiny would be an amazing family dog. For more information about Tiny or to meet him call the shelter at (208)785-6897 or Marcia (208)244-1513. Please leave a clear message with your name and number and that you are calling about the Tiny the Husky/Pyrenees cross. Tiny is up-to-date with routine shots and spayed/neutered.

Besides shopping for dogs I've also been looking up "services." Because as distasteful as it is, soon I will need services related to euthanasia and cremation. The local animal shelter provides this. I've never had to cremate a pet; we buried several, including my favorite rooster, on the farm, but the backyard here isn't big enough here, and I'm pretty sure it's not legal. So along with checking out the available replacement dogs, I've been researching options for Cowboys final destination.

I hope "Angus" finds a good home.

*** Angus is a big puppy about 4 months old. He is sweet and shy and needs to learn everything about being a dog. He has beautiful black and white markings from his Border Collie parent and will be a big boy from his Pyrenees parent! A patient owner who can take Angus to puppy obedience school would give him a great start in life. Come by and meet this boy! Angus is up-to-date with routine shots and spayed/neutered.

Mr. Slave Driver gets to choose our next dog. We have settled into a round-robin approach, taking turns deciding on the type of pet we want to live with us for the next 8-13 years. Mr. Slave Driver is partial to large dogs, although watching him with my Pomeranian you'd never know that he professes to dislike small "ankle biters." Last year at Strut Your Mutt he discovered a breed called "Leonberger" and immediately fell in love with them. They are an extra large dog with a double coat, webbed feet, and unlike, say, a St. Bernard, they don't drool. They also are supposed to have a super laid-back disposition, much like Mr. Slave Driver himself. Leonbergers are at the top of the short list now, along with Bernese Mountain Dogs, Newfoundlands, and Great Pyrenees. Whatever ends up living with us needs to like camping and Pomeranians. And Drafting. I would like to have a dog large enough to draft with, and I've already found the perfect cart to use.

Me, wanting a dog big enough to drive. Go figure.

* Are you a fan of Johnny Cash? You can find him at

Snow Capped Shepherd Rescue
PO Box 270981
Littleton, CO 80127

Email: wgsrescue@hotmail.com

Phone: (303) 973-SCSR (7277)

** Have you been tickled by Tiny? Drop in and see him at

Bingham County Humane Society
Blackfoot, ID
208-680-3881

***Intrigued by Angus? Check him out at

TELLER COUNTY REGIONAL ANIMAL SHELTER
308 Weaverville Road
PO Box 904
Divide, CO 80814
719-686-7707
office@tcrascolorado.com

The Facebook Anti-Equestrienne Eco-Terrorists:

2010-02-08T11:18:00.002-07:00

I'm a Facebook user. That’s right, I regularly connect with both friends and strangers using social networking sites. Why? Because with a high speed internet connection and a laptop, I can. And because I have acquaintances scattered across the globe I like to keep in touch with and it's easier then calling up someone in Algonquin, Illinois or Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and telling them the same thing ("I'm so F*cking happy that Football season is over!" or "Slave Driver is watching Zombieland again…") over and over. Plus it cuts down on my cell phone minutes.

The other day I came across a Facebook group that advocates the eradication of carriage horses in Salt Lake City. No surprise there, that particular group is all over the world, wanting to ban the legal practice of offering carriage rides in numerous cities and countries. And yes I know, everyone is entitled to their opinion, it's just that their argument is so incredibly weak and baseless.

For example, here is their "Mission Statement":

This group is for you if...

-you feel bad for the horses when it's so cold out that you see icicles hanging from the horse's mouth.

First of all, simpleton, they get icicles on their nose, not their mouth. Because horses that pull carriages are the only horses in a cold climate like, say, Utah, that feel weather. All the rest of them have a magical personal heat retention system that allows them to remain toasty warm all winter long.

