Night of the Vampire Army

Park rangers are among my favorite humans, and they are among the few people from whom I take orders. If they tell me to avoid a trail, I avoid it. If they tell me to watch out for rattlesnakes, I keep my eyes and ears peeled. If they tell me a particular trail leads to a spectacular view, you'd better believe I'll be right there with my camera at the time of day they tell me has the best light. They are concerned with my safety as well as my enjoyment, and I've heard too many of their horror stories about arrogant hikers and campers ending up injured or, in one case, dead. I listen to every word park rangers say and adjust my plans -- and behaviors -- accordingly.

Except this one time.

Small Things

Early last week, someone stole the catalytic converter off of my truck, which was parked in the office lot.

For those of you who don't know, the catalytic converter is the part of a vehicle's exhaust system that converts polluting gases into less harmful emissions. It sits between the engine and the muffler. And it also, apparently, contains platinum -- the magnet drawing thieves to cut them from vehicles that sit a little higher off the ground and are easy to get under with a Sawzall or similar cutting tool. You know, like an SUV.

Catalytic converters are also expensive to replace. While a thief might get somewhere around $100 per part on the black market, those of us who have to buy the parts legitimately pay around $500-$600 for them. Not to mention installation, which doubles the cost -- or more, depending on how the part is attached to the vehicle (bolted on or welded).

Expense -- and inconvenience -- aside, I also suffer from embarrassment every time my truck roars to life in the morning on my way to work or in the grocery parking lot. The noise and vibration are maddening on trips longer than a few miles and make listening to NPR (or, for that matter, music of any kind) virtually impossible.

But I'm whining. And that's not the point.

Nightmare on Bobrich

I have a dirty little secret: I like horror films. 


Not the ones that almost pass into the realm of pornography, but definitely psychological thrillers, some monster movies, a few slashers slashers, and a bunch of zombie flicks. As with most dirty little secrets, mine has its problems. Combined with an already over-active imagination, my appetite for horror can quickly spew yuckiness all over innocent situations. 


Like the time I came home from my job at Hardee's to find blood all over the front step.


And the front door slightly ajar.


And no movement from within.

To be or not to be -- Hamlet and the iPod

My favorite play (and movie) of all time is Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard. One of the best lines in the play deals with the question of being. The two characters find themselves on a boat traveling to England, where they are to deliver a message from the King of Denmark to execute their best friend, Hamlet, as a favor to the Danish crown. They are beginning to have an inkling that they've been there before -- and that it doesn't end well for them.

Rosencrantz: Do you think death could possibly be a boat?

Guildenstern: No, no, no...Death is...not. Death isn't. You take my meaning? Death is the ultimate negative. Not-being. You can't not-be on a boat.

Rosencrantz: I've frequently not been on boats.

Guildenstern: No, no, no -- what you've been is not on boats.

Contrary to Guildenstern's point of view, I've frequently not-been many places. I've not-been while on walks with my dogs. I've not-been while hiking in the woods. I've not-been while eating a meal. I've even not-been during sex. (Oh, yes!) Not-being, in fact, is a widespread cultural habit, against which Eastern religions and philosophies -- such as yoga, Buddhism, Zen, and Taoism -- warn their followers.