Man vs Possum: Survival of the Fittest!

"Possum: The Most Cunning of Marsupials"

On a cold winter's night back in January, just as I had lathered my face and head and began stropping my straight razor to perform ma toilette de la soirée, I heard a shriek come from another room. I stuck my head outside the master bath and asked "Hun, what happened?" My gal ran into the bedroom, clutched a pillow to her chest and blurted "I just went into the garage, and there it was; staring at me with its beady little eyes!" Her referring to whatever she encountered as an "it" pretty much eliminated a person. My mind raced; Gator?, Copperhead?!, Alien?!! (having been abducted and probed in the past, I could understand her fear). "What looked at you with beady eyes?!" "A POSSUM!!", was her stuttered response.

I looked at her, uncomprehending, for a couple of seconds. "Possum? The animal whose sole form of defense is to fall temporarily unconscious, hoping that a potential attacker leaves it alone... A Possum?!" "They're a Rodent!" "Well hon, they're technically a marsupial" One of "those" looks quickly told me that I hadn't gained any points for my acumen in taxonomy, and I was rapidly digging myself into a hole. Granted, the nature of the crevasse I couldn't fully fathom, but this guy can sense a hole when he's digging one. "Well, be the man! Go out there and get rid of it, I don't care how you do it." "Did you at least open the garage door, so it had a chance to take it on the lam?" "I didn't have enough time. God only knows what it might have done if I had walked passed it to hit the door switch." "Um...keeled onto its side and emitted a stink?"

I accepted the flashlight from her, ignoring the targeting lasers that once were her pupils, and walked into the black of my garage; a 16 x 20 room that was filled with more boxes than a Somali Warlord's last take from a UN food relief mission.

Folks, it's about here that I have let you in that I am from the Sonora Desert. While knowing some facts about possums, I have never claimed to be "Dog: The Possum Hunter", nor am I up to speed on the ways of the wily marsupial. Truth be told, I felt a bit like a backwoods Alvie Singer, trying to lure Annie Hall's runaway lobster out from behind the fridge, by placing carafes of warm butter out as bait.

Logic dictated a couple of opening moves; this most cunning and opportunist of marsupials north of the Rio Grande (ok, the only North American marsupial) needed egress from the garage and there were only two points for escape; through the door that I had just closed into my kitchen and the garage. Remembrance of the aforementioned pupil lasers tipped the scale away from what I would have personally considered a fine practical joke, and I opened the garage door.

A five minute flashlight sweep of the interior, conducted with a stealth of a ninja. Well, a 225lb ninja wearing flip-flops, exercise shorts, total head and face lather (that had long since dried into an obscene form of mime makeup) and a fine pelt of goose bumps from a temp in the high 30's... revealed nothing. In retrospect, the next step of calling out "Here, possum, possum, possum" and then threatening "You'd better listen to me, if you know what's good for ya", probably had little effect. I wasn't dealing with either a critter that had been domesticated for thousands of years, nor a small Brooklyn shop owner. For a brief moment, I considered firing up my Harley Ultra and revving the bejeezus out of the engine, thinking the 116db echoing in the small room would drive it out. What would have happened, of course, is that the critter would have fainted, probably right under her car, lying dormant until the next morning when she went to get groceries.
Eventually, a sense of the ridiculous fused with advancing hypothermia, and I did what any sensible man would do. I walked right in and happily reported that not only did the Kaiser Soze of possums take flight, but he assured me that the possum mafia now "owed me one". Neither of us had cause to go into the garage for a couple of days after , but that didn't stop me from practicing a look of shock and a stammered "This one clearly understands black-ops tradecraft, trained by the SVR no doubt, and doubled back on me! Vladimir Putin will hear of this!!"
Possums...Christ!

Bear: The Possum Hunter

Of Pocket Watches and Memories

It's late. That time of night where I get a little too sentimental for my own good, you know how it is. I'm holding in my hand a pocket watch that I picked up today from my local watch repair shop, where I left it for a couple of weeks to get cleaned, oiled, etc. The repair guy is "Toby", a great guy that I've known for years. Toby hasn't been able to walk since birth and gets around in a wheel chair. What he lacks in the 40 yard dash, he more than makes up for in his boundless optimism and sardonic wit. The fact that he's the best watch man in town, is just a bonus. He handed me the watch and started going over the litany of things he did for the watch while in his custody, but I wasn't listening...my mind was miles and years away.

