Micha's last set

Last night at open mic, we had an outpouring of support for our lost friend Micha. His family was there along with friends and fellow singer/song writers. We signed him up on the list and gave him his last set. Patrick our sound guy played two of his song and dropped the house lights; as a single spot shined on an empty chair. We sat together in a silent room, many were crying and all were thinking about this man that brought his talents to our room.

Open Mic becomes a community. This was so evident as these artists came together to share their music, grief and joy.

Ken Harris gave a wonderful set that combined the Fred Rose tune "Blue Eye's Crying in the Rain" with Micha's "Good Morning Whiskey"

Rick Strole did a beautiful version of Mcartney's "Here Today". It was so sweet, Micha would have loved it.

Here in Cave Creek we post notices of death on the post office window. I posted my first yesterday;

Micha Mcgerrah died Tuesday morning. He was 38 years old. During his life, Micha was a father, son, brother, husband, bull rider, and a singer/songwriter. He loved, Cave Creek, and everything the American west had to offer, always had a smile on face and was seldom heard letting an unkind word cross his lips. Please join his friends and family celebrating this man’s unique journey, this Sunday, August 8^th at The Cave Creek Coffee co. at high noon.

If you're free this Sunday please drop by a celebrate the life of our friend Micha McGerrah.

Sad News

Micha and his father Michael

I was called a few hours ago and told that my friend Micha mcGerrah was found dead in his bed this morning. Micha had been coming to my Open Mic for the past several months. He was an ex bull rider that was working through the sadness of a broken marrige. His songs were sad but well written. He had real talent but gave everything he could when he sang. Many times he would cry on stage while singing about his exwife and kids. I often would find myself singing one of his songs when I was driving or working in the yard.

One of his songs said, "When I get to heaven, I hope that me and God will take a ride."

Well little brother, I'm just going to beleive that you are up there riding with God through that beautiful plain. I'm sorry you left us so soon and I look forward to playing with you again one day.

One of my mentors and the guy that taught me how to run an Open Mic, Dave Grossman, once told me that there are only a few places that a musician can find refuge in this world; drugs, sex, alcohol, jail, the psyhic wards and the Open Mics. I hope my now lost friend, found a little refuge at my Open Mic. His voice will be missed.

Warmly

Mad Coyote Joe

72234 a poem

7-22-34

by Daigneault

The scalpel cuts or does it?

No I think it rips.

My soul now torn

Direction

I bleed

Not like you think

It ‘s slow

And dry and pain

Your words

I die again

Until

Or walk with folly

The blackbird speaks again

Dillon and Ger

And Lennon

To me

It speaks so still

The bullets

Filth but honest

That scalpel

Held again

As close

As we can go in words

My Dad My Son and Killer bees

There are not words to explain how much I love my kids. They have turned into the people that I hope they would be. Below is a picture of my BOY at a recent bicycle race. He is ‘hucking’ (as we say, see note below) a bicycle somewhere. Maybe he didn’t like the bike.

Seeing this I can’t help but think that growing up in Cave Creek has served him well. It reminds me of a day a few years back. My father had called to tell me that there was a huge swarm of bees in his Palo Verde tree. Usually this is no big deal, but he was on chemotherapy. Years before after a man in Carefree had died in an attack by “Killer Bees," my good friend and ‘bee keeper,’ Bill Payne had explained that bees get weird around sick people.” Apparently the bees react to the smells of the sick and it causes them to attack.

Not knowing if these were Africanized or “Killer” bees and not wanting my elderly parents to be another news story, I went over ASAP and brought my son Joey.

Upon arrival we found a huge swarm, about two feet across, in a branch of my parents tree, that hangs over their driveway. It’s quite a sight. The worker bees form a giant ball that protects the queen. This living ball of bees will park, so to speak, in a tree or shrub over night and then move during the day, until it finds a new place to build a hive. When they are on the move they can be extra dangerous.

After assessing the bee situation Joey and I decided that the smartest course of action was to shoot a pellet gun into the hive, hoping they would get mad and take off. We hid behind a wall about thirty feet from the bees, all the while having an escape plan that included running into my parents house. After several shots we decided that, although we were causing great damage to a few bees the hive was not aware of our assault. So we tried getting in the safety of the truck cab and ramming the tree. The problem being (get it!) we had to choose between hitting the tree hard enough to knock the bees free and not hitting so hard as to dent the bumper of my truck. After several tries and no mad swarm of bees and being the rocket scientist we are we, decided to “HUCK” rocks (Huck; a hillbilly colloquialism, meaning to throw or toss with great effort.) at this hive of several hundred, if not thousand, bees. This was one of the great redneck moments of our lives. We start out by standing about 25 feet from the tree tossing a small rock and then turning and jumping, as fast as we could. into the safety of the truck cab after about ten tries we moved a little closer and the rocks got bigger. Soon the redneck mind took over and the hucking began in earnest. This is where the element of being the best rock hucker, meets the possibility of a full-scale attack from thousands of pissed off bees. So we huck and run, huck and run. Each time the rocks get bigger and we get closer. Laughing harder and harder. Finally being the big dog, I have to just get it done.

I grab a huge rock and walk up to the tree and toss directly into the swarm; the sky is suddenly full of a cloud of bees looking for someone to pay for the disruption.

The humor has ‘gone south,’ with eyes the size of saucers, we jump, screaming, into the truck and floor it. Joey calls my parents and tells them not to go outside until the next day. My father being older, wiser and calmer, waits about ten minutes, walks outside to assess the situation, only to find the hive waited about five minutes and went right back to the protection of the Palo-verde, and where right where we had found them.

