Monday, April 19, 2010


5 am i am going to put the last of the garbage into the can (though it shouldn't be called a can anymore since it's made out of plastic )...ahem, container. last night was a big win for those blazers and today was to begin the translating of a story from chicken scratch to blog but as i dropped the trash turned to settle into a reading typing marathon what did i see? a chicken! it's chicken head bopping about like a parent whose lost their child, 'hey you see them (bop)? you over here you see anything (bop)'.
i had no idea there were chicken in the neighborhood. so i stand at the fence feeling the oats of american freedom and industry. it seemed to me, that no where else in the world could one watch a chicken so early in the morning without fear of a dictator or a bombing or a taliban leader wondering about your dancing history.
did you ever see that documentary 'arab star' where the lady gets voted off and for her final song dances? after the song she is assaulted by a whisper campaign, rolling eyes and also death threats. this woman feels the heat of the boiling water and calls home to mommy and daddy begging to come back. her parents agree, but think that the heat of the water is too hot and would much rather stay away from them. their house get's graffiti-ed with the word 'whore' and all for a dance!
what kind of assholes are against dancing? and how does everybody go along with it?
in america i could be watching that chicken drinking like a dope, using my medical marijuana and doing the chicken. a very heady morning of celebration to our lady liberty and our great freedoms.
soon after the chicken comes a rumbling truck. an ambulance. it slowly grumbles down the street with a flood light reading the house numbers, not moving fast enough to be a real emergency headlights dimmed as if trying to be polite but ruining it all with the floodlight.
after the ambulance comes a fire truck. nobody is moving quickly save for the chicken. being unsure whether it's good manners to stick my nose into the scene i watch around the tree at the corner of my yard. i can't tell anything. something happens doors are opened the firetruck backs and leaves. the ambulance goes up the street maybe 120 feet stops has a discussion with somebody in a hooded sweatshirt. i assume the murderer now allowed to leave scot free because there was not enough evidence only to later be caught by portland csi who will find a snot bubble dried in her ear that has enough dna.
so enough. it still hasn't moved. i don't see any body screaming or crying none of the neighbors are rattling their blinds and i have to use the toilet. as i turn i think about the chicken. it seems confused about what to do, as well. so i throw a pine cone in it's direction, one must always be aware that freedom comes at a price. we both scatter to our homes.
the ambulance finally has left.
i have decided to call one person a night. a new leaf in personal involvement hope i still have the white pages, though everybody has unlisted cell phone #'s now. random 10 digit dialing!
i am beginning to build apps for the iphone! go blazers! start story translating tomorrow or more off the cuffisims!

Thursday, April 8, 2010


i dropped dead after being struck on the head by a raccoon. it seems that, while i was nature hiking around mt. hood, an eagle grew tired of carrying it's heavy load and dropped it's dying lunch from it's talons. while studying the growth patterns of the blue pine a shadow grew over my head. i looked up, wondering if a thunder storm had moved in only to find a terrified teeth baring raccoon heading straight towards me. i ducked, covering my eyes and throat only to have it crash upon my head and start squealing gnashing and clawing about.
most men would have frozen up here but not i. back when i was 11 it was the pacific ocean and we were on a disneyland vacation. i rose from the water only to feel, what i thought, was a plastic bag on my head. it was no plastic bag but a giant three foot wide jelly fish. i coolly tossed him off and went about the business of evacuating my bladder while doing my best imitation of jesus christ and sprinting out of the water.
if you asked around and anyone told you that i screamed, well they are surely liars. what i did do was pull the animal from my scalp and toss him towards the woods. it was then that i turned, tripped over an overgrown log and tumbled off the side of the mountain.
i remember the fall but i do not remember the impact. if there was pain or embarrassment of any kind by soiling my fine hiking shorts or wooly socks i can not recall. what occurred was a falling, no screaming of any kind, then black and then i am here.
'where or what is this exactly?' you ask dear reader.
well we will start from here next time and begin, like inspectors with our fine magnifying glasses to figure it all out. for now, duty calls.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010


