To the Sedona Wildlife

Hello all.

I know you have missed me. I know it. I know I flow within your blood as homogenously as your hemoglobins and other hemo-bloodo-globo bullshit. I am part of you. I'm in your dendrites. I'm your DNA. You've missed me. You've thought about me while jerking off. You've totally missed me. That's why this creative excursion is called "Missed" Sedona. Yeah. Wicked. Grrr.

So anyway, I'm going to interrupt your anonymous seeking of wet holes and hard cocks once again, just cuz I feel like being clever, and don't hate, okay? Its not like I'm getting more sex than you. I might be just as desperate. You never know. Maybe this is my way of getting dick? HAHA, just kidding. The only people getting fucked more regularly than me are those OSHO motherfuckers. I thought of making unrepentant whoring a religion in 1996, and in my version of this cultish religion, everybody gets a rimjob. Is this not better than OSHO? Am I, in my infinite rimjobby wisdom not fit for OSHO membership? Quite clearly I am. It just so happens I'm open to joining, so long as I don't have to meditate or fuck a guy with a long, dangling ballsack. If any of your OSHO's have nuts like that desk assessory with the clicky, swingy balls that knock back and forthe, I'm out. Otherwise, call me.

So yeah. This entry is dedicated to the Sedona wildlife, specifically a clan of skunks who live on or near 89A by The Olde Sedona. This clan may have experienced the loss of a member as of late. This member's intestines might still be on the right front tire of my SUV. This is a formal apology. I did not mean to take one of your own.

In my defense: What the fuck was a Skunk doing darting in front of a three ton vehicle? Was he going to stop it? Was this like a movie, where a character runs into the road and puts his hand up to stop a vehicle in which the love of his life sits, ready to go to France for a semester abroad, during which time she'll surely forget him? A Skunk? What do they weigh? Ten pounds? What would possess this gentleman to think it would be a good idea to play Frogger in front of the Olde Sedona, and at 2am no less? Doesn't matter what day. Its the Olde Sedona. There's no normal people in that bar. It's Monkeys mating. Monkeys drinking. Monkeys driving. I know. I frequent the place.

If a Monkey were driving a three ton vehicle, would a Skunk run in front of it? Is there anything in the OSHO bible about the OSHO god granting its OSHO Monkey people dominion over Skunks? If not, there should be. Skunks are dumb and when I think about OSHO's in their cars, I'm imagining they're giving handjobs and roadhead. That's a sex cult I can back. I can get behind that kind of religion, even if driving is fucky sucky time and some Skunks die as a result.

Wait. You shouldn't talk about the deceased like that. Sincerest apologies to the brood of Skunks whose brother I splattered. It aint right.

In memoriam,
E. Rider

To the Owner of the Peyote I Ate Last Night

Dear Owner of the Peyote I Ate Last Night,

I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know what to say, other than I'm sorry I stole your Peyote and ate it.

I'd been watching its progress. I know they're not indigenous to this region--Wikipedia says so--and you put it in the cutest little terracotta pot, so clearly you meant to enjoy it at some point. That will not be happening, because I got trashed, stole your cactus, cut it up and ate it. And then puked like a motherfucker.

In my defense, I am insane. I don't know what else to tell you. Is it the full moon? My doctor says no. He says that while the moon is powerful enough to move quadrillion killogallons of ocean water around, it has no affect on my chemistry whatsoever, and really, what I ought to do is take the brand of Flouride-based brain medicine whose logo is all around his office. He's the expert.

It did not go totally to waste, as I had a dream that I was a talking anus who said some very sagelike things. Email me, and I'll share them with you.

Toodles,
E.

To Joey "The Ranger"

Dear Joey "The Ranger,"

You're sweet. I sense that, deeply, and not because I have magical, new-age, psychic abilities, but because you seemed so nice when you asked if you could take me out into the woods and photograph me naked. Just you and I. Far from civilization, where no one can hear my screams.

That said, I do not believe you--a man of 55 with a large pot belly, atrophied limbs and not enough wherewithall to recall the color or location of his car--are an Airborne Ranger set to head to the Middle East on another tour of duty next month for which you will be paid 50 million dollars. In fact, hon, I think that's a bit of a whopper.

Cordially,
E.

My Dream for Sedona

Dear Sedona,

I was chillin' in my hot tub earlier this evening, easing my muscles, and the Shiraz and the deadlifts and the squats really got the best of me. I sort of passed out right there and fell asleep.

Well, I had the most erotic dream, and I feel I must share it with you.