Oh, wait, no they don't. The feral horses out on the range that the RARA's aspire our carriage horses to become have to forage for their food, and live outside, subjected to the elements every single day of their lives. At least my co-workers have food and shelter, which they get in exchange for doing a little work a couple of days a week. And for a horse like Jerry, who used to be employed on an Amish farm working from sunup to sundown, it's a really easy gig.

-you cringe when you see a carriage rider whip a horse.

There are three sets of participants in a carriage ride: The Horse, the Driver and the Passengers, who "ride" in the passenger compartment of the carriage. We don’t typically give the passengers (riders) whips; First, because they don't need them. Second, because they wouldn’t know how to correctly use them, and third, depending on the maturity level of the individuals, they'd just end up smacking each other around which would result in a lot of screaming and crying. So there is no cringing during one of our rides, because we don't whip the horses. That whip on my carriage? It's reserved for stupid people. Like drunken panhandlers. And RARA's.

-you think the riders should get off their butts and walk.

That would make them walkers, not riders. Really, it's semantics. And by the way, it is easier on horse to pull something then it is for that same animal to be ridden. The identical principal applies to humans, that's why people put their kids in strollers or Radio Flyer wagons. It's way easier than hiking them around on their shoulders. So if you are a horse owner I'll tell you right now, my co-worker is better off as a drafting animal then yours is as a riding one.

-you believe horses would go south for the winter if they weren't held captive.

Okay, this sentence is the entire reason I had to respond to this ludicrous Facebook group to begin with. So, hold onto your butts while I expound: First of all, horses, even wild ones, are not migratory animals. If you don't believe me, google it. According to Wikipedia, "No wild horses do not migrate, In fact wild horses move around a "track" on a 24hour schedule, Meaning they are in the same exact place at the same time every day of the year."

Now, I wouldn’t go as far as saying that they are in "the same exact place at the same time every day", because horses, due to the fact that they have hooves and not fingers, are unable to use a TomTom or Garmin GPS device and navigate themselves to "the same exact place at the same time every day" while roaming around out in the wild. They do, however, stay in their same geographic area.

So, if "unleashed", and no longer held "captive," would a horse like Cletus decide to head down to Tucson or Boca for the winter and graze on a golf course? No. Herds of Horses are not like flocks of geese. And besides, could you imagine how inconvenient it would be if they did? Just navigating around the piles of horse crap on the fairway would be an absolute nightmare…

-you don't believe the argument that horses like it.

Then you've never met Charlie, Jerry, or Hank. In other words, you have no clue about horses, other than they are big, and pretty.

-you think it's dangerous to be on the busy streets and that the cars scare the horses.

If everyone thought this way, no one would ever go anywhere. Life is inherently dangerous. Fortunately for us, the incidents of horse vs vehicle accidents are very low, especially when compared to vehicle vs vehicle accidents. Why? Because we're watching for motorists who are not paying attention to what the heck they are doing, that's why. And the "cars" don’t scare the horses. If that was the case, every time any operator drove past a horse the horse would freak out. Horses become accustomed to their environment; this is why humans were able to domesticate them thousands of years ago.

-etc.

Now, this is a pet peeve of mine, when someone uses "etc" to pad an argument. By invoking the shorthand "etc," the reader is forced to use their imagination to fill in the gaping "etc" blank with... what? Really it indicates that there might be more, the writer is just too damn lazy to come up with additional bullet points.

So while I will still enjoy using my social media to network I have to remind myself that the internet is, in fact, the Devil's playground, full of people who have no idea what they are talking about, but, like me, they too have a computer and internet access.

Happy Birthday Alice Cooper

2010-02-04T10:11:00.003-07:00

Yes, it's February 4, Alice Coopers Birthday. Also Rosa Parks, Charles Lindbergh, Dan Quayle, George Romero and Oscar De La Hoya.

But I love that it's Alice Cooper's birthday, because I grew up a fan of his music and identify the most with him on the list of Famous Birthdays Today.

What, you are asking yourself, does this have to do with Slave Driver?

Well, to quote the Beatles, "It's my birthday too, yeah."