carol hampson was a tough nut to crack. she could not stand the idea of harold choosing his mustache. she was a plate thrower, a pure blood american woman. she could allow her husband his wolfman appetites so long as they were a team. 'damn you,' was a well worn carol hamspon phrase. she would damn harold for buying the wrong color curtain or working too many days and not spending more time with her.
my grandmother lover her husband. she was always presentable, hair combed, face washed and clothes were never sloppy. carol hampson would smile baring all her teeth, her cheeks would flush and her eyes would flash a spark when ever the thought of harold would cross her mind. she was a double armed squeeze hugger i can remember appearing on weekend or other school breaks to be swallowed in those arms before being presented with a snack or candy of some kind.
the hampson's followed the pattern of the wolfman before them. harold was very successful in the farming field but their true money was made in buying stocks just before the market was restored after the crash of 1920's. their home was massive and sat on hundreds of acres of land.
it should be stated that harold hampson, my grandfather, kept in his wallet a small collection of hair and on the entry way wall a large picture of himself sporting a large fluffy mustache. though i had only known him as clean shaven.
stories were whispered through the years about said mustache. one had it being an award winner of the highest grade, the other having it being the great devil of their relationship and almost the cause of it's ending. one could never be certain. carol hampson could put her foot down, and had left once whether he shaved and brought her back or she came back on her own accord you can't be sure but i am wagering on the former.
my grandmother was a great baker but either had a fantastic metabolisim or never ate more than a crumb of her cooking for she held her fighting weight all the way to her final moments. my grandfather, on the other hand, had a fine pot belly that would stand at attention and make a great empty barrel rattle when ever given a firm pat.
carol would always sit close to her husband and take his hand. he would never protest or refuse and it was the warmth of that love that caused not only their life but that of their children to prosper. she was a quick hot burn when sparked but never was anything but supportive when the full moon appeared and the hampson men would take to the fields howling and werewolfing about.
my strongest memory is during the summer night while the eldest hampson had his man paw across my shoulder. he was giving a dissertation on the most humane way to kill an animal. while listening i happened to glance over my should up at the house to see carol hampson in the window. she gave a thumbs up and a proud smile as i sank my teeth into the chicken's throat.
'oh damn we are going to get.' i heard my grandfather say.
'prize chicken, old lady hampson gonna take a wack at us. best thing to do is to tell her straight away.'
so we rushed to the door. i took my seat on the floor before her and as we told her of my mistake i did not feel the blast of her anger, instead her hand scratched the back of head near my ear as she sighed, 'oh well, we all make mistakes.'
'what is this? are pigs flying? carold hampson gone soft? maybe i should regrow my mustache,' my grandfather said smiling.
'you regrow that mustache and see whose gone soft,' my grandmother said and the tension in her fingers reinforced that she meant it.
'well harold a man's got to know when he's been beat.'
the rest of the night was spent in front of them, as they sat close on the coach her hand wrapped about his man paw her other hand scratching my wolfman head as the insects chirped their insect gossip along the night air.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010