Never Enough (an Essay)

Lying on this hard, cold, table, the tech keeps saying, “Try to hold still.” Your back spasms. Try to ignore the pain. Think of anything else.

So you focus on the finely machined, stainless steel, mechanical pieces that hold the giant camera together, the one that is taking pictures of the inside of your heart.

You wonder, why is every piece of medical equipment painted the same greenish off white color? What causes that rough surface, on the side of the camera? What is that, slowly rotating about three inches from your cheekbone?

Thoughts shift. They’ve injected radioactive dye into the heart. The release form you’ve signed list the possible side effects as including death. Is death a side effect?

The male nurse says, “Don’t worry it’s perfectly safe.”

If it’s so harmless why did they bring it to the room in a lead-lined box? And why was he wearing that lead apron and gloves?

Don’t think about the pain. Don’t move. They’ll just have to start all over again. “Twenty minutes to go,” says the tech, in an attempt to reassure you.

Stop thinking. Go somewhere… What about the box the nuclear medicine came in? Finely machined, hand made… like the screws on the camera. Beautiful, clean, shiny steel, cut and ground to an impressive finish. In the box the radioactive material in a special polished steel syringe.

No reason to think about the radiation’s effect in fifteen years. Shit fifteen years… Get through the next fifteen hours. Get through this test and survive the upcoming surgery. Think about staying alive.

That’s it, live through the surgery… Wake up from the procedure. Life starts at that moment. Get it all back. Fight, don’t give in, wake up.

“Could you call my nurse? I need some morphine. I’m way past the time and the cramps and withdrawals are starting”

The tech says, “I’ll call upstairs see what she can do.”

At first, the withdrawals feel like a stomachache, while standing in a cool breeze. But then they grow. Your muscles cramp. You start sweating. It feels like your bones are cracking and freezing at the same time.

The drugs call, a chemical harlot whispering. Saying how good it will be; how it will all get better. How she loves you better than anyone else can…Take all the pain away.

The pain, stop thinking about the pain… go anywhere in your mind… anywhere.

Go back to the beginning… to that child you were so many years ago.

You’re nine or ten and living in Austin, Texas. Coming from Minneapolis, it’s so hot here. Who can blame you for sitting around all summer in the air-conditioning, drinking Pepsi and eating chips?

When you go back to school, things are different. You have a little gut, but that’s all it takes for the kids to start.

At first, you laugh along with them when they start in with, “Pork chop” and “rollie pollie.” Then it happens.

One day, on the playground, eight or so of the boys jump you. You’re confused and frightened when they pull on your arms and legs, tight enough to lift you off the ground. At first you hope they’re just kidding around and try to make a joke out of it. This only serves to piss them off and so the other boys take turns kicking you in the back and sides with their polished black and brown hard-toed boots.

What have you done? Why are they hurting you? With each new kick, the pain shoots through your body. They have a wild look in their eyes that you’ve never seen before. Like they’ve all gone crazy. They seem to be having so much fun, making you scream and cry. And the harder you cry, the harder they laugh and the more they kick.

When they finally stop kicking, one of the bigger boys is furious that his fun has stopped. So, he and a friend grab you by the pant legs and drag you, kicking and screaming, over to a hive of fire ants. They hold you down on the hill of big black ants. The angry ants swarm all over you. In your hair, mouth, eyes, inside your clothing, everywhere. Each new bite feels like being pinched with red-hot pliers. Now more kids are running over.

Covered with the unrelenting fire ants and going almost mad, you fight your way free, running and flailing your arms trying to evade the other boys and to get the ants off. Too many to count, the ants, painfully biting and crawling on your neck, in your ears and all over your now ripped shirt and dirty pants.

The crowd of students has now grown into a huge swarming mob, just like the ants. They all want to see the fat boy get his ass kicked. For fun, some of the younger boys run up and hit or kick you. Even your so-called buddies join in. When it’s over, and you have almost stopped sobbing, you asked your best friend, “Why did you do that to me?”

“Nobody likes you. You’re just a fat piece of shit. What do you expect?”

Until that day you were just one of the kids… good friends, going through these early years together. But this beating will last for the rest of your life. You’re now dirty, ugly and some how less than everyone else.

For the next twenty years, every time you do something wrong, somewhere in the description of your error, is a comment about your weight. It is the common ground upon which all insults will be built. Fat lazy. Filthy slob. Ugly pig. Dirty pork-chop. Lard ass. Stupid fat cow.

As a teen the girls let you know that you’re good enough to be their friend, but not dating material.

At the age of nineteen you decide that you want to marry a girl from school. She, like all the rest, lets you be a friend, but that’s all. But you refuse to give up, and then one day a few years later, she sees the real you. Friendship grows, she falls in love and you get married.

Time passes. You have children. Your first child is thin. A few years later you have a beautiful little blond haired girl.

But around age five, she starts gaining weight. She has caught your disease… and it’s your fault. By age nine, she’s clinically obese. You and your daughter are both getting bigger.

For the next 10 years, you fight the demon of your weight. Every new pound makes you worth less. In your mid twenties you were 250 pounds. By the age of thirty you’re past 300.

In that time period you try endless diet and exercise programs, in an attempt to lose the weight, which you do, several times. Each time you lost the weight you gained it back, plus a few extra pounds. Several times you fast for more than 40 days, losing up to 70 pounds. But a year or so later you’re right back to 300.

