MANIFESTO OF REAL NEWS
REAL NEWS CREED: A true journalist for Real News must stand
the test of time and yet be timeless, ageless in what measures the
strength and endurance of his or her soul. There is no ticking
certainty, no certified finality, no beginning, no end to the forces
that can be freed in the every-day acts of otherwise semi-conscious
writing to live, thinking to breathe. A true journalist should strive to
be part of the giving, receiving in return what he alone can handle,
with or without respect and retreat, always for a greater good,
trying forever to improve all that he touches, illuminate all that he
sees no matter the consequences. These are the thoughts that
haphazardly overcome the Real News editorial board through the
mounting days of drudgery and discovery into the hope for a new
era of re-examination and creative energy. To search for truth like
Don Quixote in all the wrong places sometimes serves to uncover
the secrets others keep from each other to get through their daily
lives without confrontation, or the half-truths that are better left
unsaid. Maybe the biggest yet is that there is a beginning or an end
to the unsettling process of communication, or a limit to the
illumination and transformation it can produce – biologically,
scatologicaly, spiritually, genetically, certainly psychologically,
socially and politically – even with such a limited-media service
such as the one Real News is loosely affiliated with. Words can
truly alter the course of human existence and its range of emotion –
and that’s what we (inclusive or not) at Real News do for a living,
whether we like the words and what they stand for, or even if we
cannot fully comprehend what they mean or how they might be
interpreted over time. Write until you can write no more. Stories are
everywhere.
––––––more––––––––
EDITOR’S NOTE: A word of truth should be as easy to distinguish
as a guitar note played in tune. It must have that lasting ring of a
crystal wine glass or a hand bell in a church choir, the resonating
satisfaction of perfect pitch and key, even if it starts out flat or sharp
or sometimes cracks in unsteady hands. Write long enough, true
enough, full of heart and spirit, and the story will become clear and
conscious, as in life. Write it and it shall be. Words just waiting to be
freed. Following this thread back through history there are
connections and intersections that lead to so many lives and places
they can barely be kept straight and accountable by solely
referencing them in my mind. Piles of philosophies, fragments of
religion, theology, history, fiction, music, greed, lust, wins, losses
and fantasies realized or vanquished, continuing to stack up in file
cabinets and leave a fading mark on a forest of thin notebooks – all
but illegible to any other mind’s eye but the one that guides the
hand of the creator. In the beginning was the Word, indeed, and
forever, always. Words endure.
WRITE REAL, THINK REAL
CHRONICLES OF A TRUE MAN
Summer comes quickly with hardly a sound, forcing my cold bones to bear
down at my desk and blanket my mind with warming thoughts of love, life
and light. Sparks only begin to flame in pages blown by the wind. Build a
fire and begin to live again.
These are the books of days, the summation of all those wayward ways
through which I have tried to find my life in small steps forward, one by
one. This is a timeless state, certainly with measured beginning but so far
clearly without end. “As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be,
world without end. Amen. Amen.”
A true man knows how to spark a fire from simple scraps and build it to the
sky from just one match. A true man runs on ahead, alone, rain or shine. A
true man endures with the love of God and the light of life to guide him. A
true man rebuilds his life from the rubble of lies that he lays to rest over the
time that runs behind. A true man stands no test of time but is timeless,
ageless in what inspires the strength and endurance of his soul.
There is no ticking certainty, no certified finality, no beginning, no end to
the forces a true man frees in the everyday act of conscious living. A true
man is always part of the giving, receiving in return what he alone can truly
handle, respect and retreat to greater purpose, trying forever to improve all
he touches, illuminate all he can see.
These are the thoughts that overcome me haphazardly through the
mounting days of drudgery and discovery. To search for truth only serves
to uncover the lies we tell ourselves to get through our daily lives. Maybe
the only truth I have found yet is that there is no beginning or an end to the
process of communication or a limit to the transformation it can create and
produce, biologically, spiritually, even genetically, certainly
psychologically, socially or politically; words can truly alter the course of
human existence.
Write long enough, true enough, full of heart and spirit, and the story will
become clear and conscious, as in life. Write it . . . and it shall be. Words
just waiting to be freed.
Following this path back through the past connects and intersects with so
many people and places now that I can barely keep them straight and
accountable by retracing them by my mind and at my hand. Piles of
philosophies, fragments of religion, theology, history, fiction and fantasy,
poetry and songs, all stacked up in my life’s file cabinet and marking up
my notebooks, all just about illegible to any mind’s eye but that controlled
by the hand of the creator. In the beginning was the Word, indeed, without
doubt but left up to interpretation.
Truth should be as easy to distinguish as a guitar note played in tune. It
must have that ring of truth like the ring of crystal, the handbell played in a
church choir. I find truth in music, without subjectivity or obscurity.
Combined with poetry, it is honest art, straight from the heart. A true man
is not afraid to sing with the Angels, even if all alone.
Returning from Big Sur, I have purchased a new acoustic/electric guitar
that I hope will carry me through new notes and songs I have yet to
experience or conceive. The trip with the two Toms had been part of our
annual spring adventure, this time down the Central California coast of my
boyhood. El Sur Grande, where nothing is false or pretentious, devious or
disingenuous. Everything is as it seems and it has always been. I have
walked the trails, the beaches, climbed the inviting branches of the low-
lying oaks, communed under the Redwoods, run along the diving line
where nature stands the test of time and consequence. Breathless and
windswept in a cyclone of senses, sucked into the immense scenery and
laid bare to the bone. It is a land that demands truth and a sea that will
surely cleanse anything left loose and impure from human consumption
and wanton waste.
I’d like to think I have returned purified, but the effects of the elements
linger: the blistered forehead and sunburned ears bear scars of exposure;
the laziness and uncaring surrender to the inevitable laws of nature,
casting aside any emotion that doesn’t center on simple survival in the
glory of the day at hand. After all, as a child I remember being part of mass
baptisms in the pools of the Big Sur River, laid unto the Lord with my sins
washing away to the Pacific. Could that ancient, all-knowing grove of
Redwoods at the river’s edge still recall me from then? Could they soothe
me still at the base of the waterfall we once dared to climb to find its futile
source? Have I lived a life that has measured up to their patient,
unrelenting strength and stoic character?
