February 1, 2023

Pixie Seen on Judi’s Patio


Eat a live toad the first thing in the morning and nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day. — Douglas Rigby

That great rounder, Doug Rigby, offered these words and some others before he departed for the Wrenwood in the sky where the gin is free and clear, and where gimlet-eyed realtors and land raiders bulging from their four-button silk suits are unwanted. “The inescapable dramatic situation for us all is that we have no idea what our situation is,” he told a friend before departing our village forever, thirsty boots and all.

Wait a minute. Doesn’t everyone who hasn’t been asleep since Babe Ruth died already know enough about “our situation”?

Rich young thugs trash the national forest, vehicles overwhelm residential neighborhoods, and Marie Brown is leaving for a poetry project in Paris (France, not Texas). All the while, Digital Storytelling programs in Sedona have been murdered by some caliphs and panjandrums. Meanwhile, a river named the Verde is in danger of going dry, while people look the other way and watch reruns of I Love Lucy on their haunted fish tanks.

And now for the good news etched on a bumper sticker in West Sedona: God Is Not a Republican. And more such news could be on the horizon–a slice of blue amongst the dark, ominous monsoon clouds of summer: Someone saw a pixie on the patio of Judi’s Restaurant.

According to a confidential source that lives in a small yurt near the restaurant, it was a tiny woman dressed in clothes “that grandmothers wore in the 1930s, sort of a Marjorie Main look-a-like.” Asked by a member of this newspaper’s Special Investigative Task Force of Supernatural Happenings, whether my confidential source might have had one too many adult beverages, the source pointed to a hillside pocked with rocks: “She lives near, in the middle distance where she’s lived since the European invasion. She has always lived there.”

Asked why no one has seen her before, the source replied that she’s been writing a book and seeks to take some credit for disasters that didn’t happen in Greater Sedona–she needs to be seen, but is nervous around developers. Curious, the Special Excentric investigator probed the confidential source for juicy details—as all special members of the Excentric’s vast staff are trained to do.

Some of what the elf passed on to my confidential source, this ink-stained wretch passes on to you, gentle reader: Behind every community plan, every visioning statement created by small desert towns in the Southwest, including Arizona, she sees “craven sham concealing self-interest, greed creating a gap between illusion and reality.”

By any measure, the elf is not happy that so many academic gurus in big name universities lack the ability to translate Greek words. The example cited to my confidential source was the ancient word katakasetai, which all the world’s academics have told the demented media means Rapture, the end of the world; so thinks Karl Rove who asks why enforce any laws since the man in the bright pajamas is coming nearer by the day.

In point of fact, all those worthy yahoos that are waiting for Armageddon ought to make themselves a strong beverage. Why? Because the correct translation is evretesetai means precisely the opposite of “the rapture” says the elf woman, it means that mother earth will soon reveal herself and we shall get back in touch with the land, the rivers and the wild things. At this point, your scrivener asked the confidential source whether a meeting might be arranged with the elf woman. Said he to me, “The meeting you requested is at hand.”

Out from behind a rock jumped a tall, generously endowed red-head wearing a tiny, way teenier bikini. “You’re no pixie, lady,” I yelped.

“Do you like Pinot Noir?”

“Back off, snoop; I’m no dream. I’m tired of being called everything from a goblin to a pigwidgin, a hobgoblin to a gnome. So I hereby reveal myself to you as a changeling, an ancient expert in woo-wooism.”

“Say that again, please,” my knees as wobbly as a politician’s convictions.

“Sure big boy, I predict the future by interpreting people’s dreams.”

“So, what have you done for Sedona?”

“Silly boy, who do you think located those 5,000 missing signatures against a superhighway in ADOT’s trash bin and showed them to the Governor?”

Nonplussed, I fumbled for my pipe, dinner invitation on my lips. I turned to see an old woman smiling in 1930’s attire. In a New York minute, she was gone.

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