You discover that you’re allowed to be funny, but not one of the adults. Whenever you’re in a meeting, you see the contempt in their eye. You’re fat, and acting like you’re one of their peers. They despise you for it, as if to say, “Listen to you, Jesus Christ! Get real… Take a look at yourself.”

There are people that you meet on the phone. You discuss business and it goes well. But then you meet them in person and once again, not enough… never enough…

Then at age 45 you make a decision that will change your life and the lives of your entire family. You really have everything that you ever wanted, a good job, a nice home, money.

You meet a doctor. Write him a check, a simple surgery, he can change everything. He can make you thin.

Then something goes wrong. You’ll need another surgery. They tell you it’s just a small procedure. Then a few months later something else goes wrong. Over the next three years you have major surgery every few months. And with each new surgery they increase your pain medication.

Then it really goes bad. You’re sitting at home. Have a pain in your gut. Go to the hospital. The next thing you know you are waking up from a coma. Tubes and lines coming out of you everywhere. On a feeding machine. Not quite sure what happened.

That was a few months ago and so once again they’re going to perform a surgery on you that will fix it all. Only this time, they keep talking about “Survivability issues.”

Suddenly a loud clicking noise, from the big camera stopping, brings you back into the room.

The attendant says, “We’re all done. Can I help you sit up?”

“Yeah… careful my backs killing me.”

Slowly sit up. Pain shoots down your leg. Cramps getting stronger. Completely addicted now. Ribs feel like they’re made out of brittle, frozen iron. Pain is getting worse. The ice water of the narcotic withdrawals, running through your veins.

Shaking, you tell the attendant, “I think I need my meds.”

.

Willie (ongoing blog chapters saga)

The wash

I show up at the job site, in the Agua Fria wash, just east of Buckeye, in central Arizona. It’s 4:45am. The Agua Fria, like so many desert rivers, is usually dry with the water running through thick sand and rock, somewhere below the riverbed. I’ve taken three, extra-strength Tylenol and I’m trying to finish off my third, 20oz. cup of Circle K coffee.

The sky has a dark purple hue and I can make out the skeletal booms of two giant track cranes looming over the pit. It’s still too dark to see the job. In the distance the whiny grinding of the big diesel motors in the heavy equipment coming to life is breaking through the nighttime quiet. As the motors start their mechanical chugging, all over the job, the thick, sweet scent of burning oil and diesel fills the air.

I step out into the dark and walk around to the back of my beat up ‘64’ Ford pick-up truck. Reaching over the tailgate I feel around in the sea of empty beer cans, fast food wrappers, boxes of tie wire and various; chains, chokers, shovels and sledgehammers. I feel the worn edge of my canvass bolt bag and grab a hold of my tool belt with both hands. Making sure it’s right side up, so my shit doesn’t spill all over the ground, I strap on the 40 pounds of wire and hand tools I’ll be wearing for the next ten hours. Though they are heavy they always give me a feel of security as I tighten the buckle and then give the belt a quick shake to make sure they are settled.

As I strap on my tools I always think of my father telling me about the time he forgot to shake his belt down.

I can still see the distant, blank look on his face as he remembers that day, some 30 years before.

“Joey, don’t ever go up on the iron with out settling your tool belt.”

Taking me back to that day, he is about 18 years old, hung-over and late for work. On high-rise in Seattle, he’s working the red iron and climbing as fast as he can. When he gets up to a horizontal beam about 160 feet up, he swings around to get a foot on a spot where he can stand and get organized. As he does, his spud wrench brushes the side of the upright. This is an eight-pound steel wrench, with a point on one end that is used to line up the bolt-holes in flying structural steel. It’s hanging out of his scabbard and is knocked free.

He says, “I felt the weight on my belt change and immediately knew what had happened. I turned around so fast that I almost went into the hole and scream ‘headache!’ Everyone on the ground scatters, except one old, black laborer.”

Looking down, my father can see the shiny steel wrench hurling towards the ground; tumbling, end over end. His senses suddenly sharpen, as if he were flying along with the, now deadly, projectile. Watching in horror, the wrench flips over just in time to drive, point first, clean, through the side of the old man head, just above his right eye. Instantly bursting out the back of his head, it slams him to the ground. He reaches up and feels the head of the wrench deeply imbedded into his, now crushed, forehead. He leans forward a little and makes a gurgling sound as he tries to utter something. He shakes violently for a second and then his eyes turn dull gray as he goes limp. This is followed by a slow moving, deep red, pool of blood, that is crawling, across the oily dirt, like a huge halo around his head. Suddenly my father is standing back on the beam looking down at the tiny figure, surrounded by the growing crowd. And then he’s back with me, an old man, sitting in his oversized chair.

He looks me directly in the eye and say’s “It was one little mistake, I wasn’t paying attention for a few seconds.” Hoping that he could spare me this unforgivable guilt, he goes on slowly, still a little distant, “ The job is no place for children. They get people killed.”

Remembering that moment, I give my tools a good shake and start walking over to the pit. By the time I get to ladder there is a line of about 60 men. The ladder has been built out of wood, in place, chained to two, 500 pound, concrete blocks and is wide enough for three men to descend at the same time. The pit is about a half-mile long and 50 feet deep, running below the surface of the Agua Fria wash.

While I’m climbing down the ladder I notice the wall of the pit, a few feet in front of my face, consists of loose, wet, wash sand… very dangerous… a good place for a cave-in. I can see it, grain by grain, constantly giving way, as I climb down.