Floating on by back then, ears shut out by the slow movement of the river,
I could remember how the face of the sun blinded me through the
branches of the trees that opened a path of golden light to burn and blister
the skin left exposed. The next day at school, I had to explain over and
over how my nose and forehead and nothing else on my body had become
so sunburned overnight. In Big Sur, acts of God have a way of leaving a
long, lasting impression.
REAL NEWS CREED: A true journalist for Real News must stand
the test of time and yet be timeless, ageless in what measures the
strength and endurance of his or her soul. There is no ticking
certainty, no certified finality, no beginning, no end to the forces
that can be freed in the every-day acts of otherwise semi-conscious
writing to live, thinking to breathe. A true journalist should strive to
be part of the giving, receiving in return what he alone can handle,
with or without respect and retreat, always for a greater good,
trying forever to improve all that he touches, illuminate all that he
sees no matter the consequences. These are the thoughts that
haphazardly overcome the Real News editorial board through the
mounting days of drudgery and discovery into the hope for a new
era of re-examination and creative energy. To search for truth like
Don Quixote in all the wrong places sometimes serves to uncover
the secrets others keep from each other to get through their daily
lives without confrontation, or the half-truths that are better left
unsaid. Maybe the biggest yet is that there is a beginning or an end
to the unsettling process of communication, or a limit to the
illumination and transformation it can produce – biologically,
scatologicaly, spiritually, genetically, certainly psychologically,
socially and politically – even with such a limited-media service
such as the one Real News is loosely affiliated with. Words can
truly alter the course of human existence and its range of emotion –
and that’s what we (inclusive or not) at Real News do for a living,
whether we like the words and what they stand for, or even if we
cannot fully comprehend what they mean or how they might be
interpreted over time. Write until you can write no more. Stories are
everywhere.
––––––more––––––––
EDITOR’S NOTE: A word of truth should be as easy to distinguish
as a guitar note played in tune. It must have that lasting ring of a
crystal wine glass or a hand bell in a church choir, the resonating
satisfaction of perfect pitch and key, even if it starts out flat or sharp
or sometimes cracks in unsteady hands. Write long enough, true
enough, full of heart and spirit, and the story will become clear and
conscious, as in life. Write it and it shall be. Words just waiting to be
freed. Following this thread back through history there are
connections and intersections that lead to so many lives and places
they can barely be kept straight and accountable by solely
referencing them in my mind. Piles of philosophies, fragments of
religion, theology, history, fiction, music, greed, lust, wins, losses
and fantasies realized or vanquished, continuing to stack up in file
cabinets and leave a fading mark on a forest of thin notebooks – all
but illegible to any other mind’s eye but the one that guides the
hand of the creator. In the beginning was the Word, indeed, and
forever, always. Words endure.
WRITE REAL, THINK REAL
CHRONICLES OF A TRUE MAN
Summer comes quickly with hardly a sound, forcing my cold bones to bear
down at my desk and blanket my mind with warming thoughts of love, life
and light. Sparks only begin to flame in pages blown by the wind. Build a
fire and begin to live again.
These are the books of days, the summation of all those wayward ways
through which I have tried to find my life in small steps forward, one by
one. This is a timeless state, certainly with measured beginning but so far
clearly without end. “As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be,
world without end. Amen. Amen.”
A true man knows how to spark a fire from simple scraps and build it to the
sky from just one match. A true man runs on ahead, alone, rain or shine. A
true man endures with the love of God and the light of life to guide him. A
true man rebuilds his life from the rubble of lies that he lays to rest over the
time that runs behind. A true man stands no test of time but is timeless,
ageless in what inspires the strength and endurance of his soul.
There is no ticking certainty, no certified finality, no beginning, no end to
the forces a true man frees in the everyday act of conscious living. A true
man is always part of the giving, receiving in return what he alone can truly
handle, respect and retreat to greater purpose, trying forever to improve all
he touches, illuminate all he can see.
These are the thoughts that overcome me haphazardly through the
mounting days of drudgery and discovery. To search for truth only serves
to uncover the lies we tell ourselves to get through our daily lives. Maybe
the only truth I have found yet is that there is no beginning or an end to the
process of communication or a limit to the transformation it can create and
produce, biologically, spiritually, even genetically, certainly
psychologically, socially or politically; words can truly alter the course of
human existence.
Write long enough, true enough, full of heart and spirit, and the story will
become clear and conscious, as in life. Write it . . . and it shall be. Words
just waiting to be freed.
Following this path back through the past connects and intersects with so
many people and places now that I can barely keep them straight and
accountable by retracing them by my mind and at my hand. Piles of
philosophies, fragments of religion, theology, history, fiction and fantasy,
poetry and songs, all stacked up in my life’s file cabinet and marking up
my notebooks, all just about illegible to any mind’s eye but that controlled
by the hand of the creator. In the beginning was the Word, indeed, without
doubt but left up to interpretation.
Truth should be as easy to distinguish as a guitar note played in tune. It
must have that ring of truth like the ring of crystal, the handbell played in a
church choir. I find truth in music, without subjectivity or obscurity.
Combined with poetry, it is honest art, straight from the heart. A true man
is not afraid to sing with the Angels, even if all alone.
Returning from Big Sur, I have purchased a new acoustic/electric guitar
that I hope will carry me through new notes and songs I have yet to
experience or conceive. The trip with the two Toms had been part of our
annual spring adventure, this time down the Central California coast of my
boyhood. El Sur Grande, where nothing is false or pretentious, devious or
disingenuous. Everything is as it seems and it has always been. I have
walked the trails, the beaches, climbed the inviting branches of the low-
lying oaks, communed under the Redwoods, run along the diving line
where nature stands the test of time and consequence. Breathless and
windswept in a cyclone of senses, sucked into the immense scenery and
laid bare to the bone. It is a land that demands truth and a sea that will
surely cleanse anything left loose and impure from human consumption
and wanton waste.
I’d like to think I have returned purified, but the effects of the elements
linger: the blistered forehead and sunburned ears bear scars of exposure;
the laziness and uncaring surrender to the inevitable laws of nature,
casting aside any emotion that doesn’t center on simple survival in the
glory of the day at hand. After all, as a child I remember being part of mass
baptisms in the pools of the Big Sur River, laid unto the Lord with my sins
washing away to the Pacific. Could that ancient, all-knowing grove of
Redwoods at the river’s edge still recall me from then? Could they soothe
me still at the base of the waterfall we once dared to climb to find its futile
source? Have I lived a life that has measured up to their patient,
unrelenting strength and stoic character?