This watch was a circa late 1890's Hamilton Rail Road watch. Gold plated, not gold. It kept so-so time despite the best care imaginable. Somehow this watch had become a family treasure. My Great Grandfather gave it to my Grandfather on his death bed, and my Gramps did the same with my dad on his. This little ritual had earned the watch the moniker "the Grim Reaper" among the females of the clan. I wasn't thinking of any of this.

I was thinking of the time that I went down to visit my Dad in a hospice in Tucson. For weeks I had been sure that the experimental radiation treatments that he had receiving would halt the progress of his pancreatic cancer. Entering his bedroom, I knew instantly that, if anything, the "treatment" had hastened his demise. I saw the strapping guy that carried me when I got tired as a child, sitting on the edge of his bed, weighing 120 lbs. The eyes that once seemed to embody one of the most formidable intellects that I had ever known, looked out at me from a jaundiced death's head. We made small talk "Yeah, you're right. If those dammed Phoenix Suns don't pay the money for a big man at center, they'll never go all the way..." I maintained a jovial attitude, despite my stomach feeling like I had just hit the down button on a high rise elevator, and my heart pounding in my ears. The pounding got worse when I saw him gesture to my Mom, who then pulled out "THE watch". This was the moment of truth. It was all I could do to act surprised, and gush about how much I always wanted that ancient Hamilton.

While staring at this dammed thing, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my Dad nudge my Mom and point to me, obviously glad that I so "loved" the watch, and it was now safely in the hands of his sole male heir. It was all I could do not to curse and heave the heirloom out the window in an effort to bargain a few more days for my Dad. The dammed watch was all but burning a hole in my hand...

There must be a lot of wisdom in our family traditions. As the years since my Father's death have gone by, I have grown to love that watch. When I hold it I get a sense of continuity with the past that I would have not known otherwise. Much the same as when I smoke my Gramps pipe on nights like tonight, typing my ramblings to strangers who couldn't give a shit less.

James 'Bart' Graves, R.I.P.

Toby said "Well?". Woken from my reverie, I asked him to repeat the question. "I asked 'why do you bother with this thing, I mean you've got an 18k/titanium Omega 300 Chrono on your wrist, why screw with this?'" I just grinned at him "It's a Family thing, Toby, see ya next year".

R. 'Bear' Graves

30 Things You Probably Don't Want to Know About Me

1. I hate knots. I have almost no sense of spatial relationships, and even simple knots give me hell, when I try to undo them. I have become the guy who will screw with a tangled cord on my Ipod, for 30 minutes, and mess up my workout, due to lack of time, as a result.

Not to get off on a rant here, but... .

2. Helmet laws are idiotic. You want to wear a helmet? Cool, good on ya! You want some non-ridin', limo drivin' senator to legislate MY ability to ride without a helmet? We have a talk coming.

3.. There are times, when I am doing 100 mph on my Hog, that I look down at the pavement whizzing under my ass and think "Holy SHIT! All it would take is for me to have a wierd, never before seen, "twitch" and they are picking me, and my bike, up off of a half a click of asphalt!!!". It scares me some, but passes quickly.

4. I HATE the words "whimsy" and "serendipity". Makes me want to pull out the lungs of whoever uses them, and wear them as water wings.

5. The Swedish pop group "ABBA" needs to die. I know, I know... they aren't recording, and haven't for years. Still......someone needs to pay for "Dancing Queen".

6 I think any Merlot, other than Chateau Petrus sucks. While I'm at it, what the fuck possesses people to drink white zinfindel?!

7. Don't stand in line in front of me in a coffee place and order a 20 ingredient drink. I just want a cup of coffee and you are pissing me, and everyone else off behind you. Trust me, I'm just trying to save your life.

8. Same with using 500 coupons at the grocery store. Double penalty if you start to write a check, only after all is totaled. I'll give a pass to a senior citizen with a debit card, they provide a type of chimp-trying-to-operate-a-BluRay-player amusement.

9. When I finish a jar of Klausen pickles (Please note: MUST be Klausen), I drink some of the brine. Yeah... I know.

10. When I take a bath, I use my toes to operate the water faucet when I want to increase the water temperature.

11. I look before I flush (sorry, its a question on most personality evaluations).

12. If you are going to quote from a TV show, make it "Sopranos" or "Seinfeld", not anything from"One Tree Hill". Quoting OTH is very likely to get my Pacifico bottle broken over your head. Nothing personal, just a visceral reaction.

13. If you have a problem with steroids, don't use them. It's their fuckin' bodies, and no one has ever jacked my stereo for their next bulk cycle.

14. I believe that the "last refuge for a scoundrel" is not "patriotism", but the phrase "it's for the children!!" (being said in a nasal whine).

