Visit Brian Walker's new website: BrianWalkerArtist.com

Visit the new website of Sedona's best known outsider artist, Brian Walker, at

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Christopher Fox Graham rant

My delightful little rant about how poetry is cool and why people should support the Flagstaff National Poetry Slam Team get to the National Poetry Slam held in West Palm Beach, Fla., from Aug. 4 to 8. The two easiest ways are with direct donations of cash, material support, or plane tickets. Contact Ryan Brown at ryanplease@hotmail.com.

The other way is to attend the second fundraising Sedona Poetry Slam at Studio Live at 7:30 p.m., Friday, July 17.

Photo: Frank O'Brien, left, Ryan Brown, Antranormus, John Cartier and Jessica Guadarrama.)

The Flagstaff Poetry Slam Team:

Jessica Guadarrama is a Sedona Red Rock High School alumna and current Northern Arizona University student. Guadarrama describes herself as a bilingual Mexican-American. She started writing in eighth grade but it wasn't until ninth grade that she discovered slam poetry when NORAZ Poets held a slam at the SRRHS auditorium.

Ryan Brown stated that he is a kid from Phoenix who spends most of his time posing as a writer and poet. He now goes to school and lives in Flagstaff, where he is the SlamMaster of the FlagSlam Poetry Slam.

Frank O'Brien is a 20-year-old student at Coconino Community College, focusing in the general studies and pre-nursing. Originally from Phoenix, O'Brien entered the slam poetry scene in fall 2007. In August 2008, he traveled with Cartier, Brown and Guadarrama to Madison, Wis., as a member of the 2008 Flagstaff National Slam Team. O'Brien is now an active poet and administrator of the FlagSlam Poetry Slam in Flagstaff.

Antranormus is a hip-hop artist who stated that he constantly seeks to redefine or blur completely the boundaries between hip-hop, poetry and absolute absurdity. Known for his complex, multisyllabic rhyme schemes and controversial subject matter, he has shared the stage with members of the Wu Tang Clan, Jurassic 5, Abstract Rude, Illogic, and Sole.

John Cartier helped revitalize Flagstaff's poetry slam scene two years ago and is on his second nationals team. Cartier is well-known for his politically savvy and socially edgy performance poetry.

The team will represent Northern Arizona against more than 80 other teams from around the country.

Christopher Fox Graham, "Spinal Language"

Christopher Fox Graham performs the poem "Spinal Language." Christopher Fox Graham hosted the Sedona Poetry Slam on Saturday, June 27, 2009.

Poets compete for grand prize at the Old Town Poetry Slam

The art of competitive spoken word explodes with the Old Town Poetry Slam — a high-energy poetry slam starting at 7:30 p.m., on Saturday, April. 11.
Twelve of the region’s best performance poets will compete for a grand prize of $100 at the Old Town Center for the Arts, 633 N. Fifth St., Cottonwood.
The Old Town Poetry Slam comes on the heels of the Old Town Shootout in December in which four Arizona poetry slam teams competed in one of three statewide regional competitions.
April’s poetry slam is open, meaning any performance poet is welcome to compete. Poets need at least three original poems, each no longer than three minutes.
The Old Town Poetry Slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox Graham, who has represented Sedona and Flagstaff at four National Poetry Slams. To compete, poets need to register via e-mail to foxthepoet@yahoo.com. Slots will be determined on a first-come, first-serve basis.
Founded in Chicago in 1984, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slams are judged by five random members of the audience who assign numerical value to individual poets’ content and performance. Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe.
Tickets are $10. For tickets or more information about the Cottonwood poetry slam, call the Old Town Center for the Arts at 928-634-0940.
Additional ticket outlets include Green Carrot Café, Jerona Café and the Desert Dancer in Cottonwood; Golden Word Bookstore and Crystal Magic, in Sedona; The Worm bookstore in the Village of Oak Creek; and The Sage Post, in Jerome.

Sedona Daily Herald, Sarrah Wile edition Front Page

CFG is back

CFG returns to the slam scene in Northern Arizona ... bringing back all the flair he did in the heydays of the early 2000s.