Floating on by back then, ears shut out by the slow movement of the river,
I could remember how the face of the sun blinded me through the
branches of the trees that opened a path of golden light to burn and blister
the skin left exposed. The next day at school, I had to explain over and
over how my nose and forehead and nothing else on my body had become
so sunburned overnight. In Big Sur, acts of God have a way of leaving a
long, lasting impression.
“Now there is a transition scene coming up and I think at the end of the day’s work tomorrow Cathy
will be ready to meet Adam. This is a brutal chronicle but necessary. It is not a pretty story but I think
it has vigor. I think my reader knows and still doesn’t know what is going to happen. So tomorrow you
will know, and, farther after that, you will know what happened after that. That will be the trick. If I
can keep the next part casual it will be a triumph because it is the most uncasual story in the world.
And the only way to do that well is to make it seem so ordinary that it creeps in on you. That is what I
am trying to do with this whole book – to keep it extremely low pitch and to let the reader furnish the
emotion.”
– John Steinbeck, “Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters”
REAL NEWS REVISITS GIRLS GONE WILD
12
Abrusc began to feel, dress and act a little like Tony Soprano as his weeks filled up with
counseling sessions – for himself, for his daughter, family counseling, referral counselors, team
counselors, young ones, older ones, overweight ones, skinny beautiful ones, ones that
specialized in eating disorders, one that specialized in depression, one that seemed like a
football coach, one that seemed like Captain Kangaroo. He knew his insurance bill would likely
balloon and his patience would be taxed to the limit, but he likewise realized that outside
opinions just like readers to his Web site were instrumental so that his vision of a better future
could rise into a symphony of reality, rather than the one-man band of emotions he was trying to
play out on his own accord. He was happy to have finally landed his daughter into a local center,
aptly called The Center, in Edmonds, close to school, home and D-Abrusc’s sensibilities, with a
younger woman counselor to hear her problems, someone that Abrusc instantly thought was one
of the world’s most beautiful women, a cross between Nicole Kidman and Julia Roberts. Sitting
alone with her in her office in his leather coat, chinos and close-cropped haircut to his forever-
balding roots, he thought Dr. Melfi had nothing on the woman who now was eager to help D-
Abrusc move on with her life.
His interest in women suddenly seemed renewed and they genuinely seemed interested in him,
especially those who heard his story as dispassionately as he could tell it. At the counseling
session, he told of how happy he was to find out he was going to have a daughter when his first
ex-wife was in mid-pregnancy; and about the troubles that occurred medically which required a
premature birth. About how the postpartum depression on all accounts led to events that couldn’
t be stopped without a divorce; about being a single father having to share custody, change
diapers, coach little leagues, mediate disputes, set boundaries and yet encourage freedom of
love, expression and personal growth. About how the daughter was always on the end of
everyone’s emotional plane, a mother who remarries and then brings in a new family to share
her space and love, a father who sometimes is too permissive to make up for all the time he can
not be with his children full-time, step-parents who always seem to be impediments to personal
space and resentful of youthful indiscretions. He talked about his impending divorce and the
notion that D-Abrusc felt a lot of the blame from the break-up of her mother’s second marriage,
how that had come out very forcefully that last time they tried family counseling; About how he
worried that his daughter had been shopped around to far too many counselors, psychiatrists,
behaviorists, nutritionists, therapists, doctors and nurses in some sort of search for a magic
potion or diagnosis that would change everything and make D-Abrusc’s world fairy-tale safe and
sane. He felt like he could tell this new woman counselor in his life and his daughter’s life
anything and everything she wanted to know. Had she not been wearing a wedding ring, he
would have proposed right when the session ended, especially after she praised his efforts as a
father and his willingness to be her client, too, in the effort to keep his daughter focused and
moving through her last year and a half of high school.
But even keeping her in counseling at The Center became an ordeal that required Tony Soprano-
like focus to ward off attempts to take D-Abrusc elsewhere (met with brutal indifference and a
shrug by the rent-a-counselor-of-the-month) and then disputes over how she was going to get
there and the kind of treatment that was being proposed even before any was attempted. Now, a
full month into the divorce, the counseling was catching up again with real life and the women in
Abrusc’s life were reaching the complicated stage where he knew something had to give.
Usually, it was Abrusc, who had turned the other cheek so many times now he never really knew
if he were about to be kissed or slapped in the face once again.
Eating dinner later that night at Tom M’s house, where “Girls Gone Wild No. 4” was playing on
DVD when he entered, Abrusc retreated into his male cocoon where counseling was a forbidden
subject of discourse. When he suggested at one point during a four-way naked bout of vixens
on whipped cream that he was considering the idea of going through marriage or divorce
counseling with his estranged wife No. 2, Tommy just looked at him like he’d gone stark raving
out of his mind:
“After what Angelica did to you? Who’s going to pay for it? You are. Can you ever see yourself
going back there? How can you think that she won’t just do the same thing again?”
“Turn that off. Let’s listen to Ryan Adams. I have the new CD. I can’t watch naked women in the
state I’m in. And I’m not up to thinking any more about counseling of any kind.”
“That’s for sure if you’re thinking about going through marriage counseling after you’re already
divorced. You should be looking at some of these younger babes. We can listen to music with
the sound down. But you’ve got to check out the scene in the shower.”
“Let me sing a song for you,
A song that’s worth the dreaming.
Don’t waste my time.
This is it.
This is really happening, happening.”
– Ryan Adams, “This Is It”
After the Girls Gone Wild had ended, Tommy slipped on “A Mighty Wind” without sound since
they had watched the DVD the night he had first come over after being locked out and banished
from his home. Like that night, they had a roaring fire of scrub alder from Tommy’s backyard
kicking up the heat along with the wine and the spicy stroganoff concoction. After Ryan ended,
Abrusc handed over a mystery CD – Abrusc’s own original recordings with the latest songs he’d
rewritten to more accurately reflect how he felt about the breakup of his marriage. Even Abrusc
couldn’t have believed that Tommy would not only listen to the full 78 minutes of music but hear
the influences of Dylan, Cohen, Reed, Neil, Bruce, Petty even, all running through a sound that
even Abrusc was surprised sounded so full and rich and packed with emotion amplified to his
ears for the first time on a quality stereo system.