my grandfather was a son of the soil. his joys were found in the pushing of the plow and the farming of the land. a wise old owl he figured out that if you had animals of your own nobody would care what you did with them.
during the boom times harold hampson thrived, during the lean times he did better than survive, for we all have stomachs to bow before. harold hampson grew hemp, he grew corn and various other fruit, vegetable and nuts. besides a mighty strength, the wolfman, maintains a superior night vision and incurable case of insomia. thus, while the other farmers were sleeping or out dining with their wives harold was in his field weeding, picking or any of the other demands a farm could bring.
it must be stated that harold hampson life was not all light and joy. he battled with his first wife over the existence of his mustache. she pressed upon him the joys of a clean shaven life and he upon her of the joy of the calloused hands and the stroking of a fine plump mustache at the end of the working day.
carol would shoot back, 'a woman could do no worse than having to kiss such a furry beast hello every morning.'
harold hampson would go for the throat with, 'well the door locks from the inside and there is no guard at the gate. if your looking for a clean shaven man, i suggest, you start your adventure as soon as possible for women only have so many child bearing years.'
'how dare you,' was a terse response.
harold hampson sat at the dinner table sucking the juice and blood from his steak. carol hampson would stand, would tap her foot would await his apology that was not coming.
'you rotten so and so, it would be a scandal,' she said.
'the tide is always changing, even rocks can not last forever,' he would respond.
'love cannot speak to you, your heart has gone cold to this...mustache?'
they are silent. harold hampson leans in his chair, mind drifting from answer to answer. developing a way to ease her mind and fill her heart with light and joy. hampson was developing an apology closing his eyes to formulate the proper words.
the silence was almost perfect. to raise it up to the level of absolute harold hampson hand absent mindedly found the mustache and he began stroking the sides. while his mind drifted he moved from the thinking man to the sleeping man. he supposed it had been a light cat nap, but when he awoke he found the morning sun had returned and that the night had swallowed dera carol hampson.
'all good things must come to an end,' he thought and returned to stroking his mustache listening to the sounds of the farm come alive.

Monday, April 5, 2010

4/2 wml prelude

i come from a long line of wolfman. the appropriate way to say, when talking of a group of us, is wolfman. there is no plural. we, wolfman, would appreciate if you could take this to heart. thank you in advance.
my great grandfater was a clock maker in london. i have never been to london so will not go into any great detail about cobble stone streets or terrible warm beer. as a matter of interest i have never been on an airplane for any great distance. i fear that a full moon could appear at any moment during such a long flight causing me to change and maybe eat the pilot. it was family lore that my great grandfather hid in the boiler snacking on mice and the loose negro attendant.
his name was harold hampson just as my father's name was harold hamson just as my name is harold hamson, the name goes down the family ladder as well as up all the way to the first harold hamson whose real pronunciation was whatever they translated harold hamson to. harold hamson the great grandfather to yours truly, appeared in new york and immediately felt the draw of the west. he would sit on a stone in the out lying lands and dream of what could be. he traced the moon light with his half man half wolf paw hands out over the expanse of tree to the black of the unmanned space.
though the forest and thousands of miles of land was not completely unattended was a fact based on your opinion of the indian. i, for one, have always believed in the equal standing and treatment of all humankind. why the atrocities faced by the red man and the negro would have sent me into a frenzy.
if you look through your history books, deep enough, you will find a hampson in the middle of every struggle for human rights. as wolfman of distinction and more than a little economic success we believe in giving back. not only for the christian ethic of our soul but also to repay the community, to reduce our guilt burden for the moments when our better angels have seceded from the body wolfman and we may have eaten the random orphan or working woman.
it should be noted, right up front, so no one can call your dear author a phony or a crafter of half truths, that wolfman maintain a constant struggle against their animal hearts. we are a community of aesthetics. we enjoy the arts and support them mightily. we enjoy reading on current events, political activity and taking part. yes, wolfman, come from a culture and familial history of interest and involvment. one could say that the ideals of the wolfman family have been coopted and applied by the most famous of american family. president kennedy would write to and on the rare opportunity visit with harold hampson to discuss matters of great national import.
it was a hampson that demanded the pursuit of the moon. it was the wolfman sent to cuba under the blanket of night to strong arm a young castro. why every president has been able to call a harold hampson a friend. this tradition was lost during the last two term president, who shall go nameless, that brought with him the witchcraft bastardization of american born again christianity.
for the last few years i have been hiding out, living in the portland oregon dreaming of the life to come. was this the end of the hampson life style? to go forward we must take time to reflect. there is more than a little to be gained by watching the river ala siddhartha and seeing where it might lead. when we have studied to our satisfaction we can then wade into it's deep waters of evolution and see what our history has for our future present in store.
as i sit on a stone in a small cave nestled in the bosom of mt. hood gnawing the femur of a fallen climber i return the western gaze of my grandfather from so long ago.
for whats to come we study what has been...