When I get to the bottom of the ladder I see my older brother Mike. Surrounded by men he’s in charge and handing out work assignments. He’s standing between a six-foot tall section of pipe and the wall of pit. It’s five am and already hot… over 100 degrees, which is sticky and uncomfortable. Around ten it will climb to over 120, with all of this moist sand the humidity it will be like wearing a soggy blanket that just came out of a hot oven. Men will go to the hospital with heat stroke today.

I can see there is a submersible pump every eight feet or so on both sides of the pipe, and we are standing in a few inches of water. I ask Mike, ‘what’s up with all these pumps?”

He say’s, “We’re twenty feet below the water table here. The water level in this pit changes all day long.” He points over to the wall of the pipe. I can see a dirty waterline that is about three feet up on the side.

Mike say’s, “We placed this section yesterday, so that’s how deep the water was last night. Listen… you stay, the fuck, awake. This is one dangerous son of a bitch. We’ve had a lot of accidents.”

Me and my girl

Years ago Mike Rosenthal said to me, “What about a vacation?” At the time I thought it was silly, But now I know that, as usual, Mike was right. A vacation is the answer! And so I am taking my wife, Chef Kathy up to a little island just north of Seattle for a week of us… it’s cooking together, shopping together, drinking great wine together, walking on the beach together, digging clams together, taking those, food and too much sun induced naps, together. I think you get the idea… together!

We’ve been married for over 30 years and started going together at the age of 13. That’s right, we’re childhood sweethearts; the prom, first kiss, the whole shooting match. At this age we spend a good amount of time working on being good friends and just loving each other.

Chef Kathy is a much better cook than I am. So all we need is a kitchen and access to great local produce, seafood, dairy and wine... and each other!

Kathy says, “Joe is different at the ocean… he’s better. I like the idea of being better. So when I get back let’s hope that I’m better.

Joe

Writers Block

Holy Shit!

What takes a-hold of us and flushes our strength down the toilet? I wake up and I’m 52 and sitting on my ass instead of writing with all my strength. WOW! This is painful. I was in Bashas’ the other day and a local friend asked me what I was up to. I told him I had been writing. I’d like to say that is true but it’s a bald face lie. It’s been a few months since I’ve done any real work. It dawns on me as I write this, what purpose does this self-revelation serve? I want to wake up the writer… that’s it. I know he’s asleep and hope that by pointing out his weakness I’ll somehow be forced into waking him up.

Stay tuned kids for the future adventures of the writer known as Mad Coyote Joe

Open mic last night was a little slow. Having said that we had some real gems. Haley showed up and did two sets. Her boss was in the audience and as usual Haley was a big hit. She has a strong voice that is quite original.

John, a newcomer did a set, very strong guitar and vocals. Ernie bunch was in rare form, funny and warm.

At home Kathy and both have been fighting some sort of Black Death/ Hay Fever. We go from coughing to a fever to nausea. Just when we think were better it comes back stronger than before.

On a happier note we turned on our PV Solar System yesterday and are producing just under 50 KW/ solar day. Goodbye APS bills!

back at it!

I got a call from my buddy Tony Schindler; he owns Patty’O’Furniture and is a major supporter of “A Taste of cave creek”. Tony was asking about a cooking gig and mentioned that I haven’t been writing on my blog.

Ouch! Writing is a odd mistress; she demands the best out of you and encourages the worst in you. She tells you, “It’s okay to wait another day to get this down.” But once the words start coming she demands that you clarify and expand until you find the best words for what you’re saying.

I’ve been getting infusions about once a week and they throw me off. And so I’ve let the blog slip.

Thanks Tony!

Tomorrow our Solar Panels will be turned on by APS, thus ending our $3600 a year power bill. If we produce a surplus of power, we will buy as our next car, an plug-in hybrid; thus producing our own automotive energy.

The folks over at South-face Solar electric did a fantastic job for us. If you’re looking for a Solar Contractor I’d give them a call. Tell them I sent you.

Old Vaquero saying; Never trust a limping dog or the tears of a woman!

And last but not least, I asked my good buddy Bill Wickham to write a song for me, due to is wonderful writing. He has finished "The Ballad of Mad Coyote Joe" I'm trying to get a link to his Facebook page.

The Zane Brothers Ride Again

Yesterday I went to have lunch with Bob Boze Bell and Wonderful Russ. We have been having Lunch together about once every three or four months for the past five years. Bob and Russ were directly responsible for my shot at television. They asked me to do a guest appearance on the pilot for a comedy show called “The Zane Brothers”. I say “They” but it was Bob; Russ didn’t know me, and what he knew he wasn’t sure he liked. I think the quote was, “Who the fuck is Mad Coyote Joe and why is he on our pilot.”

The idea of the show was a “Letterman” like talk show, which was shot at a desk in the desert in Bob’s front yard amidst the cholla and saguaros. Bob asked me to be a guest. To Bob this meant show up and sit in a chair and chat for a few minutes. I had a different thought.

I showed up with an old pick-up, an upright smoker that was 12 feet tall complete with chrome headers and giant rusty iron face welded to the door. Add to this, three tables filled with burners, cutting boards, various knives, spatulas, whisks and other kitchen tools, and everything necessary to do a live cooking/grilling segment.

My idea was to do a spoof on television cooking shows. I called it “Cooking for Rednecks!” I hired my good friend and mechanic Bill Payne to show up in a torn tee shirt and dirty jeans after crawling around in the dirt while working on a transmission. Bill looked like someone out of, a combination of a coal mine, and the movie “Deliverance.”