“That doesn’t even sound like you singing,” Tommy said, as Abrusc sang along in harmony to
prove that it truly was his signature sound, even the off-key, gravel-voiced miscues that he just
plowed right through. Under a bottle of Chardonnay, Tommy thought they were great and that
was enough for Abrusc. He never cared about how big the audience was, only how great the
songs could become now that – like his entire life – everything was becoming open for public
inspection and consumption. He would never sell his soul, but that wouldn’t keep him from
singing and writing from deep within it and letting it wander wherever the spirit would move
him.
REAL NEWS ABOUT THE INVISIBLE WOMAN: Returning back to his apartment lightheaded and
vulnerable thinking of a few Girls Gone Wild, Abrusc plopped into bed and began to reread a few
more of the old love letters of his life to put the arousal in the proper place and perspective. He
ended back on Page 12 of the 23-page opus she had written him, again at a time when he was
thinking about living life alone rather than with his wife-to-be:
“So it seems we wax and wane on the issue of what our intimacy is. We move close and become more
enmeshed and (remember this is my perspective) there is some critical point that is breached and you drop
out of sight. I see you once a week and bits and pieces of the weekend, becoming the invisible woman.
“You tell me that I don’t demand enough from you. I don’t call you enough, initiate activities, or state my
needs so that you might respond to them. You think that I don’t appreciate your need to go running, catch
up with friends, or otherwise just hang out. You have a reasonable fear and concern. Leaving your marriage
might seem empty and in the end a futile act if you’ll wind up repeating the patterns of our marriage.
“I’ve tried to put it to you that I’m not opposed to your having a life larger than our relationship. I think I
really do understand even if I don’t live my life that way . . . I’d like to be more rewarded in my activities, too.
What’s more is that I’ve always lived that way and if I’m not doing it now, or haven’t very much, is largely a
combination of circumstances. You’re a much more public person than I am at this moment. But to put it in
perspective, I’ve been a visible and public person, too.”
Another part of the letter restated the fears that still haunted him, still hounded him, still came
true 15 years after the fact. It was the issue that would certainly always cloud any attempt at
finding any common ground again:
“After a time, we re-established a certain level of loving intimacy and then you had to have a place stable
and secure enough to better your relationship with your children. And you withdrew, which caused me
confusion because we didn’t talk about the dynamics. When we did talk, you told me to stop feeling sorry
for myself, to stop my misinterpretation of your motives, how you didn’t feel comfortable in my space
because it wasn’t your own. You felt like I didn’t really want you there. You didn’t know if you ever wanted to
marry again. The last statement really shocked me because it was the antithesis of what you had put out
before. It made me feel quite misunderstood about what you considered my intentions and expectations.”
There he was alone at home in bed just like always, with the same statement being all-the-more
valid 15 years down the road. He remembered how she would come over and sneak into his bed
before work in the mornings, draped naked in that full-length blue fox fur coat that would leave
long white hairs on his sheets and in his teeth. He recalled how she would change the laces and
the positions and the sheets nightly whenever he would visit, where they would start on the
couch, move to the floor and then to the bedroom only as a last resort where exhaustion and
exhilaration would leave them sleeping peacefully, snoring and restlessness aside. Girls Gone
Wild, indeed, and he wished for the first time in a long, long, long drought that she would sneak
back into his bed for at least one final ride with destiny. It was a chapter he knew he was
destined to write only in his dreams.
“And everybody knows the way I walk,
And knows the way I talk
And knows the way I feel about you
It’s all a bunch of shit
It’s totally fucked up
I’m totally fucked up.
Wish you were here.”
– Ryan Adams, “Wish You Were Here”
“Human beings make strange fauna and flora. From a distance they appear
negligible; close up they are apt to appear ugly and malicious. More than
anything they need to be surrounded with sufficient space – space even more
than time.”
– Henry Miller, the second-to-last paragraph in “Tropic of Cancer”
will be ready to meet Adam. This is a brutal chronicle but necessary. It is not a pretty story but I think
it has vigor. I think my reader knows and still doesn’t know what is going to happen. So tomorrow you
will know, and, farther after that, you will know what happened after that. That will be the trick. If I
can keep the next part casual it will be a triumph because it is the most uncasual story in the world.
And the only way to do that well is to make it seem so ordinary that it creeps in on you. That is what I
am trying to do with this whole book – to keep it extremely low pitch and to let the reader furnish the
emotion.”
– John Steinbeck, “Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters”
REAL NEWS REVISITS GIRLS GONE WILD
12
Abrusc began to feel, dress and act a little like Tony Soprano as his weeks filled up with
counseling sessions – for himself, for his daughter, family counseling, referral counselors, team
counselors, young ones, older ones, overweight ones, skinny beautiful ones, ones that
specialized in eating disorders, one that specialized in depression, one that seemed like a
football coach, one that seemed like Captain Kangaroo. He knew his insurance bill would likely
balloon and his patience would be taxed to the limit, but he likewise realized that outside
opinions just like readers to his Web site were instrumental so that his vision of a better future
could rise into a symphony of reality, rather than the one-man band of emotions he was trying to
play out on his own accord. He was happy to have finally landed his daughter into a local center,
aptly called The Center, in Edmonds, close to school, home and D-Abrusc’s sensibilities, with a
younger woman counselor to hear her problems, someone that Abrusc instantly thought was one
of the world’s most beautiful women, a cross between Nicole Kidman and Julia Roberts. Sitting
alone with her in her office in his leather coat, chinos and close-cropped haircut to his forever-
balding roots, he thought Dr. Melfi had nothing on the woman who now was eager to help D-
Abrusc move on with her life.
His interest in women suddenly seemed renewed and they genuinely seemed interested in him,
especially those who heard his story as dispassionately as he could tell it. At the counseling
session, he told of how happy he was to find out he was going to have a daughter when his first
ex-wife was in mid-pregnancy; and about the troubles that occurred medically which required a
premature birth. About how the postpartum depression on all accounts led to events that couldn’
t be stopped without a divorce; about being a single father having to share custody, change
diapers, coach little leagues, mediate disputes, set boundaries and yet encourage freedom of
love, expression and personal growth. About how the daughter was always on the end of
everyone’s emotional plane, a mother who remarries and then brings in a new family to share
her space and love, a father who sometimes is too permissive to make up for all the time he can
not be with his children full-time, step-parents who always seem to be impediments to personal
space and resentful of youthful indiscretions. He talked about his impending divorce and the
notion that D-Abrusc felt a lot of the blame from the break-up of her mother’s second marriage,
how that had come out very forcefully that last time they tried family counseling; About how he
worried that his daughter had been shopped around to far too many counselors, psychiatrists,
behaviorists, nutritionists, therapists, doctors and nurses in some sort of search for a magic
potion or diagnosis that would change everything and make D-Abrusc’s world fairy-tale safe and
sane. He felt like he could tell this new woman counselor in his life and his daughter’s life
anything and everything she wanted to know. Had she not been wearing a wedding ring, he
would have proposed right when the session ended, especially after she praised his efforts as a
father and his willingness to be her client, too, in the effort to keep his daughter focused and
moving through her last year and a half of high school.
