Someone I kinda, sorta, vaguely know was mauled to death a couple of days ago by one of his own tigers.

Ryan Easley:



Very long-term readers may remember I spent a good chunk of 2009 traveling with the Culpepper/Merriweather Circus, and that's where I met Ryan. He was one of Casey Cainan's proteges and when a painful divorce drove Casey to take himself & his tigers to Saudi Arabia, Ryan stayed on with Kelly Miller.

A very nice guy, Ryan couldn't have been kinder or more dedicated to the comfort of his animals, so if you're a PETA supporter or believe circuses exploit their animals—& I will concede: Some do—put a plug in it for now please. Thanks!

###

I think what it comes down to is the old story about the frog riding across the river on the scorpion's back. The scorpion turns on the frog & stings him to death because such is the scorpion's nature.

Tigers are predators.

You don't actually have to do anything to a tiger to get them to turn on you.

Tigers don't even have to think you're doing something to them to get triggered and turn on you.

Tigers will just turn on you because their innate preying & territorial instincts surface unpredictably.

Thus, tiger-training is a high-risk profession. I doubt very many tiger trainers make it to a ripe old age.

###

In other news, I am just rolling along on that old conveyor belt.

I did manage to clear the afternoon so I could labor a bit on the Work in Progress—Neal & Grazia are now standing in front of the old Sampson Opera House talking about sex—but first I must exercise.

And speaking of sex...

The real-life Daria is back from Switzerland, & I can't tell whether our texts are flirty.

They might be.

We both like gurlZ as much as we like boyZ sexually, and real-life Daria uses seduction kinda the way I use humor. Plus, of course, she's very beautiful.

I want to know everything about you, she texted from Switzerland. You’ve captured my imagination.

Hmmmmm...

I let her read Chapter 1 of the Work in Progress, and of course, that fascinated her—though I did go to great lengths to explain: The character is clearly based on you. But it's not you.

Most of the time, I feel like I am absolutely done with that part of my life (and good riddance!)

But every once in a while...

Dreamed I was in law school, & I had a big test coming up. F________ (also in the class) & I set out to acquire a massive outline that would surely allow us to pass the test—though I hadn't studied for it at all.

We went to this 1950-ish office building and pulled all the books we wanted to xerox. The bill for all the copying came to $766.

Then we waited for the copying to be done. And waited. And waited.

I think we waited overnight?

And at some point, F________ disappeared, and I was handed a few mimiographed pages that weren't going to help me at all, & I was in a complete panic because I didn't know the material, & it was an essay test, and there wasn't a single thing I'd be able to write, & I would flunk the examination, & God knows what would happen to me after that—

And then I remembered that this was the first of three exams. I could flunk this one & still pass the class—

And woke up feeling relieved.

I think the dream was inspired by Curtis Sittenfeld's flawed but still remarkable novel Prep, which I fell asleep reading.



Friday was the Hyde Park Community Garden's annual Harvest Dinner.

I neglected the garden horribly this year.

After Brian died, I pretty much neglected everything except boring, livelihood-related scutwork. (At times, it still feels inconceivable to me that he's dead. Brian was always off taking trips. Sometimes, I still feel as though he's off on a trip and will return...)

Anyway, Claude—bless his heart—took up the slack, watering and weeding the garden! Just take the harvest & donate it to the food pantry, I told him by email.

Even with all the donations, there were still a lot of tomatoes to harvest when I checked in Friday afternoon:



Not enough to justify going to all that trouble to make sauce, but still enough so I oughta do something ambitious with them.

###

The Harvest Dinner itself was somewhat sparsely attended this year.

Also, I found standing & serving for two hours somewhat physically uncomfortable—a sign that I'm getting old or a sign I need to exercise more? Hard to say.

The only thing of actual interest that happened is that Deb, the woman who's the head of the garden, ushered me aside to tell me how much she ❤️LUV❤️s me.

I've always had a kind of aversion to Deb. She does Good Works, but makes sure everyone knows how Good those Works are, which rubs me the wrong way. Also, she was a rabid Trump supporter in the last election, and how anybody who helps run a food pantry could support Trump is beyond me.

Anyway, I met and raised her effusiveness—No, Deb, it is you who are wonderful! Such an inspiration!—because my new policy is to keep my head down, network, and restrict all reveals of my true thoughts to situations where they may have some meaningful impact. How does it benefit the Cause to say to Deb, You fuckin' hypocrite! Get your hands off my sleeve? It doesn't. And I may find uses for my connection to her, she carries some heft in the community.

I should be setting up an Underground Railroad, right?