I was outside the trailer park on 89A where all the Mexicans live. I was outside the park, but somehow, lucidly, the embodiment of the entire town of Sedona. I mean, I was the town. It seems pretty stupid, but shit, what doesn't seem stupid when you're dreaming? There was this one time I dreamed I was a fish swimming upstream in Angelina Jolie's vagina. Not logical. Fun, but not logical. Anyway, I was outside the trailer park, and I decided that, my city motto of: We are all one (except the Mexicans) was kind of stupid. I decided it was really stupid, actually, and that Mexicans were people, too, and if they died walking across 89A, well shit, that was something I should be upset about.

So, because I was a whole town--just suspend disbelief with me here--I had magical powers, too. Sparks flew from my fingertips as I pointed to various spots in my periphery, and wherever the sparks popped, cropped up the sexiest street lights you ever saw!

One of them grew out of the ground right in front of me, all hot and sexy, coated in Crisco, and as I humped it, Mexicans walked freely to and fro across 89A without fear of dying, like real human beings Sedona gives a shit about, and the world was a better place, because--in the end--this was a place in which Mexicans were people too, and when they died, it actually mattered. Go figure.

Sexy dream, no? I thought it was. Better than my usual dreams of swimming in vaginas and beheading my relatives.

With love,
E.

To the Copper who Pulled me Over in the Rain

Dear Copper,

To start, I back the blue. Let's just get that out of the way. I appreciate the valuable services you provide our communities with. You put your life on the line so that our society may run like a well-oiled, faceless, mind-controlling automaton, and that's noble, dammit. Not to mention, few things are as aesthetically pleasing as a man or bulldyke in uniform. So there you have it. I like you. You're great.

But, one does wonder how it is that you never seem to be in the right place at the right time.

Take a few Wednesdays ago, for instance, when my flirtations with the scary barkeep at the Hideaway put me at six Ales past my limit, and I decorated the floor of Sedona Liquors with a bottle of Chardonnay (not mine), and then drove home. Where were you? I was breaking the law, sir, and flagrantly. I may as well have ghost ridden my whip up 89A.

Then there's that scene, two days ago: you pulling me over in the rain.

I agree with you, I was definitely driving in the turning lane. I am not arguing that point. I was sober, and I was driving down 89A in the turning lane, for sure. I also agree with you, that cars have two lanes to drive within, the right and left, and that should be enough. There's no need to drive down the middle of the street.

But--as we figured out through an open dialog--I was in the turning lane because I was turning. To my knowledge, I was not aware of a law against turning left. That's all I was trying to do. I was trying to turn left into the Giant gas station, in order to pick up a few cans of sugar free Monster energy drink.

I did note your embarrassment, and I think it's unnecessary. I don't think you should judge yourself too harshly. This shit happens. I've vented now, and I think we should totally be friends. I'll even give you a tip: I'm pretty sure the barkeep at the Hideaway is a half human/half alien hybrid. You should go check his papers. They can't be coming here, stealing our medical services and not paying taxes. They have their own planet for that sort of thing.

You're welcome,
E.

To the UFO over the Safeway, Re: Pictures

Dear UFO over the Safeway,

I do appreciate the email. I must begin by saying that, because I know you're a UFO and that means you hover and fly and evade, and all of those things are taxing. When I saw you, you were doing loop-dee-loops in circles, and I thought to myself, "Boy, that looks taxing. That UFO's gonna need a coffee or a sugar free Monster energy drink or something." So, I thank you for taking time out of your busy loop-dee-looping schedule to get in touch with me.

That said, I told you I'm not the kind of girl who hands out naked pictures of herself to strangers. I do not believe that creatures from your ecosystem will suffocate and perish if they do not look at naked pictures of women. In fact, I think you are lying to me.

I am offended, I must say. I don't know how you can make this right.

Come to think of it, I could forgive a UFO kind enough to dispose of that trickster of a nylon bird who flies over the "Y." It mocks me.

TTFN,
E.

To Enchantment Resort: A Retraction

Dear Enchantment Resort,

I feel it necessary to print a retraction of yesterday's post. I have since learned more about you, what lies beneath you and why you must exist.

I recently found myself in a B&B hot tub with smoking hot homeless guy, who may or may not have brought a bar of soap into the tub with us, I won't say. I will say I have discovered the source of his homelessness, which is dual: he is a free spirit, and very fiscally irresponsible. Who am I to judge? I get a big paycheck and its hookers and blow for everyone! Let's sip champagne from condor eggs!