But even keeping her in counseling at The Center became an ordeal that required Tony Soprano-
like focus to ward off attempts to take D-Abrusc elsewhere (met with brutal indifference and a
shrug by the rent-a-counselor-of-the-month) and then disputes over how she was going to get
there and the kind of treatment that was being proposed even before any was attempted. Now, a
full month into the divorce, the counseling was catching up again with real life and the women in
Abrusc’s life were reaching the complicated stage where he knew something had to give.
Usually, it was Abrusc, who had turned the other cheek so many times now he never really knew
if he were about to be kissed or slapped in the face once again.
Eating dinner later that night at Tom M’s house, where “Girls Gone Wild No. 4” was playing on
DVD when he entered, Abrusc retreated into his male cocoon where counseling was a forbidden
subject of discourse. When he suggested at one point during a four-way naked bout of vixens
on whipped cream that he was considering the idea of going through marriage or divorce
counseling with his estranged wife No. 2, Tommy just looked at him like he’d gone stark raving
out of his mind:
“After what Angelica did to you? Who’s going to pay for it? You are. Can you ever see yourself
going back there? How can you think that she won’t just do the same thing again?”
“Turn that off. Let’s listen to Ryan Adams. I have the new CD. I can’t watch naked women in the
state I’m in. And I’m not up to thinking any more about counseling of any kind.”
“That’s for sure if you’re thinking about going through marriage counseling after you’re already
divorced. You should be looking at some of these younger babes. We can listen to music with
the sound down. But you’ve got to check out the scene in the shower.”
“Let me sing a song for you,
A song that’s worth the dreaming.
Don’t waste my time.
This is it.
This is really happening, happening.”
– Ryan Adams, “This Is It”
After the Girls Gone Wild had ended, Tommy slipped on “A Mighty Wind” without sound since
they had watched the DVD the night he had first come over after being locked out and banished
from his home. Like that night, they had a roaring fire of scrub alder from Tommy’s backyard
kicking up the heat along with the wine and the spicy stroganoff concoction. After Ryan ended,
Abrusc handed over a mystery CD – Abrusc’s own original recordings with the latest songs he’d
rewritten to more accurately reflect how he felt about the breakup of his marriage. Even Abrusc
couldn’t have believed that Tommy would not only listen to the full 78 minutes of music but hear
the influences of Dylan, Cohen, Reed, Neil, Bruce, Petty even, all running through a sound that
even Abrusc was surprised sounded so full and rich and packed with emotion amplified to his
ears for the first time on a quality stereo system.
“That doesn’t even sound like you singing,” Tommy said, as Abrusc sang along in harmony to
prove that it truly was his signature sound, even the off-key, gravel-voiced miscues that he just
plowed right through. Under a bottle of Chardonnay, Tommy thought they were great and that
was enough for Abrusc. He never cared about how big the audience was, only how great the
songs could become now that – like his entire life – everything was becoming open for public
inspection and consumption. He would never sell his soul, but that wouldn’t keep him from
singing and writing from deep within it and letting it wander wherever the spirit would move
him.
REAL NEWS ABOUT THE INVISIBLE WOMAN: Returning back to his apartment lightheaded and
vulnerable thinking of a few Girls Gone Wild, Abrusc plopped into bed and began to reread a few
more of the old love letters of his life to put the arousal in the proper place and perspective. He
ended back on Page 12 of the 23-page opus she had written him, again at a time when he was
thinking about living life alone rather than with his wife-to-be:
“So it seems we wax and wane on the issue of what our intimacy is. We move close and become more
enmeshed and (remember this is my perspective) there is some critical point that is breached and you drop
out of sight. I see you once a week and bits and pieces of the weekend, becoming the invisible woman.
“You tell me that I don’t demand enough from you. I don’t call you enough, initiate activities, or state my
needs so that you might respond to them. You think that I don’t appreciate your need to go running, catch
up with friends, or otherwise just hang out. You have a reasonable fear and concern. Leaving your marriage
might seem empty and in the end a futile act if you’ll wind up repeating the patterns of our marriage.
“I’ve tried to put it to you that I’m not opposed to your having a life larger than our relationship. I think I
really do understand even if I don’t live my life that way . . . I’d like to be more rewarded in my activities, too.
What’s more is that I’ve always lived that way and if I’m not doing it now, or haven’t very much, is largely a
combination of circumstances. You’re a much more public person than I am at this moment. But to put it in
perspective, I’ve been a visible and public person, too.”
Another part of the letter restated the fears that still haunted him, still hounded him, still came
true 15 years after the fact. It was the issue that would certainly always cloud any attempt at
finding any common ground again:
“After a time, we re-established a certain level of loving intimacy and then you had to have a place stable
and secure enough to better your relationship with your children. And you withdrew, which caused me
confusion because we didn’t talk about the dynamics. When we did talk, you told me to stop feeling sorry
for myself, to stop my misinterpretation of your motives, how you didn’t feel comfortable in my space
because it wasn’t your own. You felt like I didn’t really want you there. You didn’t know if you ever wanted to
marry again. The last statement really shocked me because it was the antithesis of what you had put out
before. It made me feel quite misunderstood about what you considered my intentions and expectations.”
There he was alone at home in bed just like always, with the same statement being all-the-more
valid 15 years down the road. He remembered how she would come over and sneak into his bed
before work in the mornings, draped naked in that full-length blue fox fur coat that would leave
long white hairs on his sheets and in his teeth. He recalled how she would change the laces and
the positions and the sheets nightly whenever he would visit, where they would start on the
couch, move to the floor and then to the bedroom only as a last resort where exhaustion and
exhilaration would leave them sleeping peacefully, snoring and restlessness aside. Girls Gone
Wild, indeed, and he wished for the first time in a long, long, long drought that she would sneak
back into his bed for at least one final ride with destiny. It was a chapter he knew he was
destined to write only in his dreams.