And here is what I'm doing to celebrate:

Nothing.

First off, it's a Thursday. Not typically the day of the week one goes out to party. Plus, Mr. Slave Driver is on a clear liquid diet for today because he has a procedure tomorrow typically reserved for men of a certain age to check for polyps. So, obviously, there will be no fine dining or cake and ice cream today…we'll do that Saturday after he's recovered. Along with looking for a new clothes dryer, since ours quit on us last week.

It could be worse; several years ago my birthday fell on Super Bowl Sunday, the official holiday for football fans where the rules dictate that one cannot be more that 6 feet from a wide screen television. That day sucked ass. Because unless you follow football,(I don't) or are an aficionado of Buffalo chicken wings,(meh) your celebratory choices are severely limited.

The birthday I remember most fondly was a long, long time ago.

When I was a teenager, like most teenagers, my teenage friends were poor. My high school boyfriend was in a garage band, and I'd just had a major fight with my parents. So, being somewhat depressed about the entire situation, while I sat around band practice and stewed about the argument, my boyfriend and another person borrowed my car, took it to a car wash and cleaned it out (I'm a car slob. My personal vehicle always looks like a family of Gypsies has taken up residence. I subscribe to the theory that 1) it takes less time to apologize for a mess then it does to clean it and 2) if I'm ever stranded, I can forage for food in my car and survive for at least a week on the various half filled bags of Fritos and Starburst Fruit Chews I unearth from beneath the seats.) Then they filled the gas tank. For you young pups, back in the late 70's gas was between .32 and .40 cents a gallon. The most money I would invest in my gas tank at a time was $5.00, which filled the tank on my '67 Pontiac Catalina at least half way. I know this sounds like a fabulous deal, but mind you my car got a whopping 8 miles to the gallon. It could, however, sit eight people, comfortably, inside and fit three more in the trunk. You do not want to know the details of how I know this.

Ah, good times.

Anyway, in honor of my birthday I'm doing nothing today, so I'm sorry to report that this is the blog you're getting. It's about as close to nothing as I can manage.

The. End.

2010-02-01T11:10:00.004-07:00

Tonight is the last night of the Sundance Film Festival, but really it ended Saturday night. That was when the films in competition were awarded their prizes, and the finalists went home on the red eye Sunday morning.

This years fest was fraught with glitches, snafus and bugaboos. It started with small stuff, like not having the coats available to distribute at Check-In (We were advised, "The Men's jackets are here, the Women's are stuck in customs…") to 50% of our volunteers getting the incorrect size ("I ordered an XXL and they gave me a Medium, what should I do?") There was a misprint in the Film Guide (traditionally The Rose Wagner is the only Salt Lake theater showing films on the last Sunday, but the schedule had them at The Tower theater, which is 17 blocks away…) and the list goes on…

The patrons seemed especially aggressive this year. I cannot tell you the number of times I had to explain "The Wait-List Paradox" (If you save a seat for someone in the Wait List line, and tell me the seat next to you is unavailable, then we cannot sell a wait list ticket to your friend in the line that you are holding the seat for because you've told me that seat is already occupied… Get It?") One guy even shoved Charlie around because there were no more seats available, he showed up late, and demanded to be allowed in.

Dude. Seriously. Have you ever heard the phrase "Ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag"? For a show yesterday we were told that two people were sharing a chair in one of the balcony boxes. Sorry, but I cannot fathom wanting to sit on one butt cheek for 90 minutes. I don't care what movie it is, my ass deserves better treatment than that.

We spaced ballots for one of the films in competition, and neglected to hand them out before the movie started. Catching our error, we handed them out as soon as the film ended and had a better rate of return on the ballots then we usually get (a lot of people lose them, put them in their pockets or bags, and neglect to turn them into us after them film.) I actually had a woman infer that we did it on purpose because of the subject matter of the film. I was speechless…almost. I advised her that it was a grievous error, for which we made sure to make right for the film maker, and there was no "conspiracy." Then she made a comment about "You Salt Lake People", like we're all Right Wing Conservative Republican Mormon members of The Eagle Forum, which, as anyone who know me (and the people I volunteer with) can tell you is so far off the mark it's laughable. We had already advised the film's director, but she made sure to run over and tell them, just in case. Like we were hiding something. Which we weren’t.