Our conversation eventually drifted to Enchantment Resort, and I commenced to bitching and moaning about industrial ceilings and desecration of sacred burial grounds--a sizeable rant, since it's that time of the month--and then homeless guy told me a thing or two about what's actually going on beneath the resort--the truth of the matter--and why the place must exist. Boy, did I feel like an ass.

Why didn't you tell me you're a cover for an ancient Lemurian civilization/underground cloning facility dedicated to the production of alien/human hybrid specimens and human clones for rich sensualists so mired in narcissism they're willing to pay top dollar to have paradoxical sex with themselves (who's the top?) I feel like I wouldn't have been so mad at you if you had been honest.

Anyway, it all makes sense now. It's understandable, and I'm not only completely supportive of your mission, I'm interested in having a gander at your price list. It's not that I'm piqued by the idea of having sex with myself. I'd like to think, if I switched teams, I wouldn't be into getting with a lady who had the body of a twelve year old boy. No, it's that cloning oneself sounds like an interesting novelty, I'm fiscally irresponsible, and I sure could use an extra pair of hands around the house. Consider how much procrastinating and masturbating I could get done if there were two of me. It boggles the mind.

In closing, I formally apologize, and I hope to hear from one of your sales representatives post haste.

Eagerly,
E.

To Enchantment Resort

Dear Enchantment Resort,

You're so awesome.

I know when I head out to Boynton Canyon to hike or meditate or breathe fresh air, the things I'd most like to see nestled between those two orange tsunamis of grand swirling rock carved into their exquisite selves by a million years' worth of wind are industrial ceilings, air conditioning vents, parking lots and the glimmer of sun reflected off a golf cart or a putter. Kudos. I agree with you, the place needed to be spruced up. Its not as if its one of the most beautiful natural settings on earth and one of the holiest. Perhaps we ought to level the Vatican, too, and put up some condos. Nothing holies up a religious center like a couple hundred rich white fucks in sunhats.

I only say this because I know, when I die, I totally want the people who stole from, incarcerated, raped, slaughtered and defamed my own people to play tennis on my bones. That seems completely fair.

So I say thank you, Enchantment Resort. Thank you for being so damn classy.

Warmly,
E.

To the Gentleman who Offered me a Ride in His 'Copter

Dear Gentleman who Offered me a Ride in His 'Copter,

I met you at that Japanese/Chinese restaurant (odd). On the lounge side. I don't frequent the restaurant side because there's a god damned dark crystal in it's lobby, and though it's been a good twenty years since I last saw that satanic movie, I remain--today--terrified of any large crystals of a dark purplish color, most horseshoe crabs and all raptors.

It was winter. February? If I remember correctly, you are blonde with glasses. Cute, too, like puppies, high-ponies, and pink and green bikinis. You offered me a ride in your helicopter. I would have taken you up on it, had I not recently escaped a particularly draining long-term relationship. I was feeling a bit bitter about the whole thing, and not yet ready to date. I felt tired and burned. I felt like curb-stomping the next man who came within ten feet of me...that sort of thing. The usual.

But I'm totally ready now, rested and recouped, and I can virtually guarantee, should you take me for a ride in your helicopter, that I will not curb-stomp you. There are no curbs in the sky.

I must ask you to hurry up and find me, though, because I'm kind of horny, and smoking hot homeless guy from the coffee shop may not have a job or a place to live, but he's smoking, and best of all, he knows an alien/human hybrid person. I think we can agree that meeting an alien/human hybrid person is way more exciting than going for a ride in a helicopter, unless of course, the helicopter has a flux capacitor, and then it totally trumps. For sure.

I can't date you both concurrently. That doesn't seem right. I mean, what if Sedona put on--hypothetically speaking--an Enchantment Under The Sea dance type thing, and we went together, and had a nice makeout in the parking lot--I don't know where I'm getting this from--and smoking hot homeless guy caught us, flipped out and said something like: "Get your damn hands off her," before knocking you out? That's violence, which is totally uncool. You know I'm joking about the curb-stomping, baby.

Here's what I propose: Meet me at Twin Pines Mall at 1:15am. Bring one point twenty-one jigawatts worth of plutonium, and I'll bring a half-drunk case of sugar free Monster Energy drink. We'll get your 'copter going 88 miles per hour and see if the sparks don't fly.

I won't curb-stomp you,
E.

To the Mad Flagger who Deemed my Most Recent Post Obscene

Dear Mad Flagger,

In a way, in a sense, kind of: you're correct. It was obscene. Not the post, but the "deposit." It was obscene and offensive and just plain wrong, which is why--if you put yourself in my shoes and empathize with that poor toilet bowl--you'll understand the need for an apology.