“And everybody knows the way I walk,
And knows the way I talk
And knows the way I feel about you
It’s all a bunch of shit
It’s totally fucked up
I’m totally fucked up.
Wish you were here.”
– Ryan Adams, “Wish You Were Here”
“Human beings make strange fauna and flora. From a distance they appear
negligible; close up they are apt to appear ugly and malicious. More than
anything they need to be surrounded with sufficient space – space even more
than time.”
– Henry Miller, the second-to-last paragraph in “Tropic of Cancer”
REAL NEWS WRITING
AND SOME FICTION, TOO
AND SOME FICTION, TOO
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..
“This is the California that men dreamed of years ago, this is the Pacific that
Balboa looked out on from the Peak of Darien, this is the face of the earth as the
Creator intended it to look.”
– Henry Miller, from “Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch”
BIG SUR, Calif. – Easy-going Aengus Wagner can run the 26 miles of heart-
stopping California coastline from Big Sur to Carmel faster than it takes most
sight-seeing tourists to experience one of the most breathless drives on the
Pacific Coast.
For the Big Sur native, it’s sheer joy to truly feel a part of the ageless
landscape. Alone, at one with the elements, seemingly peacefully insignificant
at ground level.
“It gets lonely,” says Wagner, who covered the course in exactly two hours, 59
minutes, 55 seconds, good for a seventh place in the 35-39 age category at the
annual Big Sur Marathon in late April. “I’m just out there smiling, but that’s the
way I feel about life anyway.”
The marathon, which has become an international event that draws some of
the best distance runners in the world, is the only human endeavor aside from
major construction that ever completely closes Scenic Highway 1 (for five
hours on a busy Sunday morning), and Wagner has run six of the 18 races as
the carefree but still very competitive local favorite.
From the redwoods to the overpowering sage, oak and poppy-covered hills, to
the majestic power of the pounding surf against weathered cliffs of granite and
ocean-carved sandstone, it’s hard to resist an opportunity to feel the earth give
way to the sea under your very feet.
“Spring in Big Sur is pretty magical,” Wagner says from his ocean-view Big Sur
home. “You get to run in the mountains above the ocean, and after it rains and
the sun comes out, you get all the sagebrush smells coming down from the
hills. It’s so wonderful when you get that one little moment when it just clears
and you can feel the steam coming off the earth.”
This is California without freeways, where the widely scatter new homes have
to be built so they cannot be seen from the winding two-lane highway, fiercely
protected as a “critical viewshed.” Locals like to say that satellite photos of the
Pacific West show nearly a solid line of light and freeway from Vancouver, B.C.
to San Diego, with the lone exception being the peaceful fog-shrouded night
skies over the lonely stretch of Highway 1 from Carmel to Morro Bay.
When he’s not running or looking out in solitude from his perch above the Big
Sur redwoods, Wagner is tending tables at Nepenthe restaurant about halfway
along that route, dispensing local information and directions and generally
spreading good will from the local landmark literally built into the trees and cliff
that it sits on. An open mind, friendly service and high sprits come with the
menu at the longtime family owned establishment, which once catered to the
likes of literary giant Henry Miller and still stands the test of time – like most
things in Big Sur.
Always isolated by the rugged landscape, the coastline south of Carmel came
to be known by the early Spanish explorers and missionaries as El Sur Grande,
or The Big South. Settled in the 1770s, it took until 1937 to build a road
connecting one side with the other. Today, it remains one of the most scenic,
protected and lightly inhabited stretches of California the way it once was, from
the Carmel Mission, through the preserved 1,276-acre grounds of Point Lobos,
to the southernmost beaches where elephant seals sun themselves only yards
from the highway, this seemingly lonely paradise has stood the test of the
changing tides of both nature and human will.
Starting with the marathon on April 27th (running a mere 5k along the route to
the cross that marks the spot where Spaniards first set foot on the milk-white
sands of sheltered Carmel River beach), we headed south on Highway 1 and
encountered Wagner on the Nepenthe deck on a cloudless afternoon, chasing
off the daring bluejays that prey on the unsuspecting visitors nibbling on
outdoor hour devours.
“I have two sides. There is the sociable character, and the restaurant takes care
of that. And then I get up here at home on the mountain, and I don’t want to get
into my car. I feel pretty lucky,” Wagner said.
We felt pretty lucky, too, spending seven days camping and exploring a land
where time, like the redwoods, seems to stand still and proud. Going early in
the week, we had our pick of two of the most diverse campsites anyone could
ask for – especially camping from a rented van: First, along the soothing pools
of the Big Sur River, pitching tents under bay, sycamores and redwoods for
shelter; and then on a grass and sage-covered bluff above the ocean, ringed
with lupines, golden poppies and ice plant in bloom, with a tiny waterfall
through a lone stand of redwoods and Kirk Creek running behind us.
The all-encompassing solitude is serene and magnificent, and slow is how
everything works. Don’t expect to find cell phone service or places to hook up
to the Internet or many RV pads out here. Some of the best camping spots
have no electricity or other amenities, and emergency services can be an hour
away. There are no fast-food chain restaurants, no stops for gas for 40 miles,
no drive-through latte stands (nothing with a Starbucks label). What you will
find is much that is well-preserved and working just fine on its own time and
pace with its own sense of place.
On the first day we pulled in to camp at the Pfeiffer-Big Sur State Park, the
historic redwood lodge was surrounded by Packards, Lincolns, Pierce Arrows,
a Nash and a Rolls, Cadillacs, Studebakers, dozens of classic cars in mint
condition making their way up the highway and stopping for the night, along
with dinner in the spacious lodge banquet room overlooking the river.
The next morning, joining a group hike of the Classic Car Club of America up
the redwood-lined short trial to Pfeiffer Creek Falls, tour organizer Pat
McCormick stopped to catch her breath. As we scampered down, having
crossed a two-mile view trail all alone that morning in a route through ancient
oak and wildflowers of every color and fragrance imaginable, we promised the
group they didn’t have far to hike, and that the three-tiered falls were certainly
worth the effort.