The story line went like this; you are at home having your old truck worked on (truck and dirty mechanic in the back of the shot) and you ask the mechanic if he would like lunch.

CAMREA TO MECHANIC’S DIRTY FACE; sure, what’s for lunch?

Joe; What would you like?

Mechanic; Got any varmint?

CAMERA TO JOE; I don’t have any varmint.

At this point I we move to the meat counter at Bashas’ with me asking the butcher for three pounds of their finest varmint, ‘The domestic will be fine!’

The butcher says, “We don’t have any varmint!’

Back to the set where I explained how to make “Mock Varmint.” I started out by hacking a whole chicken into indistinguishable chunks. In the next shot I drop the pieces on the ground and kind of get most of the dirt off. And I toss the chunks on the grill and pour cayenne pepper and habanero sauce liberally over the mock varmint. Next looking directly into the camera I say at this point delectably roast the varmint to golden brown, while the varmint is going up in flames in the back of the shot. We conclude the segment with Bill our redneck mechanic, biting into the charred black, while still very raw chicken, which he is holding with grease-covered hands. He smiles a dirty smile and says; “Now that’s good varmint!”

It has been said that a finished pilot cost around $1000 per minute. After several days of shooting we had lunch with Don McClure and Paul Hallowell the tech and producer from ABC15. At lunch they basically explained that we were not only not funny, we were also not talented. And we thought that our future in television was finished.

On the day that I did the “Cooking for Rednecks” segment I cooked lunch for the executives from ABC15. A year later they were trying to think of an idea for a local program. A guy named Bruce Jones mentioned tat he had been doing a barbecue segment with the weather guy back at a station in Spokane Washington. It was a one camera, quick, easy segment. Don McClure said, “Remember that fat guy with the big barbecue. He was the one that thought he was funny… He was a good cook and I sure we can get him for nothing.”

A few days later I got the call; we shot the pilot, found the sponsors and I signed a 13-episode contract. That turned into 131 episodes and a four-book deal. I’ve been on camera in Mexico, Africa and several states. I’ve done radio and given numerous speeches; all of which I owe to my Amigos Bob and Russ. Thanks boys!

Open Mic... fantastic!

Open mic is always a little hit and miss. Lately it’s been a lot more hit. Last night was off the hook. Micha Mcgarrah’s dad Michael Mcgarrah showed up. Micha comes by his writing talent honestly. His father is one of the best writers that I’ve personally come in contact with. He started out with Dancin’ in the Bone Yard, a very Tom Waitts like, macabre journey of words and slow rhythm. Then it was a duet with is son Micha on Hand Me That Bottle, which reminded me of Michas writing, except it was sad and funny at the same time. It was great to see them sing together. Then he sang Rockabilly Saturday Night. When Mcgarrah droned out the line, “Rock and Roll was just the devil in four four time,” the room went crazy. He’s going to be doing a west coast tour in a few months. If you have a chance make sure and catch this amazing singer/ song writer. In the meantime check out his website, Michael Mcgarrah.com and order his CD “Love Boat to Reno.” The night was filled with talent of every shade. I even played a little. If you get a chance on Thursday nights drop by C4 in cave Creek.

Brian Callahan getting to sing the hilarious ballad "The Jenny Mule"

Willie

(The ongoing novel)

Road trip

The hard plastic phone rings on the cluttered, oak desk. A middle-aged cop picks it up.

He clears his throat and then answers with a gruff tone, “Spokane Police Department, Can I help you.”

“Yeah, this is Detective Carl Whitlow, I’m with Rock Springs P-D. We’re located in Southern Wyoming. We got a circular from you on an armed robbery and I’ve got two youth offenders in our lock-up that match your description.”

“Okay, let me transfer you up to the Lieutenant.”

A minute later a different man comes on the line, sounding a little annoyed, he say’s, “Robbery, Did you get any names out of those little bastards.”

Whitlow replies, “I got a Joseph Bitz and a Willard Bershears. They can’t be more than 12 years old”

“That’s them… hold on to em, we’ll send a car out. It’ll be a couple of days.

Whitlow, hangs up the phone. Shaking his head he looks across his desk at the two boys, sitting quietly, handcuffed to the heavy bench, with a look of deep concern on their faces. They are both wearing dirty, white tee shirts, worn out jeans and work boots. A couple of scrawny little shits that look like they should be playing baseball or doing yard work, or… anything… anything else. It’s hard to think they’ve robbed a grocery store, and even harder the picture these two using a gun. Maybe it’s this damn depression. Times are hard. The whole country has gone bust.

Chuck, our old foreman, stops with his story for a minute and leans back to light a cigarette. We are a small group of ironworkers, sitting in a dusty, plywood job shack on a construction site, in south Phoenix. The air is thick with the smell of grease and stale cigarettes. It’s over 100 degrees in the shack. Too hot to eat, everyone is drinking as much Gatorade as they can get down in the 15-minute break. Dripping with sweat, at least we are out of the brutal Arizona sun. Chuck is dark and wrinkled from years of the heat’s damage. His hands are badly crippled, from being smashed so many times by the iron, but he can still get over two tons an hour, per man. In short he’s one tough old rodbuster.

He takes a deep drag and slowly blows out the smoke. As it billows across the room, he goes on, “That was back in 1935 or 36. In those days they would send a couple of older beat cops in a car across country to pick up lower level crooks they wanted.”