Photo by Jessica Guadarrama.

The Tres Muertas Gang secures booze for Prohibition Party

Housewarming party, Friday, Oct. 10

Prohibition Era Party
275 Willow Way, West Sedona
Friday, Oct. 10, starting at sunset

Looking for a copacetic juke joint? Everything is Jake because our speakeasy is the real McCoy. We're putting on the Ritz. Flappers and molls, show off your gams. If you're Joe Average, dress like Joe Brooks. Bring your own hooch or panther sweat (BYOB). Remember the password: “Whoopee in the struggle buggy with a tomato” or you can scram. Housewarming for Molly Berg, Christopher Fox Graham & Lori-Ann Rella

Costumes requested but not required. We will have live music. Musicians are welcome to bring instruments, too. David Reed, The Zen Cowboy, will tend the outside bar. The famed KuK may also be present ....

Swallow a Fistful of Dynamite

give me a fistful of dynamite
and I’ll swallow it whole
hold the blast deep in my belly
and explode words as sunlight
I’m dying in silence
so detonate my insides
and shake the world to the floor

the drink settles poison in my liver
wraps liquidity into between my cells
drowns the conversation between them
and the deafening paralyzes fingers
unable to speak
I plod through days
wondering why nothing brilliant happens
and minutes slip away into weeks and years

profundity has no place
when beer and booze
fuzzy the navel to the brain
erase the images of days
and leave me slumbering long after
dawn turns into day

I’m tired of the killing

clear the slate
become tabula rasa
and let the fingers do the talking
that they long to
when not holding a pint or a smoke

free the mind
bark down the noise of bullshit
and let the unimportant slide
we can become bodhisattvas
without knowing a lick of Sanskrit

the perfection of poetry
waits the measure of patience away
if I let inhibitions fade into mere vocabulary
and trust in my innards to resuscitate
the art inside waiting for the rest of me
to unlock the gate
and pour it out
spread the blood and ink
across the pages
dabble fingers in the mess
and pull out the beads
to rearrange what remains
into what should be

the banyan tree becomes whatever I choose
rest my feet beneath the keyboard
and meditate with digital characters
elucidating what needs illumination
not fretting about the details
or the perfect presentation and posture to earn a 10
those who need to understand will
and those who don’t will find their way
if they seek it

it took the open road
to find my way home back into me
the self I lost behind somewhere
between old houses and new
somewhere in the strife
I’d forgotten to become what I wanted to become
and fell down around lesser ones
it took 10,000 miles
to come home again
realize we’re not place or substance
we’re just the skin we hold
and what’s held in by skin
beyond that, it’s just this century’s tunics, sandals and leggings
and whatever false impressions we concoct
to make us worth more than we are
we’re scared to discover
we’re not that far away from single-named savanna migrants
trying to stay one step beyond the reaper’s grasp
the trappings of kingship, feudalism, cell phones and starships
paint pretty pageantries but don’t change the details
that we want to feed, fuck, and father something beautiful
before the hunter hunts us down to the ground
for the last time

knowing this isn’t the same
as comprehending it
and fearing it isn’t worthwhile either
awareness of our nature
removes the filth from our skin
so we can spend our time doing more
than watching the fluff
that takes up our time

I’ve always known this
but forget for years at time
suffering the amnesia brought about by the game
and I knew it was just game once
I saw it when I was too young to know
just thought the universe had a set of rules we’d learn
though no one acted right, like they’d learned them
and as a boy, I couldn’t comprehend
how people so much older … and taller than me
didn’t see the rulebook
the clarity came when they said I was “gifted”
through tests I didn’t understand
and still conjure mean more to others
than they ever should to me
they said I saw things clearer
and ignored the details that merely painted the walls
but didn’t change the house
everything looks different through my eyes, they said
and I understood
only when trying to live an adult life
with rules and regulations designed for people
who wouldn’t survive without them

the world looks different to me
than I think it does to others
there’s no way to tell, really,
but somehow, in the back corners of my mind
it makes sense they way it is
and nothing needs deciphering
life, death and the days between,
the mathematics of moments
equal an equation that it seems I only know
the variables drop to zero
with regular variation,
yet others seem to think mysticism will change the result
I haven’t the heart or care to correct them
because unstringing mangled matters bore me

