Mad Dog Part 1

One day, back when I was fresh out of art school and earning my keep as a gardener (sorry Mom & Dad), I had brief encounter with a man…

On my route was a small apartment building in East L.A. One sunny day while I was weed whipping along the curb, I looked up to see a man gesturing to me from across the street. (The pose - extension of both arms to the side, palms up, head slightly tilted back, chin forward, like a shaved headed tattooed Jesus). As I beheld his image before me, it was clear he was also saying something. I couldn’t actually hear him over the teeth-drilling din of the whip, so I idled down and removed my hearing protection. Turns out he was extremely interested to know what I was looking at. I thought I had been looking (or wincing) at nylon threads spinning at 10,000 rpm while being occasionally peppered in the face by dirt and dog shit, but I must have been mistaken. Specifically, he said he wanted know why I was mad dogging him.


Hmm, mad dogging. I hadn’t heard that term before. He then also informed me that he might cut me in some unspecified manner. For the moment, I was much more interested in a definition of this new phrase than in his butchering skills, so I asked him for clarification. He explained to me, in so many words, that it referred to the act of staring at someone in the hopes of eliciting a desired effect or a response, i.e. intimidation, an action of some sort, and/or a sexual interest. In this case, I assume he had interpreted my alleged mad dogging as a form of intimidation. Now enlightened, I explained to him that it was simply impossible for me to simultaneously mad dog him and weed whip effectively. He seemed unconvinced with my retort, but nevertheless our cultural & educational exchange seemed to have temporarily calmed his spirit and he returned to his busy day. I must admit that as he walked away I was somewhat envious of the exciting rollercoaster lifestyle my new friend enjoyed in comparison with my own. For him, life and death were constant companions, mad dogging (real or imagined) would be confronted and, if necessary, blood would flow. Alternately, I thought our exchange might also have been a drug-induced pre-show warm-up for that day’s viewing of the Jerry Springer Show. Either way, I felt oddly energized and happy with the day’s lesson.

I saw a horse on t.v. talk,
his name was Ed.
"You can call me mister,
Mr. Ed" he said.

Saw an old woman
in a pink house,
who hates to lose
at dominoes.

In dreams unleashed
my dogs chase creatures
no-one keeps.

Into the lovely, lovely view.

Almond Move '09

So...30 year-old trucks with parts that are no longer manufactured, electrical systems that have developed nervous twitches, loaded down with 5,000 lbs of bees, destined for a trip over the grapevine and delivery to an almond orchard near a town called Shafter, make for a stressed induced state that Bruce likes to refer to as truck anxiety.

When I arrive at his home under a canopy of oak trees in Altadena he is busy finishing his lunch and loading various necessities, and/or anything you could possibly think of, into his '78 Dodge 300 Custom. The cab of the truck is already crammed with bee keeping gear, tools, tool boxes, fire extinguishers, map books, rolls of duct tape, toilet paper (partially chewed by the truck's resident mouse), road reflectors, towels, bags of food and drink, spare parts. There is just enough room to squeeze onto the seat, place my feet into a small hole left in the floor, set my bag of clothing, foods, etc. on my lap and struggle to find the lap seat belt. There is also a pleasant amalgam of odors, old truck smell plus burnt pine needles, beeswax, mildew & tortilla chips. Cocooned in for the ride there is no need for shoulder straps or air bags. The dashboard overflows with fuse boxes, electrical tape, epi-pens, Benadryl boxes, various collections of key rings for orchard gates and forest service roads, log books, pens, pencils, matchbooks, screwdrivers and flashlights. These bits and pieces bounce around and invariably settle in places during the drive and begin to vibrate. Silencing the rattles requires a jenga-like touch because any adjustment may upset another previously quiet series of items.

There's the pre-flight checklist, matches, check, keys, check, duct tape, smoker, smoker fuel, check, check check. There's the unheard drum roll when the key is turned to start the truck and ....nothing, no start, no sound. Nervous laugh, pop the hood, jiggle suspicious wire connections on the fire wall, jiggle other suspicious wire connections under the dash, turn key, varoom, and we're on our way to Sierra Madre to pick up sixty hives.




Loading the bees seems ritualistic almost religious, special clothing, funny hats, smoke, sequential series of specialized movements, drapery, ropes, the droning of the bees. It's really pretty cool.





On the 210 for less than two minutes and the running lights are now turning off and on by themselves. Not good, these include the taillights. Open dashboard, empty contents, reach in and around to clicking relay, jiggle, success. No they stopped working again, jiggle with different English, success.... that seems to be holding. Make the transition to the 5 north. Truck is running well.

As you might imagine, Bruce takes great care of the truck, as well as is humanly possible of course. Oil changes, transmission maintenance, brakes, tires, shocks, log book of fuel use and mileages for each trip. The relentless pursuit of the ever shrinking pool of old timers who know how to and are willing to work on these antiques. That, on top of the meticulous care he provides to his bees through the months when they are vulnerable to parasites and disease. Re-queening sick or pissy hives. He calls the Africanized hives pissy and rates them on a scale, seven or eight having been the top so far. He maintains approx. 150 hives to have 60 "strong" ones to lease out for the pollination season. Almonds (Feb) which are totally dependent on the bees and the avocados (May) in which the bees help increase the yield. Sandwiched between those two is a period where he will leave a number of hives near the orange orchards (which do not need the bees) to harvest nectar for his favored orange honey.


Just outside of Santa Clarita the engine jumps off then on. Not good. Continue driving. We are now barricaded from the shoulder of the highway by a endless stretch of K-Rail, meaning if the truck stops running we'll be trapped in the slow lane. Not good. Large fast moving trucks, asshole drivers in smaller vehicles drifting and passing on the right. Heightened truck anxiety levels. K-Rail ends, get off highway at Castaic Road, discuss options and try to isolate suspicious wiring connection. Breaking down on the highway is not an option. Tow truck drivers will not tow a truck loaded with bees, meaning off-loading the bees, then towing the truck, then coming back with another smaller truck and taking the bees load by load to somewhere else, turning a planned twelve hour trip into something different. Anyhoo, this road is a truckers paradise, Flying J's here, seedy trucker bar there, gas stations galore. The prime suspect of wiring is identified and we find a mini-mall with a parts store still open (we need zip-ties). Foreboding signage at one of the closed mall fronts says "Opportunities for Learning". Zip-ties in hand, the band-aid applied, we opt to take the old ridge route. Turns out to be just what the doctor ordered. We've got the two-lane road to ourselves, nice and easy, if the truck breaks down we won't be road kill. The road ends at Templin Highway and takes us, now slightly more confident, back to the grapevine. Up and over. Off at Shafter and into the cold dark orchard. Leave the truck running, off-load the bees, head home. Wondering what the trip was like for them.