I break in and ask Chuck, “Did you know Willie back then?”

“He was older. We used to say there were 10 men for every job and there were no jobs. So everyone was always broke. But if Willie was around… well, things were different. I remember one time Willie was at my cousins house. We wanted to drive out to the lake and go swimming with our girlfriends. So we were all pooling our money. It just wasn’t enough to buy gas to get to the lake and back.

Willie said, “Everybody go get your swim suits, I’ll meet you back here in about an hour.”

An hour later Willie shows up. He’s got a case of beer, a bottle of whiskey, a ham, some bread and bunch of other shit for a picnic. Then he takes us to the gas station to fill up my cousin’s gas tank. I think it cost a few bucks. Willie had a twenty and a five. That was a lot of money back then. We all went to the lake and had great time.

The next day my old man’s reading the newspaper. There is a story about a local store being robbed. It seems the thieves got away with a case of beer, a bottle of whiskey, a ham, some bread and twenty-five dollars in cash.” Chuck starring at the floor like he could still see the scene shakes his head as he lets out a little snicker. Then he looks me in the eye and says, “Willie… he simply refused to go with out. He was going to be okay or he was going to be dead.”

“So what happened with the cops in Wyoming?” I ask.

Chuck takes us back into the story; “The way they got back to Spokane was, after the cops picked Joe and Willie up, they would drive all day. You need to remember there were no freeways in those days, so it was backcountry roads all the way. At night the cops would put the boys in some little small town jail and then go to a diner and sleep in a motel. In one of the jails, Willie had a few bucks hidden in his sock, that the cops hadn’t found when they searched him. He bought a knife.

The next day Willie and Joe are sitting in the back seat. And the cops are up front. They’re trying to make good time, maybe doing 60, which is quite fast in one of those old cars.

A beautiful spring day, sailing down the road in central Idaho. A ribbon of highway, gently rolling through a carpet of knee high, bright green potato plants as far as the eye can see. The cops are enjoying the trip. They’re relaxed, foolishly dropping their guard. To them Willie and Joe are no threat… just two scarred little kids. Remember no cage between the driver and the back seat. Out of the blue, Willie leans forward. He grabs the driver by the hair and quickly reaches around his neck, pressing the homemade blade to the tough, old cops throat.

Willie says, in his most menacing 12-year old voice, Okay motherfucker, pull the car over or you’re dead.

The two old cops are torn between the seriousness of the knife and the irony of this 80-pound child acting like Al Capone. The driver lets out a little snicker. The other Cop’s belly starts shaking, and then trying to hold back, he breaks into a low whine, which causes the driver to uncontrollably roar with laughter.

Without a second’s hesitation, Willie slices the driver’s throat wide open. A shower of blood sprays all over the driver’s window, the dashboard and the inside of the windshield. In the same instant the driver instinctively lets go of the wheel and grabs at his throat. The car lurches on to the dirt shoulder and then the front wheels suddenly catch the edge of the asphalt. In seeming slow motion, the car lifts into the air. After silently rolling over a few times, it explodes when the rear end hits the blacktop. Mangled metal and glass is flying everywhere as the smashed up squad car goes flipping down the highway. The car finally skids to a stop upside down, the roof totally crushed in. Everyone inside is drenched in the driver’s blood with multiple broken bones. Stuck in the smoking wreck, fading in and out of conciseness, it was hours before some local cops could cut them out. ”

Chuck stops and thinks for a second. He goes on ”The driver died. They charged them both with the murder. Because they were minors they were released on their 21^st birthday. ”

Chuck with an odd little smile says, “After that… those boys weren’t real popular with the cops around Spokane.

The Norman Midnight (a poem) by Daigneault

The Norman Midnight

by Daigneault

Vacant congregation

Standing in line

Desolate perversion

Inflation of the soul

Sexless

Lifeless

Property of the Penthouse

Caught in a two olive pontification

Amateurs at sin

of this Norman midnight

Begging for burden

And lies and sordid definition

With headlights off I too am speeding

On a dead-end street

Glutinous fools

At this baneful banquet

Not of Rockwell

Nor of Saxons

But the withered fruits

Of Slavoda’s nightmare

Upon which

We now feast

Dinner for Kathy

Kathy got off work at 2pm today and came home to take a, well deserved, nap. While she was sleeping, I took Lilly, (our son’s Pit-Bull) and went for a drive up to Bashas’ to get something for dinner. I’ve been collecting firewood so I drove around on the back dirt/mud roads. Lilly is a good driving companion and we spent 45 minutes driving four miles. Even though I didn’t find any wood it was great because the desert is so beautiful when it’s been raining. The air was crisp and cold and the clouds were hanging low against Black Mountain. We pulled into Bashas’ parking lot and found a space right up front. I always roll the window down a few inches to keep fresh air in the truck for Lilly while I’m shopping.

I knew that I wanted fish so I wandered back to the butchers counter. Let me point out one of my rules for becoming the best cook you can be.

wGet to know your butcher by name, and let him help you.

I went back and chatted with my butcher, John. John always takes great care of me weather it’s cutting a perfect steak, grinding my special chili meat (80/20 Tri-tip and one boneless country style pork rib) or letting me know which fish came in today or what’s on sale.