Deep inhale… hold it… hold it... long exhale.

Tonight is Best of Fest; we have three movies scheduled to show today, and then it's over. The managers from the Rose Wagner Team are also hosting our second annual "Sundae Monday" where we bring in ice cream and all the accoutrements for Sundaes to our volunteers to thank them for digging in and returning to our venue and doing the fabulous job that they do.

Even if their coat doesn't fit.

Two Recommends:

2010-01-28T10:53:00.003-07:00

That's right, two. Why? Well, because I've only see all of one and snippets of the second, that's why. Doing my taxes, RWA treasurer stuff, life in general, this has not been a huge "See stuff at Sundance" year for me.

First is; The Company Men, written and directed by John Wells, starring Ben Afflek, Tommy Lee Jones, Chris Cooper, Maria Bello, Craig T. Nelson and Kevin Costner.

This is an excellent film about a current topic; losing your job. It's sad, it's funny, and it will at times make you just as frustrated as the characters who are looking for work.

I see these people all the time. They have been downsized and outsourced and come in to the barn to apply for a job because they cannot find anything else. And we're not talking people with no skills, here; we've had loan officers, realtors, construction workers; people from all walks of life who need to make something, anything to stay afloat.

And let me tell you something; in my profession, there are people who think that we are pretty low; one step above Carney worker. The fact is, most of our employees are driving carriage as a second job. We are not out there all day, like in other parts of the country, so it's not a full-time proposition. We're out in the evenings, six days a week. Only a handful, like myself, MBA, Kar, and ~A~ do this as our only vocation. And ~A~ is looking for a job, so soon (hopefully) she will be back to work full time elsewhere and only drive occasionally. And because so many other people are hurting financially, we are too. There are just not enough rides to go around because "disposable income" is no longer disposable. It goes to our mortgage, our groceries, our children's education funds.

Ro always tells new applicants, "You can't pay the mortgage with what you make here, but you can probably make a car payment." So it is for many of our employees a place to make enough extra income to take the edge off of living paycheck to paycheck. None of our people drive up in a Rolls Royce. Unless Rolls Royce now manufactures a bashed up Mini-Van that I don’t know about.

You see, we are always hiring. People come in and their eyes light up because they've finally found a job. On commission. And you don’t get paid while you’re training, because they are "statutory" employees. Many of them work for us for just a short time and realize that they need something with more of a guaranteed income, so they go elsewhere. Which is why we are always hiring.

It’s a vicious circle.

Anyway, with the stellar cast and slick production, I cannot imagine this film not getting distributed, so look for it in your local theater sometime soon, and go see it. It's good.

Next; "The Pat Tillman Story." It is a look at the cluster f*ck that became a nightmare for the Tillman family when their former Cardinal's football player son joined (along with his brother) the military. Then he got killed, by friendly fire, but the powers that be decided to cover it up. And use him as propaganda, which he never ever wanted to happen. The family has pieced together the incident as well as they could but no one will either give them, or take responsibility, for the events that transpired.

The message I took away from the Q&A after the show (many of Tillman's family were there along with the director of the documentary) is this:

When a loved one joins the Military, they give away most of their rights as a citizen. So they must do as they are ordered. If you, as a non-military member, see something transpire that you feel is wrong, you need to write/call/complain to someone in control. Why? Because YOU are their voice.

Snoop Dog and Too Much Bitch In The Water

2010-01-27T01:53:00.007-07:00

Tuesday night was…intense. And I just want to say that it was either the three-quarter full moon, or else someone slipped way too much "Bitch" in the drinking water, because there was a higher percentage of assholes in attendance than usual.

