THE COLLECTOR’S DILEMMA
It was stuffy, and very quiet. I got the feeling that everyone in the ashram was deep into the traditional afternoon nap. Even my guru seemed to be dozing, but an eyelid fluttered when I knelt before his dais. Just the same I had to wait. A fly buzzed. A full minute passed. He finally spoke.
“I thought you were never coming back. You left in a snit last time.”
“Let’s not discuss that. This time I’ve come about a friend.”
“And I suppose he’s in trouble.”
“Maybe.”
“The friend isn’t you, is it?”
“No, no, he’s a nice guy.”
“Not you. All right. What’s he done?”
“Over his forty years in West Marin, he’s amassed a remarkable collection of native American artifacts. Now his house is full of the stuff, and it’s a very small house.”
The big guy scratched his naked stomach pensively. There was a lot to scratch. I waited.
“It’s hot.”
“Shall I open a window?” I asked eagerly.
“No, no. I mean the stuff is hot. He probably found these artifacts on federal or state lands and brought them home when he should have turned them in. The nice guy a thief.”
“God, no. It was all very innocent.”
“So where did this friend, who is not you, find these artifacts?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Humph. You’re wasting my time again. Your friend probably needs an attorney.”
“I don’t think that’s an option.”
“I suppose he’s tried donating the collection to a museum.”
“Yes, but there seems to be a tribal problem. Natives claim a proprietary interest in early American artifacts.”
“Yes, that can be embarrassing, particularly for a museum.”
We both sat for a long time, listening to the persistent fly. Finally I asked, “What would you do?”
“If I were a nice guy?”
“Yes.”
“I’d sneak all the stuff back and put each artifact exactly where I found it. Artifacts don’t mean much without location.”
“Wow! That would be a lot of work.”
“Plenty of time, and you’re still not doing anything else worthwhile.”
“Thanks a lot.” I got up to leave.
“Glad to help, and have a nice day.”
This time, I swear, I’m never coming back. Never.

“Have a nice day,” he said and went back to sleep.  ¶ 11:47 AM

  THE OREGON TURDS
You’ve probably heard about the fossilize turds found recently in some Oregon caves that have pushed back the earliest dates for the population of the Americas. The news is so stunning, that for several days I have been unable to cope with all the implications.
First off, however, I think, we should congratulate the State of Oregon. Find a few more of those things, and fame is sure to come your way, but don’t get too smug. Those same people were undoubtedly in Marin County at about the same time, but with our rules on septic tanks, the evidence will be scanty at best.
Secondly, it seems that our views on the cave-man culture have been all wrong. These early people weren’t living in caves. No, they were using them as latrines. Being hunters and gatherers, they were probably living in designated camps around lakes and along streams and went to the cave only as nature called.
Some of them, you can bet, were in the cave for a long time. I mean these things were fossilized. Yeah, ouch! And you think you’re constipated.
The discovery also explains cave paintings. The inspiration didn’t differ much from what prompts the graffiti you find in public toilets to this day. Of course, with all that time on their hands, some of the ancient taggers became accomplished artists.
I’ll bet the art experts are blushing. They dreamed up all these arcane meanings for the cave paintings, with lots of religious implications. One common suggestion was that shamans painted these things to propitiate the gods and make sure that game animals returned. Stuff and nonsense. What we seeing is a digestive problem, that’s what.
We can assume, that these were simple, gentle people, with a religion no more complex than sun-worship. Human sacrifice as a cultural necessity didn’t come along until the Mayans, Aztecs, and our modern system of government evolved.  ¶ 12:55 PM

  THE CITIZEN

Alert readers of my newsletters, yes both of you, have noticed that some of my screeds have been picked up and reprinted in The West Marin Citizen. This is due to the amazing Jim Kravets, editor of our community paper.
Somehow, this busy man finds time to go on the Web and read various Blogs. A while back, he saw one of my pieces and asked if he could use it. That’s how the collaboration started, and I must say that it’s been very pleasant ever since.
I’ve worked for many editors, and Jim ranks among the best. He respects writers, not always easy, and he’s thoughtful and courteous, rare traits for editors.
Jim and the Citizen both give me hope for the future of printed news. With all the changes going in journalism, it seems to me that small community papers like ours will be the ones carrying the torch, helping to protect the people’s interest, riding herd on the politicians, and slinging a little mud where and when it’s supposed to be slung - all the things the big papers used to do.
Meanwhile, back on the ground, I promise to avoid the current redundancy as best I can by putting stuff in this newsletter that Jim is not likely to pick up. You can take the following as samples of what I’m talking about.  ¶ 8:19 AM

  THE LOST LAND

The news that Purgatory no longer exists must come ss a shock to anyone who has done time recently in an Airport Terminal.
Oh, they try to make it pleasant. All the fast-food franchises are there. We have tax-free shops, money changers, ATMs, and news stands offering everything from stuffed animals and souvenirs to candy bars and magazines. Soft music plays. The bathrooms are generally clean. The floors shine with fresh polish. At all hours, there’s plenty of light.
But the atmosphere is so thick with uncertainty that it’s difficult to breath. No one knows where or when they’re going, or if. Here indeed is the place of lost souls - Purgatory with a vengeance. Take me back to West Marin.
Well, they don’t call it a “terminal” for nothing.
Anyone raised with the concept of Purgatory as a real place even before air travel was invented, must also be shocked, perhaps even angry. For centuries, folks have been praying, doing penance, propitiating, making contributions, and so forth, in order to guarantee that Grandpa, despite all his sins, is going to get that boarding pass.
The idea of Purgatory actually predates the Bible, but it was firmed up by Matthew and also by the Book of Revelations. Now it’s gone, and the event, I must say, didn’t really make big headlines. The saints must be pissed.
If anyone voted on this, it must have been done with secret ballot. The same method, by the way, also seems to have been used recently to add to the list of deadly sins. Telemarketing wasn’t even mentioned. If I’d had any say in the matter, that would have been right up there with incest and annoying the sheep. Telemarketers should go straight to hell without benefit of Purgatory, terminal, or whatever.
There. I’ve said it and I’m glad.  ¶ 11:09 AM

  NANNA AT GATE TWENTY-SEVEN

So many telephones.
So much hunger,
And greed,
And lust
And hate.

Now do you understand
Why those of us
With boarding passes
Are all smiling?
Rick Lyttle 08  ¶ 1:14 PM

  THE AGE OF POETS

The sun’s a killer now,
And it’s a great age for poets
Of the here lies ilk.

Here lies June Periwinkle Jones,
Dead at thirty.
Had she not dallied in the sun
She might have lived ‘til thirty-one.
Or pause for Robert Miller,
Who’s pride was a glorious tan.
He tried every available sin,
But it was a glorious tan that did him in.

True, poets, too, must leave the shade.
So how about a little night music?
Rick Lyttle 08  ¶ 12:33 PM

  GLOBAL WARMING

We know our sun will die,
So why not kill our planet first?
And let’s make sure no phlegm or blood
Survives to start the tears and pulse anew.
You fret for legacy, an egg of memorabilia
To find orbit ‘round some younger star.
Talk about an ego trip!
And which story would you tell, anyway?

No, all things considered,
I’ll settle for oblivion
Or perhaps a rose.
Rick Lyttle 08  ¶ 10:03 AM