The Jumbo shrimp were on sale for $5.99/ Lb. so I had John bag up one and a half pounds. There were domestic little neck clams and I asked John about them he said they had just came in and we went through them and picked out eight that looked good (tap them if they tighten up a little they’re alive). Now I was putting a meal together in my mind. I went over and grabbed some of the European sweet butter and a bottle of Chardonnay. Next it was to the produce. On my way over the manager stopped and asked if I could go the dried chiles and explain to a customer what “Chile de Arbol” is. (This happens every now and then) I asked the nice lady what she was using them for. She explained it was a shrimp recipe. I went through heat levels and flavors of various dried chiles with her and found she wanted flavor but a medium heat. They had some very fresh (they were the texture of fruit leather) dried Chile Moritas, I explained they would give a smoky almost fruit like heat that would play very nicely against the shrimp.

The nice lady thanked me took her chiles and headed off shopping.

Back to my dinner I decided I wanted to use some of those nice Morita chiles, so I picked out some button mushrooms, garlic, shallots, Roma tomatoes, lemons, parsley and then fresh raspberries and granny smith apples. Next I grabbed a beautiful piece of Parmesan Reggaino and a box of fettuccini.

Back home I told Kathy to stay on the couch with her feet up. I poured her a nice cold glass of chardonnay and went to work. Clams and jumbo shrimp in a chardonnay, garlic, shallot butter with mushrooms, Morita chile, Roma tomato and a sprinkling of crisp bacon and parsley, over fettuccini with shaved Parmesan cheese. While the Fresh raspberry, blue berry, apple, pecan and dried cranberry, cobbler drizzled with cognac baked to a deep golden brown.

Needless to say the meal was a hit. The reason I mention this, is to remind you that food like that is within your reach. I hope that this blog will be a forum for you to grow as a cook. Kathy and love to answer cooking questions and many times I have had a nervous novice call and say my guests will be here in one and a half hours and I’m lost… Help! After calming them down Kathy and I will help them plot out a path to a successful meal. Once again I find myself reminding my readers “You can do this!”

Manifest Destiny a poem by Daigneault

Angle photo by Daigneault 2001

Manifest Destiny

(Rorschach sideways, views fifty-five)

By Daigneault

Late October

Two AM Rodriguez’s sighting

The executioner hails

Land Ho!

Celestial diva

Stands watching from the bow

Priests and pirates

The rotting stench of Europe

Fetid feet

Pollute pristine paradise

Angel bleeds

Tears of a thousand Aztecs

Naked children

An aperitif

Eons of agrology

Grist for their perverted mill

Ancient gods and history and magic

But a putrid bilge

Discarded by servants

Of a god, void of earthly soul

Willie

Willie, Time To Go (ongoing blog chapters saga)

By Mad Coyote Joe © 2004

“I tell you kid, televisions are a great way to pick up a little quick cash. I mean who doesn’t want a better TV, on a good day I can unload eight or ten of em.”

I’m a little confused. “Just how do you get a hold of eight or ten TVs?”

“Shit…grabbing TVs is easy. You wander into the Monkey Wards or any big store. All you need is a receipt. If you can’t find one in the trash or on the ground, just buy something that cost a few bucks. Walk on back to the TVs and fold the receipt so the store name is in plain sight. Tuck the receipt in your mouth, pick up a set and head for the door. (Back in the sixties merchandise was often stacked in the department) You can’t talk and nobody is going to ask a guy with a receipt in his mouth if he paid for the TV. The fuckin manager will usually get the door for you. And if he gets wise and starts asking questions, you can always throw the TV on him. The problem with them getting the door is they may want to help you to your car. You really want to avoid that. It gets a little sticky when you’re trying to explain the six or seven TVs in the back of your station wagon.”

My buddy, Willie Coogan is 34 years old. An anglo, that stands six-foot two-inches tall, 240 pounds, without a drop of fat. He’s a big, friendly looking man, with penetrating steel grey eyes and a big “shit eating” grin that never leaves his face. Willie’s the kind of man that other men find likeable and a little scary, both at the same time. With a sandy blond, full head of curly hair, a classic bad boy, women find him irresistible. He’s also a self described “Rounder” or career criminal, that has been in and out of prison all of his life.

I’m fifteen years old and big for my age. Willie works with me in the steel yard my family owns in the gritty industrial district of old south Phoenix. He needs a straight job to meet his parole requirements.

We’re fabricating iron on a pneumatic steel bender. It’s another sweltering summer day, working in the brutal Arizona sun, The bender we are working at is situated between two driveways that sit about twenty five feet off of the oily dirt road that runs in front of the steel yard. The neighborhood, a mix of old buildings and industrial plants, is the home of the poorest of the poor, numerous gangs, street people, junkies and drunks. So, it doesn’t seem odd when the two bums start arguing just outside the gate on the other side of the bender.

They look like street people, unkempt, dirty long hair, several days of stubbly beard. Both in dirty work pants, one wears a sleeveless Levi jacket and the other an old, faded, sweat stained, tee shirt that say’s, “American Graffiti.”

The guy wearing the sleeveless jacket starts, in a very loud, drunken voice.

“Jimmie, You didn’t even like that chick. I don’t need your shit!”

The shaggy man in the “American Graffiti” tee shirt looks over and starts talking to Willie and me with an intoxicated slur, while his friend stumbles on down the broken sidewalk, seemingly unaware.

Approaching us from the front, he blirts out, “Like her… Can you believe him? She was my cousin! I’ve known her all my life!”

We’re starting to laugh at the developing scene when the other man notices that his friend has wandered through the first gate into the yard. He is now standing at the second gate, just behind us, so he wanders on over.

Extending a friendly hand, he appears to be the classic happy drunk.

