Back in ancient times, when ice was colder, fire was hotter and drink was stronger (and cheaper) than it is now — yes, the 1970s — I played drums in a fusion jazz band in Los Angeles. Did some really fun gigs at celebrated clubs like The Troubadour and The Whiskey-A-Go-Go.
Salmon are spawning now in Northwest Washington. Got off work before sunset and found quite a few making their way up Chuckanut Creek south of Bellingham. The light was fading and the lens wasn't all that fast, but I managed to get a couple of decent shots.
A female lays her eggs (below) as the male fertilizes them with 'milt.'
I was really tired. I didn't think I had either the energy to drag my aging buttocks out of bed or the photographic skill to get the shot I envisioned. My first attempt at shooting the 'Supermoon' was a complete disaster.
I was able to hold the camera fairly steady — no tripod here, babe — but left the shutter open too long and all I got was a bright white wafer dangling in the night sky.
I kayaked in the strong current of the deep fiord while Jennifer slept in, and I was startled when a killer whale surfaced only twenty yards away. “Don’t worry,” my guide assured, “these are resident orcas and they only eat fish.”
On October 9th, 2004, I set out from Snug Harbor aboard the Salish Sea Charter with several researchers from the Center For Whale Researchon San Juan Island. I had never seen a pod of killer whales in the open sea, but that soon changed.
The Rapture did not live up to my expectations. In fact, I was turned away upon arrival for arguing that my dog should also be admitted.
"For Christ's sake!" I howled. "What friggin' kind of heaven don't allow no dogs?"
The woman at the reception counter wore a heavily starched white uniform and looked a lot like Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. "I am sorry," she patronized, "but dogs simply aren't allowed in heaven."
You may find that these time honored reposts come in handy when confronted with the hostile, the sleazy and/or the patently stupid. For instance:
• Upon being dealt the age card by a snide, narcissistic hipster, as in, "Dude, are you kidding? You're too friggin' old." You must at once assure the pretentious offender, "Actually, I can guarantee that you won't look this good when you're my age."
"Really?" the sophomoric douchenozzle will invariably say, "how can you guarantee that?"
My name is Nova Silverman. I am — or was — a business associate and a close friend of Stephan Michaels'. I am sorry to report that, after enduring many months of public ridicule over his outspoken editorials and finger wagging admonishments, Stephan's battles with his critics and detractors have come to an abrupt end.