Our first showing (Okay for those of you who do not know, I volunteer for the Sundance Film Festival which is going on here in Utah right now, so there you have it, up to speed…)

Our first showing was "Gasland" which will open your eyes to the downside of Natural Gas harvesting. I'm not going to enter into a rant about the environment, the government royally screwing people, or how everyday citizens lose their rights because of lobbyists being in bed with certain factions in Washington; I won't have to. When this movie is available, rent it and see for yourself how your tax dollars are at work…just not for you. Unless you're a billionaire, in which case why are you wasting time reading my blog?
I am in no way, shape or form a tree hugging liberal, but jeesh!

Anyhow, what I really wanted to tell you was this: There are a ton of stories at Sundance, that's what the festival is all about, and believe it or not, some of them aren’t even mine…

Here is one:

The Snoop Dog Story

Alexi is my immediate supervisor. Before Rose Wagner she worked at Trolley Square. In 2005 the movie "Hustle and Flow" premiered at the festival. The night it played at Trolley she was managing . A man walked in and identified himself as Snoop Dog's manager. He told her that Snoop and his friends were attending the show, but they were having dinner. He got her cell phone number. A while later he called and said they were still at dinner, and could she hold up the film until they got there? She said no. A little while later they called and said they were out back, could someone let them in the rear door? She sent Krista. Then his manager said that his friends were hungry, could she get them some snacks? So Alexi sent a couple of volunteers to the snack bar with her credit card and got Snoop Dog and his friends some snacks. The bill came to $66.50. She knew that because the volunteers gave her back her credit card and her receipt after they deliver the Snoop Dog entourage their snacks. When the film was over, she waited to approach Snoop Dog's manager, holding her receipt for $66.50.

They'd left through the back door.

So, if any of you see Snoop Dog, tell him he owes Alexi $66.50, from 2005.

Personally, I think he should pay her interest.

PS: I added a link to a story about Alexi in Thursday's SLC Tribune. Alexi said she told the reporter the Snoop Dog story, but it didn't make it into the article. So much for investigative journalism! Boo! Maybe she would get paid back if it had...

Altitude Attitude

2010-01-24T11:54:00.004-07:00

People unfamiliar with living in the upper reaches of the atmosphere sometimes get blind-sided by the effects of alcohol in a high altitude environment…

In other words, they get trashed real fast.

I'm not pointing fingers at anyone…just sayin'—

*****

As you can imagine I've been a busy little beaver over here in Salt Lake. The Sundance Film Festival opened Friday evening here with the premier of "Get Low", a film starring Robert Duval, Sissy Spacek, Lucas Black, and one of my all time favorite people, Bill Murray.

Why Bill, you ask? With a headliner like Duval, why fawn over Mr. M?

He's a Cubs fan, and a Chicagoan (okay, Wilmette, but it still counts). Duh! It's me we're talking about here, not, well, you know, someone who is not me…

So Bill was at the premier, using a crutch ("I got hurt rescuing a bunny rabbit.") At one point he, and I know this will come as a shock to those starry eyed readers of "People" and "The National Enquirer" who keep the paparazzi in business because they worship celebrities, had to use the restroom! (gasp!) so, being he was "other abled" I escorted him down in the elevator to the closest men's room available where stairs were not in the equation.

On the way back up he curiously popped his head into the "Green Room" which at this venue our volunteers use as a lounge. It's great because a video feed from the auditorium allows them to not only watch the film, but we also know when it's ending, if the sound goes out, the film breaks, or there is some other kind of disruption. So Bill walks by, pops his head in.

"What's this?" Bill asks me.

"It's our lounge where our wonderful volunteers hang out and relax," I replied.

Bill looks up at the monitor. "What are they watching?" he asks, turning to me with a quizzical expression.

"They're watching your movie, Bill."

Feigning being startled, "Oh, I'd better go and leave them alone then."

On the way back I mentioned I grew up in Des Plaines, (a suburb of Chicago) he replied, "I had cousins that lived in Des Plaines. They were really cool. Then they moved to Iowa and got weird."