Also, don't hate, homey. You too can produce something similarly demonic. All you have to do is drink a case of Monster Energy drink (sugar free) and eat a few jars of dill pickles. It's not that hard. Eat, drink and wait, and in three days, you'll give birth to Damien.

All I ask is that you don't subject that poor toilet to any further torment.

With kind regard,
E.

To the Taco Del Mar Ladies' Toilet

Dear Taco Del Mar Ladies' Toilet,

You're such a happy toilet. Always clean and well-stocked with a fresh roll of TP, and that pink and green bikini on your door? Too cute. This is why I feel I owe you an apology for the evil and rancid nature of yesterday's deposit.

I'm told I'm erratic, and I think I agree with that. Sometimes--without even noticing it actually--I do silly things. Things like consuming dill pickles and sugar-free Monster Energy drink exclusively until I'm back down to my birth weight. I'd tell you what happens to a colon when a case of sugar-free Monster Energy drink mingles with six jars of pickles and marinates three days, but...you already know.

I offer my sincerest apology. It can't have been a pleasurable experience for you, and I do appreciate your effort. I'll forward my positive impressions of your work ethic to the good people at the Sedona Sewage Treatment Facility. An apology is owed to them as well. I'd send a violent missive to the makers of Monster Energy drink, but really, what else can one expect from a product with the words "Unleash the Beast" printed upon on its exterior?

Humbly,
E.

To the Saucy Wench who Works the Bar at the Olde Sedona

Dear Saucy Wench,

To begin, I must tell you I think you're kind of adorable. Your high pony is too cute and you always smell like strawberries. Sure there was a time I considered going into Gynecology, if you know what I mean, but that was ages ago--my college days--after that night Lauren LaSpina, the captain of the womens' Lacrosse team, and I drank wacky mushroom tea and ended up rolling in a big pile of leaves out in front of the Sig Pi house. One thing led to another, and another, and I eventually found myself holding hands at an art gallery, being forced to talk about my feelings. It was not cool. When I get a case of the "feelings" I like to head to the nearest watering hole, which happens to currently be the Olde Sedona, and seek out a wise apothecary such as yourself, so that I may medicate myself with lots of healthy, healthy alcohol. I feel like men understand this a little better than women, which is why I prefer sausage to taco.

Anyway, I tangent. I'm writing you, because I think you seem like a trustworthy individual, and though my gut instincts are almost always wrong, I'm going to go ahead and offer you the reins to my liver anyway.

Here's the deal: When I order a round of Patron, and I can't pronounce the vowels in Patron any more, so that it comes out all consonants, like: "Ptrn," you can go ahead and shut me down. Feel free to get me a water and call me a cab.

It may be too much to ask on top of all that, but if you could seperate me from the gentleman at my side as well, that would be fantastic. "Gentleman" is almost never a gentleman, if you know what I mean. Of course, none of this would be a problem if I could simply open up and talk about my feelings, maintain a taco frame of mind, but I have to say I find it so much easier to drink the emotions away for another day. Procrastination is the key to a happy existence.

Thanks in advance,
E.

To Coffee Pot Rock

Dear Coffee Pot Rock,

You're so cute. Other rocks, they're majestic and sort of godlike--and I can so understand the whole kachina-doll-seeing-gods-in-rocks thing--but none of them come close to being as cute and accessible as you. You're so round. So symmetrical. I guess that's why I have to be the one to tell you this. No one wants to hurt your feelings.

You don't look like a coffee pot any more.

Sure, there was a day, long ago, when you were the spitting image of a coffee pot, but that was before industrial design was born and we as a culture went through many, many imaginative stages of coffee pot reinvention. The archaic coffee pot you resemble made 72 pints of coffee per brew--whether you wanted just one cup or not--and its handle gave you third degree burns.

Here's what I propose: A name change! Nomenclature modernization! Re-branding! I'd say you look more like a pitcher, or a rooster, or something. I'd think pitchers, being the keepers of iced teas or lemonades or flavored packet beverages that come in all sorts of zesty colors, would be a better association. We could even go and get you some corporate sponsoring, you know. We could name you Kellogg's rock, because you really do look like a rooster. Can you imagine the Pink Jeeps and the Red Jeeps: "On your right is Kellogg's rock. Next stop, Frosted Miniwheats Mountain."

You could give that sponsorship money to your community, and they could do all sorts of nice things for Sedona, like buy more of those street lights they love so much.

Adoringly,
E.

To the Nylon Bird who Flies over the "Y"

Dear Nylon Bird who Flies over the "Y,"

I think you're a real bird every time I see you. Every time. Without exception. It's become really annoying.