15. Don't EVER touch my Bike, unless you are a gal who I have invited to go for a ride. If you fall into that "protected class", have the class to put up your foot pegs when you jump off.

16. I am a smoker. If I am in your space, I will ask if I may smoke. If you say "no", that's it, I won't, no hard feelings whatsoever. If you come into my space, please have the courtesy not to ask me to put it out. That's it. Common courtesy, not legislation. Oh, btw, a phony cough, coming from you, sitting 20 feet away from where I am smoking will more or less guarantee that I will walk over and extinguish whatever I am smoking in your eye.

17. I LOVE my Country, but damned if I don't fear my Government.

18. I am a conservative, in the truest sense. I believe in smaller government. That means, not only stay out of my wallet, but don't tell someone what consenting adult they can "bump uglies" with, or what they can put in their bodies. Just guard the coast, and stay the fuck out of our lives. That's not asking too much, is it?!

19. I am Ex-Special Forces, and I Ex-Foliate (as well as get manicures and pedicures) I don't see a conflict. Yes, I know that "Exfoliate" doesn't have a hyphen, allow me some latitude, will ya?

20. I still open all doors for Ladies, and rise when one comes to, or leaves from my table. I was just brought up that way, and don't see a need to change, unless the Lady prefers it otherwise.

21. When someone pisses me off, I always try to fall back on "Heinlien's Razor"; "Never attribute to malice that which can be explained by simple stupidity".

22. Proposed National ID cards scare the shit out of me. They are all too close to the old Nazi/ Soviet "May I see your "papers", please.". Sure, terrorism needs to be dealt with, but lets do it in a way that we do not become a greater evil to our own citizens than the threat we are guarding against.

23. My Achilles tendon is James Joyce. It was a month long struggle to read "Ulysses". I have a copy of "Finnegan's Wake" that I have tried three times to get through. It sits, open, near my bed stand and mocks me.

24. Clowns give me the creeps. I don't run from them, but I'll be damned if my sphincter doesn't tighten.

25. Mimes are worse.

26. No matter how drunk you are, I never was the Governor of Minnesota, nor have I appeared on WWF.

27. My ancestors did not claw their way up to the top of the food chain for me to eat only vegetables.

28. No matter what the expiration date on a carton of milk says, I always sniff before I consume.

29. Same with my women, with or without expiration date.

30. I hate it when cretins talk in theaters. The characters can't hear you, so yelling "Look out!" to the protagonist, will probably have little affect on the outcome. Don't explain what is going on to your date. If they are too stupid to understand the plot line, you shouldn't be breeding with them.

Stupid Stripper Tricks (or Little Things Mean a Lot)

Long ago, I was a bouncer at a strip club in the Phoenix metro area. The work, much like the oft quoted observation about war, could be described as "Long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror". The pay-to-pain ratio was shit, and for those who think hanging around 75 strippers every night is glamorous?

Say what you will, but I believe that the studies performed by Martha McClintock were dead-on; women who maintain a close physical proximity often wind of having their monthly cycles sync, and my "crew" was synced tighter than the Grambling Tiger drum section. Roughly every 27-29 days the ladies toilet would become stopped up on nearly an hourly basis, due to improper tampon disposal. Guess who got to go in there with a plunger? Yeah, if you ever want to wind up hating humanity as a whole, I might have a career for ya.

One day I saw this new girl (let's call her 'Cheri', my attorney has enough on his plate) start her career as a dancer. She projected a ton of enthusiasm but, being very inexperienced, could not mesmerize the fifty customers in the building with "Sex on a pole" stage work. As a result, her number of lap dances, far and away the majority of a dancer's income, suffered.

One night, she came to me for advice. I pointed out "Tiffany", a seasoned veteran who did almost nothing on stage, but had developed a strong following of regulars due to some amazing (but within bounds) lap dancing tricks. Tiff's "stand out", and one you all probably have seen before, was facing the customer, placing the top of her head down near the front of his crotch, and doing a head stand, placing the customer in an interesting "69" type of perspective. Cheri brightened up. "I used to be a cheerleader. I'll go home and practice tonight and "watch out world", Cheri's making a ton tomorrow!" She kissed me on the cheek and left.

The next day, Cheri briskly exited the locker room and asked me to suggest a target. Looking around, I see "Dave", a generous tipper who always keeps his hands where he should, and made the introduction. Within about 15 seconds after the song started (7 seconds after her top came off), Cheri executes a picture perfect head stand. Dave's expression changed dramatically. About three times during the song, Cheri did an iteration of the trick, Yes, it was a bit much, but she was clearly proud of her new skill and I thought worthy of some slack.