I told him, "I hear that Iowa is going to use that as their new State Motto; "Move to Iowa, we'll turn you weird."

So working the Gala was a lot of fun, and it is great seeing all my Facebook Sundance friends in the flesh again. At the volunteer party last week I got to meet two people who are "imaginary internet friends" in person, which was interesting. One of them, a film maker from Chicago, was a lot of fun. We chatted and networked and I'm hooking my nephew up with him to get some experience "in the business" since that's what he's going to college for.

The other guy, who is a very handsome man in the field of media, "friended me" using the find-a-friend app and did not actually, cognitively "look" for me (or even, I suspect, at my profile. Our 'friendship" was the result of an email blast that could have included anyone…) Well, I saw his name tag, introduced myself, and I think I kind of creeped him out, in a Fatal Attraction/Stalker-ish boiling your puppy kind of way.

And you know, I'm okay with that, because it should keep him on his toes for the balance of the Festival.

The Rose Wagner Team

Pssst...

2010-01-19T17:29:00.004-07:00

I know, I know, I was supposed to post yesterday, but really, people, I got nothing', unless you absolutely must hear how I've done laundry for two days straight. Or maybe my shopping trip to Sam's Club where I stocked up on toilet paper so my family won't have to go without and use my State Line Tack catalog while I work Sundance...

Seriously, there's nothing going on. Except the Bob Mayer workshop in June, but you don't get in on that yet, because you're not URWA. You non-URWA people must wait until March to sign up for that. But all of you are welcome to the book signing; To buy, that is, or just ogle. You must be URWA to participate. And, of course, you must have written and published a book, also. Very important in a minor detail sort of a way.

Anyway, I'm rambling. I have the Sundance Volunteer party tomorrow night so here's hoping something interesting happens. Something worth blogging about. Not, you know, like somebody had clean clothes...

PS;

(This is Rudy. He is one of the barn dogs. Last Friday we took Ro out to lunch for her birthday. When we returned, Rudy was waiting by the front door. Ro thought he had dragged a huge rock out front; turns out he stole a loaf of home-made bread off the counter and was parading around with his trophy in his mouth prouder than shit. He's a naughty dog, but Ro loves him anyway. And hey, it wasn't her loaf of bread...)

One, Two, Cha Cha Cha

2010-01-14T09:13:00.002-07:00

It's almost that time again. Time to put on my ~~dancing~~ running shoes and get ready for the Big Dance. No, not basketball playoffs, silly, the Sundance Film Festival.

I got involved with the festival when we moved to Utah and I figured it would be a great place to meet other movie fans and network with folks who might possibly help me find an interesting and rewarding job. My first year, 2004, I volunteered (with my left foot in a soft boot due to bunion surgery) at the Broadway Theater. I also had several pre-fest assignments in Park City. The day after Christmas found me working at the Festival store selling t-shirts. That was the slowest and most boring day I ever spent. The night before it snowed over a foot and Park City, due to its mountain location, was a mess. I think we had five customers during my eight hour shift. A total snooze and not what I expected at all. Bleh.

For my next non-Salt Lake assignment I was slated to assist the stage crew set up on Main Street for the band The Presidents of the United States of America. Apparently, unbeknownst to the powers that be, stage erection is a union thing and they not only did not need my help, they did not want it. So I was reassigned to ice patrol. They gave a 42 year old woman with her foot in a medical boot a shovel and told her to chop the built up ice in the gutters that were cut down to accommodate wheelchair access. So I spent most of my shift wandering around Park City packing a shovel, obliterating ice, and getting the hairy eyeball from festival patrons.

"The crowds parted with a gasp as the suspected Shovel Murderer slowly made her way up the steep and icy sidewalks of Main Street, the erratic rhythm of her hideous step… drag… step… drag… sending chills racing up their collective spines. She brandished her instrument of torture, a pointed garden shovel stolen from True Value, and the image was intimidating enough to scare even the brattiest child, or most hardened, spoiled Hollywood celebrity, into behaving themselves…"

Ahh, good times.