He mumbles to Willie, “Hey man, that’s Jimmie, I’m Sam, how you doin?”

Willie smiles and turns, to shake his hand. We are both snickering.

As he turns I noticed the man standing across from us reaching behind his back, as if to tuck his shirt in.

Suddenly, time slows to a crawl and all sound seems muffled. I see the next few seconds like an instant replay in some sort of twisted, slow motion movie. I watch the look on the man’s face change from a lazy smile, to deadly serious. In an oddly choreographed move, he pulls out a big blue-steel revolver. Grasping it with both hands. He is now pointing it directly at Willie’s head. This movement causes Willie to turn back towards him. The looming barrel of the pistol looks huge and hollow and is about eight inches from center of Willie’s forehead. Meanwhile, the second man produced his own gun. He grabs Willie by the shoulder. I watch as the barrel is firmly pressed just under my friend’s right ear at a slightly upward angle, causing him to carefully tilt his head to the side. Willie’s hands instinctively, start to rise, signaling surrender. The man on the other side of the bender say’s in very low, but deliberate, staccato voice“ don’t-even-breathe… F-B-I.”

Meanwhile several unmarked white sedans descend on the yard with lights flashing. Agents wearing blue blazers with F.B.I. in big yellow letters appear out of nowhere.

One of them says, “Willard Coogan, you are under arrest for interstate trafficking of narcotics, fraudulent schemes and receiving stolen goods. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…” He is cuffed behind his back and shoved to the ground in seconds. A couple of agents with shotguns stand over him pointing them directly at Willie’s chest. I’m pulled out of the way by another agent, asking if I’m alright.

A waiting sedan is pulled forward and Willie is jerked to his feet, lifting him by his huge arms. He is pushed in the back seat and accompanied by the two big agents, one on each side. The car immediately takes off. As they drive away, I catch a glimpse of Willie. All of the color has left his face. He looks as if he has aged twenty years in just a few minutes, like a caged dog on his way to the pound. This is the last time I will see my friend for just over eight years.

Wood Cutting in the Sonoran Desert

I met my wife Kathy when we were going to High school, both of us just 13. I was her first kiss, first date, first boyfriend and yes, I took her to the Senior Prom. We married in our early 20’s and moved to Cave Creek a few years later. Our first house was an old ramshackle combination of poorly connected rooms with a tin roof. We had no air conditioner or heat, so it was fans in the summer and a fireplace in the winter.

When you heat with wood it’s a whole different thing from having a fire for ambience. The first time you buy a cord of wood for $280 out of a $360 paycheck you decide that cutting your own might be a better choice.

Photo Daigneault 2002, Our yard in spring

Living in the desert and driving on dirt roads you soon learn to look for firewood opportunities. There is an old grove of tamarisk trees right in the middle of town and there was many a night that I came home to find we were out of wood and the “house” was getting cold. So I dove over to the grove and tied a rope to a big branch of tamarisk that was often still attached to the tree. I would attach the other end to the back of my motorcycle and roll forward until the rope was tight and then give the gas!

Photo Daigneault 2002, Saguaro our yard

Usually after a few yanks the branch would come free with a big crack and I would drive the two blocks to our house. This route included about 400 feet of driving down the middle of cave creek road dragging a 15-foot long branch that if I was lucky would burn all night.

Things were different in those days. If the local cop saw you he would turn on his red flashing lights and follow you until you turned the corner on to your street and then lean out the window, laugh and yell, “Get a truck”. Wave and then go back to looking for speeders.

Photo Daigneault 2002, cactus front yard

I have a party to cook for in a few weeks and I’m out of mesquite, so I went out wood gathering. I took my son Joey and we drove around town on the back roads. After about ten minutes we found a big pile of mesquite branches that had been cut and discarded last season along with cactus and various other yard trimmings. This time of year we only need to keep an eye out for scorpions, black widow spiders, and the occasional tarantula, luckily the rattlesnakes are hibernating. There are also the cactus and mesquite thorns to contend with. We got out and used an electric branch saw with a full battery and cut off the smaller branches leaving only logs about six to seven feet long. The truck was full in about half an hour and we took it home. Joey will come over this weekend and cut it into foot long logs, and then split the big pieces so I can use the wood in my big trailer barbecue.

Photo Daigneault 2002 Tuna blossom our house

Joey had to go back to work and so after we got to the house he gave me a hug and drove back to Firecreek to finish with his coffee roasting.

I was a little worn out so I went inside and set in my big chair. I had a few mesquite thorns in my hands to deal with. As I was working on my hands, I remembered Joey at four years old wanting to use the chain saw or to help load the wood. Back then I had to keep an eye on him. Now he’s the one keeping an eye on me. I hope that one day I get a grandchild to take woodcutting. It may not seem like much but to me the though of driving an old truck on a dirt road with a dog and my grandkid is about as good as this life gets.

Cactus Flower photo Daigneault 2002

I feel sorry for the people that live here, but they live in town or in subdivisions with “Desert Landscaping”. Joey and I were off the main road, only a few blocks but it was amazing. The ground was damp from the rain and there were birds and rabbits. It smelled like creosote and earth. It’s a gift to live here and interact with the desert. And it’s a gift to have this life with my wife and kids.

If you live here in Arizona and have a little time this weekend, grab your sweetie or kids and take a drive. Just go for a little hike in our beautiful Sonoran desert It’s there waiting for you.

Photo, Mike Assad feb 05 Snow in front yard