The song ended, and Dave emphatically shook his head "no", indicating he did not want another dance, and he handed her a couple of twenties...not bad for a ten buck day dance! I walked up to Dave and asked, "So, how was Cheri?"

Dave answered "Fine, but she really needs to learn to wipe better..."

The Line Between Lust & Madness

Even in the South Carolina twilight, I can see the very air roiling, steam draping like the breath of a L'ung Dragon in the pines. Right now, I have a wee dram of Macallan. Though not the norm for a non-cask strength single malt, due to the heat, I floated a single ice cube to liberate the cooler notes of the whiskey and combat the heat.

Every season is evocative but, sometimes, Summer seems the most so. The hot, dry summer nights of my youth in Phoenix were a vehicle for my first tentative steps in adulthood. For a male teenager, Summer is the universal season of liberation. No school, no suggested bed times and parental control vaporized like a drop of sweat on the sizzling Phoenix asphalt. The issuance of a drivers license led to clandestine, midnight liaisons with girls who had the courage to sneak out of their bedroom windows to meet me. Clumsy, muttered, meaningless phrases led to even clumsier fumbling in the back of my '67 Shelby GT500. After the "conquest", tradition would dictate that I would hook up with my male friends. Sitting on the hoods of our cars, we would slag each other, hold forth on philosophies that we thought would make us look "world wise and deep". We all spoke individually of our bright futures, that would never come to pass, and the insipid behaviors of our parents, who we would all eventually come to emulate. The rising sun conferred both benediction, as well as our assurance of immortality.


Moving to Myrtle Beach changed the nature of the Summer night, and the cascade of associated feelings. There really is something about sultry southern/tropical nights. Inspiration to the likes of F. Scott, Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, and Poppa Hemingway, the wet heat,sounds and fragrances...all lead the mind to a fine line between lust and madness.

There are qualities to the desultory nocturne that evoke my memories as a young soldier at Fort Bragg. Much like viewing a decaying film, I see myself entering the down-at-the-heels off-post clubs that were constrained by the 70's blue laws and ordering a mixer for the bottle of cheap hooch I brought with me. Allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim light within, one by one, I would take in the women; locals all, who were there in search of a distraction from the boredom and swampy miasma of Southeast small town life. The men, boys actually, were all fellow troops, wallets filled from pay day, all fronting an over-the-top nonchalance while doing a fast male-to-female count, assessing their chances for the evening.

As the quiet desperation of both sides eased, the air became filled with a mix of female southern accents, and male tones that ranged from the Bronx to Puerto Rico, all driven by the cacophony of a bad house band. Slow dances led to parking lot gropes and the beginning of a ballet that would end in either a seedy motel or back at her rental.

Sweat glistening on bodies. Perfumes and after shaves re-liquify and meld with the honeysuckle and night blooming jasmine, latent in the muggy night air. She was making love to the man who would eventually take her away. He was finally nailing some high school crush of the past, who wouldn't have even given him the time of day. Ultimately, it didn't matter. For a few precious hours, reality didn't exist, they were both the person their needs dictated and in a place they wanted to be.

Eventually, I married one of those local girls on a hot southern night. You would think that the jasmine scented breeze that is now wafting through my screen door would remind me of that woman. Rather it fills me with the bitter-sweet melancholy of youth that has been lost, and a wistful yearning for a return, if one last time, to that wonderfully fine edge between lust and madness.

Wing Man

Written in memory of the most fucked-up, unique, and beloved Wing man I ever had.

Her named was Gabrielle "Gabi" to pretty much everyone who knew her. I met her when she was a stripper at a club that I bounced at. She was a 5'4" powerhouse bodybuilder, who sported a body fat that was so low, that she was pretty much forced to get a full liter of saline in her chest. A physiology that created a ripped 8- pack and thoroughbred legs just didn't support the amount of tits that she needed to earn a living. As if the above distinctive characteristics weren't enough, she had flown to Japan, and received a tattoo from a master: A full Yakuza style jacket and sleeves (Koi & Lotus theme). In most usual situations, that extensive of tattooing would have barred her from the runway but, as you may come to see, Gabi wasn't usual by any rational standard.