There are few outcomes more dependable. Whenever I head down that sizeable hill portion of 89A--the one that brings me out of West Sedona and into Sedona proper--singing to the radio, making unsafe lane changes and no doubt flicking off the tourists traveling at ten miles below the posted speed limit--always in Subaru Outbacks (weird)--I go through the first roundabout, make my way to the second and say to myself aloud and giddily: "E., look! There's a bird! Wait, no...dammit!" Every time. Never see it coming. You dupe me every time, and I slap myself on the forehead.

I guess I don't know what I'm asking for, here. You're made of nylon. It's not like you have a brain or a soul I can penetrate and bend to my will with my pleas. You're inanimate.

Still, each time you dupe me, I consider vandalism and theft. I want to climb that pole you fly from and steal you and cage you in my bedroom where you'll never again be able to dupe an unsuspecting motorist with your avian machinations. You're lucky I don't steal. Bad karma. That, and the only Pole I was ever good at climbing moved back to Warsaw and got married on me.

I guess all I can do is post this and tell you that you're a duplicitous trickster and an all around mean nylon bird.

Till tomorrow,
E.

To the Gentleman who Emailed me to Clarify the Term: Missed Connection

Dear Gentleman who Emailed me to Clarify the term "Missed Connection,"

I replied to your email, but have not received word from you. It has been five hours, and I'm a little nonplussed. I'm hoping this wasn't a one-time thing for you, because...you're a real rule-follower, and I like that. Feisty!

You're very right, I'm not familiar with Craigslist decorum, and have never explored nor posted within the confines of the personals sections of this or any site--a right-on guess from a perceptive gentleman! I think, had you seen the UFO, or any of the Pyramid People, or even the clown nosed guy who works at Crystal Magic, you would understand my desire to reconnect with them and get some answers. Its not as burning a desire as the one I have for you, I assure you, but still, there's a curiosity within me which goes currently unquenched, and I think we can agree that's a small travesty.

Here's what I propose: Why don't we get together for a decaf coffee or something? I believe, if you ask the proprietors of Ravenheart Coffee for some soy milk, they're more than happy to provide (You don't strike me as a dairy guy). Maybe we'll hit it off; one never knows. Maybe we'll even have crazy chemistry and go nuts and split a danish, and then head to my place for fifteen minutes of hot silent sex in the missionary position, and after that we can balance our checkbooks and check the pressure in my tires--you make me crazy, Dreamweaver! Email me!

Lustily,
E.

To the Pyramid People

Dear Pyramid People,

I guess my first query would be, what in the sam hell were you doing in my front yard?

It's not like I cared you were out there. You did seem really jolly and lovely with your Birkenstocks and socks and your little crystal necklaces that swung in circles. What's that called? Dowsing, or something...right? Its just that you left before I could come out and ask you some questions I feel you'd provide entertaining answers to, like, what were those wire-frame pyramid hats you were wearing? Why was there a crystal dangling over your brain? Why does the guy who works at Crystal Magic wear a clown nose? Maybe you wouldn't know that last one. He's nice.

I'm told you think there's a portal to another dimension where I park my car, but I assure you, the portal is down the street at the stop sign. I totally know it is, because I run that stop sign twice a day, and clearly, if there wasn't a portal or some other such wacky shit there, I'd come to a complete stop, look both ways and then proceed like a good citizen of Sedona with my hands at ten and two.

My friend Chuck thinks the portal is in my vag, but he wants to do me, so it should be assumed that his notion is at best an exaggeration, and at worst, a lie.

So, shoot me an email or something. I'm all ears.

Yours,
E.

To the UFO over the Safeway

Dear UFO over the Safeway,

I saw you on Saturday afternoon. I was on my way in to get an iced coffee from those nice ladies who work at the Starbucks booth, and I saw you flying around over the building. You were very shiny and interesting looking. I've never seen a UFO before. You were my first. I actually--don't get mad--didn't think you guys existed. I thought it was only something schizophrenic people saw, or hippies who live in the woods and do peyote and grow huge pubises and worship wolves saw, and then only when they were really high or sleep deprived.

I liked the way you flew in circles, but not only in circles. You kind of changed it up every three swoops or so. I feel like you're a fly by the seat of your pants type UFO, and that's my kind of UFO. Totally.

You took off before I could get a really good look at you, which was unfortunate. I'd really like to see you again. Maybe we can go grab a coffee sometime. I bet we'd hit it off. I'd be willing to send you some pics. Not just face shots; full body shots! Not nekkid, though. I'm not that kind of girl.

Yours,
E.