The tour with the 55 classics – 12 from the Northwest – started in Ventura,
stopped at Morro Bay, Hearst Castle in San Simeon, Big Sur and Pacific Grove,
motoring out to the Monterey Bay Aquarium on Cannery Row, with some cars
visiting the artichoke fields of the Salinas Valley. It was nearly the opposite
route we would travel on our camping journey. For many, the highlight was
staying in Big Sur, where the cars seemed to belong and could easily roll along
the highway, with 45 mph probably the average speed.
“We wanted to show people a whole different point of view about California,
that we’re more than the Hollywood and LA-LA land that they might have read
about,” McCormick said of her motivation for planning the unique tour. “We
went by all the groves and the crops, through the artichoke fields. ‘So that’s
what an artichoke looks like?’”
Fresh artichokes, fresh fish just delivered from the boats at Morro Bay, fresh air
and organic fruits on the view patio, free-roaming ranges, free thinking.
At the Henry Miller Library, a literary feast fits naturally with a living, breathing,
ever-evolving sculpture garden and bookstore, festival grounds and museum-
like tribute to one of Big Sur’s most legendary residents. There’s the Big Sur
Jazzfest every May, and plenty of art galleries, more luxurious
accommodations and restaurants tucked along the route; most notably
Deetjen’s Big Sur Inn, the Big Sur River Lodge, Ventana Inn & Spa, Ragged
Point Inn, and Nepenthe.
But nothing except the mighty Pacific itself can compare to the view of one of
the most audacious man-made edifices on the West Coast – the still-standing
legacy of Hearst Castle at San Simeon, lording over the southern-most tip of El
Sur Grande. Today, it seems unfathomable that such a collection of rare and
ancient artifacts and the entire 250,000-acre ranch estate, private zoo and
castle grounds could have been pieced together on such an isolated bluff
above the Pacific.
This was to be our destination point, partially because I happen to work for a
Hearst newspaper and am an avid student of the history of journalism in the
West, but mostly because on a clear day there might be no more magnificent
spot where land and man meet the sea in something that supercedes all that
has been contemplated since.
It is the oddest theme park, all built on publishing, broadcasting, movies and
William Randolph Hearst’s desire to live like a king with the able help of
architect Juila Morgan. The only drawback is that the tours last a mere two
hours and you leave wishing you could spend all day lounging on the ocean-
view Neptune Pool with pristine Greek marble goddesses surrounding you
amid the blooming roses and, plum, cherry, peach and lemon trees.
With the castle gates closing promptly at 6 p.m., it’s best to head back north up
the coast to Nepenthe to catch the sunset at the edge of the continent, where
the ocean seems to lap up gently into the hardened face of the Santa Lucia
Mountains. Open since 1949, the roadside viewpoint also harbors a treasure
shop of artistic wonders, an outdoor cafe and coffee terrace, with the main
establishment above all else.
In Greek, Nepenthe means “isle of no care,” a place to find surcease from
sorrow, according to the founders, who had help from a student of Frank Lloyd
Wright’s to design their living and breathing part of the Big Sur experience.
Wagner has little desire to live or work elsewhere, but senses some creeping
changes in the winds and tides.
“In the last 10 years, there has been a real big boom of money coming in for
second homes. Most of those are tucked behind gates and are located in the
hills far from view of the highway,” Wagner said.
Later at night, however, with a long-burning seasoned oak fire ushering in the
stars from our seemingly private but very publicly-owned ocean bluff at Kirk
Creek campground, it was nearly impossible to find another sign that life on
Highway 1 had changed much over the years in Big Sur – even with major
events like a marathon, classic car tour and jazz festival bringing a crowded
official end to the tourist off-season along The Big South byway.
“That season is getting shorter and shorter from winter to spring,” Wagner said
ruefully. “The dots are getting closer and closer to connecting.”
“This is the California that men dreamed of years ago, this is the Pacific that
Balboa looked out on from the Peak of Darien, this is the face of the earth as the
Creator intended it to look.”
– Henry Miller, from “Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch”
BIG SUR, Calif. – Easy-going Aengus Wagner can run the 26 miles of heart-
stopping California coastline from Big Sur to Carmel faster than it takes most
sight-seeing tourists to experience one of the most breathless drives on the
Pacific Coast.
For the Big Sur native, it’s sheer joy to truly feel a part of the ageless
landscape. Alone, at one with the elements, seemingly peacefully insignificant
at ground level.
“It gets lonely,” says Wagner, who covered the course in exactly two hours, 59
minutes, 55 seconds, good for a seventh place in the 35-39 age category at the
annual Big Sur Marathon in late April. “I’m just out there smiling, but that’s the
way I feel about life anyway.”
The marathon, which has become an international event that draws some of
the best distance runners in the world, is the only human endeavor aside from
major construction that ever completely closes Scenic Highway 1 (for five
hours on a busy Sunday morning), and Wagner has run six of the 18 races as
the carefree but still very competitive local favorite.
From the redwoods to the overpowering sage, oak and poppy-covered hills, to
the majestic power of the pounding surf against weathered cliffs of granite and
ocean-carved sandstone, it’s hard to resist an opportunity to feel the earth give
way to the sea under your very feet.
“Spring in Big Sur is pretty magical,” Wagner says from his ocean-view Big Sur
home. “You get to run in the mountains above the ocean, and after it rains and
the sun comes out, you get all the sagebrush smells coming down from the
hills. It’s so wonderful when you get that one little moment when it just clears
and you can feel the steam coming off the earth.”
This is California without freeways, where the widely scatter new homes have
to be built so they cannot be seen from the winding two-lane highway, fiercely
protected as a “critical viewshed.” Locals like to say that satellite photos of the
Pacific West show nearly a solid line of light and freeway from Vancouver, B.C.
to San Diego, with the lone exception being the peaceful fog-shrouded night
skies over the lonely stretch of Highway 1 from Carmel to Morro Bay.
When he’s not running or looking out in solitude from his perch above the Big
Sur redwoods, Wagner is tending tables at Nepenthe restaurant about halfway
along that route, dispensing local information and directions and generally
spreading good will from the local landmark literally built into the trees and cliff
that it sits on. An open mind, friendly service and high sprits come with the
menu at the longtime family owned establishment, which once catered to the
likes of literary giant Henry Miller and still stands the test of time – like most
things in Big Sur.
Always isolated by the rugged landscape, the coastline south of Carmel came
to be known by the early Spanish explorers and missionaries as El Sur Grande,
or The Big South. Settled in the 1770s, it took until 1937 to build a road
connecting one side with the other. Today, it remains one of the most scenic,
protected and lightly inhabited stretches of California the way it once was, from
the Carmel Mission, through the preserved 1,276-acre grounds of Point Lobos,
to the southernmost beaches where elephant seals sun themselves only yards
from the highway, this seemingly lonely paradise has stood the test of the
changing tides of both nature and human will.