Gabi, as it turns out, was a submissive who adored being tied up and displayed in full nude at parties. Gabi was also the proud owner of one majorly fucked up life and, by her own admission, about 90% of her problems were of her own making. I personally knew a wealthy ex-boyfriend who spent well over a million dollars on her in 14 months (not a typo). All she had to show for it, when the dust settled, were memories of month long stays at the Bellagio's Chairman Suite, additional liver damage (from case after case of Crystal Champagne), and a lot of receipts for jewelry that was pawned for eight cents on the buck, never to be reclaimed. Later in our relationship, I noticed a picture of her son sitting in the Metallica jet during flight, his father holding him in his lap. Yep, that kid was the (privately) acknowledged son of a member of Metallica. I won't mention a name, but there are some clues in the fact we lived in Phoenix. Gabi never asked for a penny to raise their son, she said "acknowledgment was enough". Personally, I probably would have gone the paternity route; then again, I wasn't Gabi.

Our first meeting outside of work was at club(s) "Axis/Radius" in Scottsdale. She had some tag along girls that had followed her from the day shift for a drink, and they has congregated at the standing bar. While the other girls were busting their collective asses in their nightly flirt-a-thon, Gabi was really more of a "George Thorogood" drinker "I drink Alone". We quietly chatted and, as she knocked back shot after impressive shot of whiskey, I could see a certain, hard-to-define gleam come into her eyes. Gabi, maybe I should call her "Good Gabi", had the biggest, most honest set of cocoa eyes you could imagine. If it is true that "the eyes are windows to the soul", sober Gabi had almost musically expressive eyes that poignantly spoke of a beautiful anima that could never be overcome by pain. Good (sober) Gabi's eyes were wide, danced, crinkled and sparkled with every nuance of conversation. With a blood alcohol of what I estimated to be at least .15, her words, while measured and precise, took on a tantalum edge, and her eyes became three-quarter lidded into something eerily feline. Down the road, I would know this new manifestation as “Evil Gabi” but, at that moment, I was in clueless observation mode.

About that time, Cin (perhaps her second closest gal-pal) shouted over the den "Hey Bear, did ya know you are talking to the only woman in the world who ever got kicked out of a Hells Angels party for embarrassing them?!" Gabi's eyes never changed, her only acknowledgment of the statement was a slight, humorless grin, followed by a tap on the bar for another shot. A second later, a drunk junior executive something or other, perhaps 6'2", came over and said "That's one hell of an accomplishment, little lady!" and offered to buy us both a drink (undoubtedly mine was intended to temporarily diffuse any tension for long for him to assess if we were together, or simply in proximity). Gabi's eyes narrowed a bit further to 2/3's, as I thanked him for the offer. "Love to, but we're pretty close to leaving". About here, I had to piss like Seabiscuit on Lasix, and excused myself to the Men's room. Upon coming out, I walked back through the hallway, did a 45 degree turn to the right to run a straight azimuth to the bar, and then saw something that could not have taken four seconds seem to stretch/dilate to thirty.

He, on her right side, towering over her and slightly to her rear, lowering his left hand and placing his hand, casually, on her very expensive 38 D's. With a flick of her right middle finger, she slid a filled shot glass into the palm of her left hand (about a foot away), shifted her weight about a quarter of a step backwards, turned her shoulders roughly 30 degrees clock-wise, and slashed the open edge of her hand across the man's throat. The scary part, was that she did so with a economy of movement that would put a Philippina knife fighter to shame. I mean she dropped him like third period French!

Both the bouncer and I closed distance at about the same speed. Aside from a half a second evaluation to make sure that the guy was staying down, Gabi showed remarkably little emotion. She did a middle fingernail re transfer of the shot back into her right hand, knocked it back, and said "Ready to go?" She then looked at the bouncer, who was assessing the huge man down/ baby-doll standing thing. "It is ok if we go, right?!" Clearly the bouncer was in the process to defaulting to "bigger & male is automatically at fault" mode, and he waved us out.

I had parked my Dyna-Wide two over from her Lexus. "Two into one ThunderHeaders? Probably running 2-10 cams?" "2-11, actually." She did the obligatory "Fuckin' A" nod that all bikers give each other (whether they are impressed or not is moot, it's simple respect). Tell ya what, follow me to my house, let me change into "good n' proper", grab my chopper, and we'll sling-shot into Cave Creek."

Thirty-five minutes later, we were doing a high-speed burn on the 101, north to Cave Creek, her duct taped, totally ratted-out Triumph chopper screaming in protest at the pace. Three quarters of the way there, she pointed at the full moon, high in the midnight onyx of the AZ sky. She threw back her head, and let out a marrow-chilling howl that soared above the 115 db of our engines. Inexplicably, I did the same...

(to be continued)