The following year, 2005, *they* asked me to be the waitlist manager at the Broadway Theater. This means you work outside wrangling the waitlist line. The term "Crowd Liaison" is bandied about, but technically you're more of a combination bouncer, person who tells you to take a number at the deli counter, and playground monitor. I firmly believe I was suggested for the job not because of my sparkling wit and personality, but because I had the proper outdoor attire, (carriage driver, you know…)

Now I'm at The Rose Wagner Theater, what I believe is the best venue in Salt Lake. We have a beautiful 477 seat auditorium, fully appointed green room that we use as a volunteer lounge, and best of all, no hills to slog up and down. YAY!

So volunteering didn't get me what I thought it would, a job, I got that on my own, but I have made some fabulous friends that I stay in touch with 11 months out of the year on Facebook, and get to go and play with for a two week period in January. Only one of them is in the filmmaking business, but we're all fans. And a little insane. And starting next week we get to dance together for 10 days, after which we will go back to our regular lives, exhausted, and with a little more swag than we started out with. And a lot more memories.

Ahh, good times.

*Ski O'Clock

2010-01-11T09:54:00.004-07:00

We went to Alta yesterday. For those of you who are flatlanders or not from here, or maybe you have no notion about the world of skiing, Alta is a ski area ( I hesitate to call it a "resort", and this post explains why) located at the top of Little Cottonwood Canyon, up the road from Snowbird, and is home to some of the finest skiing (and snow) in the United States. Luckily for us it's about 35 minutes from our driveway to their parking lot.

For the local, Alta is where you go and blend in, without worrying about looking poor, or uncouth. For example, my tribe brings our own food. At a place like Solitude (located in Big Cottonwood Canyon, down the road from Brighton) they have a "special" lunchroom, named "The Brown Bag", where you are invited to bring your culinary sundries and nosh in an informal area that has amenities such as a television and one microwave oven you share with 164 other people. It's reminiscent of the "Steerage" area on a luxury liner, and is permeated with the smell of Fruit Loops, dirty diapers, and Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches. In other words, it's gross.

Alta, on the other hand, has no such delineation. Buy food, bring your own, they don't care. Now, you might wonder why I prefer to dine in an area designed for food purchased from said ski business as opposed to dining in an area reserved for those who have chosen, for whatever reason, to bring their own meals.

Well, for one, because it's a "restaurant", people don't feel free to change their child's diapers right there on the table next to you. Not only is it frowned upon, and ruins the ambiance, but it is in violation of health code. I'm able to dine with confidence, knowing that not only was my table bussed and wiped with sanitizer, it has also been kept, due to county health regulations, virtually ass free. I appreciate the little things like that.

For another thing, they do not make you feel disenfranchised because you, as a local, have chosen not to purchase a $9.00 bowl of bad chili. Because while you can pile as much shredded cheese, diced onions and sour cream on top as you want, you'll never make that .75¢ bowl of chili worth $9.00, no matter how much of your condiments overflow across your tray.

Also, you can camp. "Camping" for those of you unfamiliar with the restaurant trade, is a term used by wait staff when a table has been occupied by the same group for hours on end. This means that management has been unable to re-seat that particular piece of real estate and the server will only be getting a single tip for hours upon hours of occupation. And from experience I can tell you it's not going to be a big one. So, because the Alta Lodge is designed to be a cafeteria style eatery, one can hang out for eons and not feel the need to move on after 45 minutes or so by a hostess circling your table like a turkey vulture wanting you to move on.

(The best thing about skiing Alta on a Sunday is... no crowds. YAY!)
Alta also is a skier's mountain, so no snowboarders are allowed (sorry Stacey…) which I really like because I'm not that great of a skier so after about three hours I.Am.Done. and need to park my sore ass at a table and chill. Note that I said at, not on. Thus the table is still ass free. And I can ski with confidence, for me at least, secure in the knowledge that a teenager will not be hucking a big one over the top of my head, forcing me to duck at the incoming missile they become, laughing at me when I sprawl on the snow in an act of self preservation. This I like. No diving for cover.