Starting with the marathon on April 27th (running a mere 5k along the route to
the cross that marks the spot where Spaniards first set foot on the milk-white
sands of sheltered Carmel River beach), we headed south on Highway 1 and
encountered Wagner on the Nepenthe deck on a cloudless afternoon, chasing
off the daring bluejays that prey on the unsuspecting visitors nibbling on
outdoor hour devours.
“I have two sides. There is the sociable character, and the restaurant takes care
of that. And then I get up here at home on the mountain, and I don’t want to get
into my car. I feel pretty lucky,” Wagner said.
We felt pretty lucky, too, spending seven days camping and exploring a land
where time, like the redwoods, seems to stand still and proud. Going early in
the week, we had our pick of two of the most diverse campsites anyone could
ask for – especially camping from a rented van: First, along the soothing pools
of the Big Sur River, pitching tents under bay, sycamores and redwoods for
shelter; and then on a grass and sage-covered bluff above the ocean, ringed
with lupines, golden poppies and ice plant in bloom, with a tiny waterfall
through a lone stand of redwoods and Kirk Creek running behind us.
The all-encompassing solitude is serene and magnificent, and slow is how
everything works. Don’t expect to find cell phone service or places to hook up
to the Internet or many RV pads out here. Some of the best camping spots
have no electricity or other amenities, and emergency services can be an hour
away. There are no fast-food chain restaurants, no stops for gas for 40 miles,
no drive-through latte stands (nothing with a Starbucks label). What you will
find is much that is well-preserved and working just fine on its own time and
pace with its own sense of place.
On the first day we pulled in to camp at the Pfeiffer-Big Sur State Park, the
historic redwood lodge was surrounded by Packards, Lincolns, Pierce Arrows,
a Nash and a Rolls, Cadillacs, Studebakers, dozens of classic cars in mint
condition making their way up the highway and stopping for the night, along
with dinner in the spacious lodge banquet room overlooking the river.
The next morning, joining a group hike of the Classic Car Club of America up
the redwood-lined short trial to Pfeiffer Creek Falls, tour organizer Pat
McCormick stopped to catch her breath. As we scampered down, having
crossed a two-mile view trail all alone that morning in a route through ancient
oak and wildflowers of every color and fragrance imaginable, we promised the
group they didn’t have far to hike, and that the three-tiered falls were certainly
worth the effort.
The tour with the 55 classics – 12 from the Northwest – started in Ventura,
stopped at Morro Bay, Hearst Castle in San Simeon, Big Sur and Pacific Grove,
motoring out to the Monterey Bay Aquarium on Cannery Row, with some cars
visiting the artichoke fields of the Salinas Valley. It was nearly the opposite
route we would travel on our camping journey. For many, the highlight was
staying in Big Sur, where the cars seemed to belong and could easily roll along
the highway, with 45 mph probably the average speed.
“We wanted to show people a whole different point of view about California,
that we’re more than the Hollywood and LA-LA land that they might have read
about,” McCormick said of her motivation for planning the unique tour. “We
went by all the groves and the crops, through the artichoke fields. ‘So that’s
what an artichoke looks like?’”
Fresh artichokes, fresh fish just delivered from the boats at Morro Bay, fresh air
and organic fruits on the view patio, free-roaming ranges, free thinking.
At the Henry Miller Library, a literary feast fits naturally with a living, breathing,
ever-evolving sculpture garden and bookstore, festival grounds and museum-
like tribute to one of Big Sur’s most legendary residents. There’s the Big Sur
Jazzfest every May, and plenty of art galleries, more luxurious
accommodations and restaurants tucked along the route; most notably
Deetjen’s Big Sur Inn, the Big Sur River Lodge, Ventana Inn & Spa, Ragged
Point Inn, and Nepenthe.
But nothing except the mighty Pacific itself can compare to the view of one of
the most audacious man-made edifices on the West Coast – the still-standing
legacy of Hearst Castle at San Simeon, lording over the southern-most tip of El
Sur Grande. Today, it seems unfathomable that such a collection of rare and
ancient artifacts and the entire 250,000-acre ranch estate, private zoo and
castle grounds could have been pieced together on such an isolated bluff
above the Pacific.
This was to be our destination point, partially because I happen to work for a
Hearst newspaper and am an avid student of the history of journalism in the
West, but mostly because on a clear day there might be no more magnificent
spot where land and man meet the sea in something that supercedes all that
has been contemplated since.
It is the oddest theme park, all built on publishing, broadcasting, movies and
William Randolph Hearst’s desire to live like a king with the able help of
architect Juila Morgan. The only drawback is that the tours last a mere two
hours and you leave wishing you could spend all day lounging on the ocean-
view Neptune Pool with pristine Greek marble goddesses surrounding you
amid the blooming roses and, plum, cherry, peach and lemon trees.
With the castle gates closing promptly at 6 p.m., it’s best to head back north up
the coast to Nepenthe to catch the sunset at the edge of the continent, where
the ocean seems to lap up gently into the hardened face of the Santa Lucia
Mountains. Open since 1949, the roadside viewpoint also harbors a treasure
shop of artistic wonders, an outdoor cafe and coffee terrace, with the main
establishment above all else.
In Greek, Nepenthe means “isle of no care,” a place to find surcease from
sorrow, according to the founders, who had help from a student of Frank Lloyd
Wright’s to design their living and breathing part of the Big Sur experience.
Wagner has little desire to live or work elsewhere, but senses some creeping
changes in the winds and tides.
“In the last 10 years, there has been a real big boom of money coming in for
second homes. Most of those are tucked behind gates and are located in the
hills far from view of the highway,” Wagner said.
Later at night, however, with a long-burning seasoned oak fire ushering in the
stars from our seemingly private but very publicly-owned ocean bluff at Kirk
Creek campground, it was nearly impossible to find another sign that life on
Highway 1 had changed much over the years in Big Sur – even with major
events like a marathon, classic car tour and jazz festival bringing a crowded
official end to the tourist off-season along The Big South byway.
“That season is getting shorter and shorter from winter to spring,” Wagner said
ruefully. “The dots are getting closer and closer to connecting.”