Send your trans children & grandchildren to me! I will make sure they are ushered to freedom in Canada!

###

The Work in Progress continues to move along nicely.

We are now into Grazia & Neal's introductory meeting. They are out touring the Rondout District in Kingston.

After that, I think we'll need one roadtrip—maybe the one I coaxed BB into taking me on to Pennsylvania when I wanted to see real live slag heaps.

And then I think there has to be one scene at Neal's house where Grazia offers to give Neal a massage, possibly preliminary to pouncing him, only to realize that they are firmly in the Sibling Zone from which there is no going back.

That will be the end of Chapter 2.

Chapter 3 will be Grazia in the ER during COVID. Somehow, I will have to introduce the other sister wife characters. Haven't worked out the action timeline for that one yet, but the end of Chapter 3 will be the end of Grazia first-person. Chapter 4 leaps into Daria first-person.

The real life Daria moved from Mexico City to San Francisco when she was 11.

But I am thinking the novel Daria will have to move to somewhere in the Northeast. Because if the way the novel Daria & Neal get together parallels the way the real-life Daria and Brian got together, it will be too-ooo-oooo complicated.

Out canvassing yesterday, Adrienne & I hit the foothills where road frontage gives few clues to the great tracts of land behind its ramshackle houses.

We only talked to three people, but we talked to them at length.

First up was a vigorous man who looked to be in his 70s. His accent placed him as an Eastern European transplant. He lives in the Peaceable Kingdom! Cats, goats, sheep, hens, and peacocks wandered the property; no dogs or horses, though, which I thought was an interesting choice.





He lives in the Decker House, which was built in 1730—very old for the New World!—and has its own New York State Historical marker:



He had a grievance: Over a year ago, the golf cart he uses to haul feed to the sheep who live on the back acres of his property was taken for a joy ride by some miscreant teenagers & ditched about a mile from his property. A neighbor discovered it, and not recognizing its provenance, alerted the police—who in this part of the boondocks, are actually state troopers. The state troopers hauled the golf cart 40 miles to Kerhonksen and are now demanding $400 for its release—which does strike me as horribly unfair! I mean, why should the victim of a crime be financially penalized as a result of that crime?

"They hear my accent, so they think I'm not real American," he said. "They say, 'Drop charges and we will give you back.' But I will not drop charges. I was psychologist, you know. I come over here, and they say, 'You cannot be psychologist, you must wash dishes.' So, I wash dishes." He shrugged. "I am not afraid of work. Work is good. I work hard. I am a happy man."

I doubt very much that Adrienne can do a thing for him, but, of course, we didn't tell him that.

###

The second person we talked to was a pleasant man with an eye-catching mustache that he actually waxes, who told us—a bit challengingly—that he worked as a guard at the maximum security prison up in Ellenville. "I'm 44 years old," he said. "I can't change careers. If I did, we wouldn't have this—" His sweeping gesture took in a paddock where horses stood flicking their tails and a small pond on which ducks & geese were getting into each other's faces. "We'd be crammed into a one-bedroom apartment in Middletown. I work 16-hour shifts. You're lucky you found me home today."

This guy almost certainly voted for Trump (I didn't ask), but he heard us out with good grace, remarking, "I think both parties suck frankly. I vote for individuals."

###

Our third conversation was with a man whose face was utterly unreadable. He had long grey hair but that is no longer a clue to anything.

About 10 minutes into the conversation, we were joined by his wife—who evidently had been waiting on the sidelines to make sure we weren't Jehovah's Witnesses. She was a lot more forthcoming and gave out old hippie vibes.

We talked for half an hour. About environmental matters, about the municipal water supply in the hamlet of Wallkill, currently under a boil advisory due to bacterial contamination, an issue that has gotten exactly zilch publicity. (It doesn't affect me; Icky has his own well.)

As we were leaving, the old hippie lady, Margaret, said, "I'd avoid going to the house next door if I were you. Our son lives there. He'll wave a shotgun at you. He's big on Charlie Kirk. In fact, he's blocked me on social media and cut off all communication because I think Charlie Kirk was an asshole." She laughed merrily.

###

The political situation in the U.S. is ominous. The Pentagon is mulling over making Turning Point chapters into military recruitment centers. That's all the U.S. really needs, right? An army of Christian, right-wing, white supremacists.

The FBI is apparently preparing to designate transgender people as “violent extremists.”

There's so little I can do about any of this.

I guess we will have to start doing what Black people in this country have been doing for the past 160 years: code-switching and being very, very careful not to make waves unless you 100% know that making waves is gonna lead to a productive end. The era of virtue signaling is over.