The realm of Morpheus

I learned a great deal during the NFC championship game. I learned that it wasn't Homer who guided Dante; it was Virgil and later Beatrice (alluded to in B.F. Skinner's Walden Two, perused during the second half). I learned that complete gridiron incompetence is a bracingly brutal tonic with which to swallow defeat. I learned that it goes better with Winhoek Winter Ale. I learned that most Namibian beers are brewed in strict accordance with the German Purity Laws. I learned that I was in a whorehouse.

I've watched football games in some funky and diverse places but never in a house of ill-repute. Silencing Paul and Christophe's protests to the contrary, my choice of venue was selected with the innocent ignorance of a bamboozled buddha. I was lured by cheese. The Royal House lounge promised pizza and ESPN. A magnetic male mousetrap melded by malevolently minded Madison Avenue madams. Mercy. Hey, couches in a sport's bar ... cool, thought the bumpkin.

By the end of the first quarter I grew suspicious as the female - male ratio swelled to proportions only found in OT programs, InSynch concerts, and convents. That, and some of the ladies decided to advertise their wares during commercial breaks by dancing in front of the television. Versed in Whitman, they effused their flesh in eddies and drifted it in lacy jags. Unappealing undulations unpareil. "Cease your lasciviously lusted lip-licking and frenetic fleshy fandango, damnit, the game's back on."

While not students of this athletic endeavor, they were kind enough to cheer for the Vikings. Or, rather, join me in my frequent cursing. Hold the impious thoughts Mom ... the only biblical transgression I infracted upon was taking the Lord's name in vain. Repeatedly.

While on the topic of pathetic sporting performances, I recently went golfing in Zambia. The Livingstone Golf Course is a jewel ... a worthless emerald; poorly cut, inferior lines, and ghastly shaded in pale green. Aesthetically warped, I was instantly charmed. Since the place was completely empty I golfed alone without shirt, shoes, or skill. My score of 68 would be impressive if it wasn't only a nine-hole course. Far from a Tiger, I was lost in the ankle-deep grass while putting on the greens. Glorified croquet.

In 1855 David Livingstone, famed explorer and golf course architect, was arguably the first caucasian to visit Victoria Falls. Bungee-mad Kiwis were probably next. The falls are known to the locals as Musi-oa-tunya, the smoke that thunders. They lie on the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe (formerly northern and southern Rhodesia) and are roughly twice the height and width of Niagara Falls. It isn't just the size that blows one away but also the complete lack of regulation. From the Zambian side it's possible to cross sections of the Zambezi river and drift / scramble right up to the edge. Insane fun. Beware of crocodiles. There is even a nice cascade with a deep pool for swimming located right atop a 300 foot drop. Cannonball !

Prior to heading west I finished Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. You have to love a kooked-out book that ends with a Special Bonus Parable. One of the characters, in a state of megalomaniacal rapture, exulted: "I am the spirit and the heart of hitchhiking, I am its cortex and its medulla, I am its foundation and its culmination, I am the jewel in the lotus ... I embody the rhythms of the universe ... There is no road that did not expect me." Well alright then. It's not often that I encounter a literary reference to my Sanskrit tattoo (the lotus blurb). Thus inspired, I took the Middle Way through Botswana by foot and thumb.

It took three ugly days to hitch from Orapa (just north of the Kalahari) up to Kasane. At this point, the flop-flap song of my sandals growing monotonous, I was ready to catch a bus into Namibia. While lingering in swelter outside the border post ... the lotus finally blossomed. A trucker and his little boy were heading to Windhoek and kindly gave me a ride for free. Cool moe dee. The interesting part was that we had to stop at the entrance to the Caprivi Strip, form a convoy, and wait for the armed escort. It seems the UNITA rebels from Angola are a surly bunch and make nasty northern neighbors (somewhat like Canadians ... hi Howard). The long drive was without incident. Breaker breaker one-niner, this here's the rubber duck and I'm about to put the hammer down ... c-o-n-v-o-y.

I enjoyed the brightest total lunar eclipse in a decade camped near Sossusvlei, the world's oldest pile of sand. Did you guys see it? It was freaky. While watching the colors change my mind snapped through the lyrics to Kryptonite: "I watched the world float to the dark side of the moon ... If I go crazy then will you still call me superman / If I'm alive and well will you be there holding my hand?" The song rocks. Anyways, the prophesized 'disaster-laden negative energy' must have been deflected by local shaman. I didn't go crazy. Did the US survive? Any Hawaiian hurricanes, Minnesota maelstroms, or Californian quakes? Don't trust the moon.

The dunes were overwhelming. Over three hundred meters tall, hauntingly desolate, and etched with Aeolian sand mandalas. Sunrise splashed apricot ripples over the ferrous-laced desert waves. Magic. Antoine de St. Exupery felt it ... "J'ai toujours aime le desert. On s'assoit sur une dune de sable. On ne voit rien. On n'entend rien. Et cependant quelque chose rayonne en silence." I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs and gleams.

- cultivating solitude ... the sandman