Now, at some of the resorts in Park City, you are treated like royalty. At the Canyons, for example, a guest rides a gondola from the parking area to the ski village. Young, good looking Aussies and New Zealander's, working here during their summer, take your equipment out of your hands, place it into the ski/board slots on the exterior of the gondola, and you ride in relative comfort up the hill until you arrive at the village where yet more ruggedly handsome model-wanna-be's remove your gear and offer to get you a "Ski Valet" who will slog your ~~shit~~ expensive equipment to the lifts. They expect a tip, by the way. And I don't blame them because after a while your stuff gets heavy and one prefers to be fresh when one hits the slopes. At Alta, unless you've taken the ski bus or a shuttle from one of the rental lodges to the door, everyone parks and drags their own equipment to the facilities. They do not have a group of Sherpas to tote your crap from point A to point B. Being a pack mule is a great equalizer.

(Being a pack mule is one thing but packing small humans is another. Three words: Get.A.Sitter.)

So Alta, while being one of the best ski destinations around, is not a "resort", it's a mountain. And one we enjoy sojourning to regularly in the winter (and occasionally in the summer, where you can hike the same hill's you ski) because nobody knows if you're one of the unfortunate visitors, or a lucky, lucky local. And lucky we are; I see the envy in the eyes of tourists whenever they find out that we live here. We can drive up in less than an hour. And bring our own lunch.

*Ski O'Clock is what the locals of Park City call the time, in winter, between 4-6 pm when the resorts without night skiing start closing down and tourists clog the arterial roads clamoring to get back to their hotels. I won’t tell you what they call the ten days of the Sundance Film Festival. Trust me, it's not pleasant.

You Know You're A Carriage Driver In SLC When…

2010-01-07T11:32:00.001-07:00

The people in front of you are either stopped or moving too slow you tell them to "Walk on!"

You know the location of every pot hole around Temple Square.

You feel naked if you leave your house wearing less than four layers of clothing.

You know that frozen strawberry Twizzlers taste better than room temperature ones.

You roll your eyes when the person in front of you in line pays with a credit card because you think it'll take forever, and then you breathe a sigh of relief when you realize you're in the "real world" and the clerk doesn’t have to write the information by hand, they only have to swipe it.

You know the difference between animals being worked and animals being abused.

You can spot a panhandler from 100 yards away.

You carry a bag full of snacks. Everywhere.

You know that not only do horses like apples and carrots, but they like Twizzlers, Mambas, Starburst Fruit Chews and Oreo cookies. Especially Oreo cookies. Except Cisco.

You overdress for every weather occasion because it's easier to take off then put on.

You know traffic patterns so well that even your horse knows when to change lanes.

You're in your car, and while the other motorists watch for the light to change to green, you watch the crosswalk countdown timer and start creeping ahead when it's at "01" so you'll have plenty of time to get through the intersection.

You forget you're in your car and stop at the intersection line when the crosswalk timer is under "10" because you might not have enough time to make it through before the light changes, and the people behind you think you're just some random idiot.

Not only do you know the location of every restaurant and hotel in the downtown area, but you can tell someone the best places to park and what streets to avoid. And which restaurants to avoid. And to stay away from Pioneer Park, unless they want 1)drugs 2) a souvenir knife wound or 3) a mugging.

You sneer at people who consider 32 degrees to be "cold". 6 degrees is cold, 32 degrees is Bar-B-Que and shorts weather.

Your kid runs too far ahead of you in the grocery store and you tell them to "Ho!"

You know the proper definition of "Flipping a bitch."

You look for a parking spot at least 17 feet long even though you’re driving a compact car.

You consider the snazzy and stylish "winter boots" in a shoe store Barbie clothes, because you know "real" winter boots weigh at least 10 pounds and, if necessary, can be used as a weapon.

Feel free to add to the list.