there’s loneliness in knowing the quantities and qualities
of the decimal places
but counting out pi wastes time
though it’s impressive at parties
finding the math between the numbers
the words between the characters
the language of movements and pauses
entices my interests
but I’m playing 3D chess with checkers players
and no one speaks the language
reciting verse in an unknown tongue does nothing
but make my mouth sore

time counts on it the cycles
and we seem to think we matter in moving forward
but it seems some days
that the seconds write pages
that I can flip to forward or back
depending on circumstance
relive as though for the first time
conjecturing it’s a ball in space
rather than an unwavering string we slide on
back and forth as needed
reencountering friends long gone
and details seemingly forgotten
faith in fate fits when you’ve skipped ahead
to see how the chapter ends

all that will be will be
and all the was has been as meant
while the details make for conversation
to those paying attention
the poetry will spill in the lucid moments
for those not yet along for the ride
to catch up when their time comes
or the moment suits

explode me into sunlight
and detonate my insides into shards of glass
to shimmer through the night for the rest to follow
wherever I’m meant to go
the right words become a yellow-brick road
but it takes a tornado to clear the countryside
of all the old familiar places
leaving us with clearer paths to see
and abbreviated mysteries to decipher

make a highway of me
transform me into a ribbon of starlight
dreamers on the roofs of cars
can trace with extended fingers
to illustrate to lovers
how constellations are born
these words that spill
from sober mouth and hands
trace paths skyward
letting awareness reflect back
to what we are
beneath the bullshit
of Old Religion dread of death
or its New Age regurgitation
placed it in a tie-died coffin and paraded for profit

close the door
let the belly bleed itself dry
and put fingers to paper
without pushing the pencil where it’s unwilling to go
a good poem, with honesty up its sleeve
one that can squeeze your doubts out
for the world to read unhindered
is a Ouija board anyone can machinate

if your poems don’t shake you to your core
expose the nakedness sheltered behind small talk
quake your fear out in exorcism
then try again until you’d rather cover the page in fig leaves
then let another person read it
vomit out the sins that pin feet to soil
and turn paper into a confessional
a stage before thousands
a Gideon Bible in hotels worldwide
cut out the tongue that holds words behind teeth
swallow a fistful of dynamite
and become a second sun to light the way

New headshot by Ashley Wintermute

Photo by Ashley Wintermute, one of my favorite portraits by one of my favorite photographers.

GumptionFest returns, bigger and bolder

Photo courtesy of Shane DeLong, photo illustration by Christopher Fox Graham

GumptionFest returns, bigger and bolder

By Christopher Fox Graham
©LARSON NEWSPAPERS
______________________________ SEDONA, ARIZ.: If at first you don't succeed, try, try again, the saying goes. However, if at first you succeed beyond your wildest expectations, do it again, bigger and better. GumptionFest is back.
The second annual arts festival is gearing up for the main event on Saturday, June 2, with a series of smaller events around Sedona in March, April and May. The festival organizers have begun the search for artists, sponsors, vendors and volunteers.
Last year's GumptionFest was a grassroots, street festival effort bankrolled on a shoestring budget. The goal was to provide a one-day experience showcasing the best of the amateur, young, underground and under-the-radar artists that call the Verde Valley home.
It was a risky experiment in community involvement. No artists were paid to appear, they were asked simply to show up and share.
What the festival promoters proposed seemed a monumental task ripe for utter chaos: simultaneously operate five venues along a busy West Sedona streets, have more than 100 artists, 40 bands and 40 solo musicians perform from noon to 2 a.m. — and do it for free.
Would the artists and bands have the gumption to put themselves on the line?
More importantly, would there be a crowd?
Artists donated their time, local business owners donated their goods and venues and more than 1,200 Sedona residents and visitors packed the event.
"Oak Creek Brewery has supported all sort of artistic endeavors in the 12 years we've been here," said Fred Kraus, owner of the brewery. "So when GumptionFest came along, we jumped at providing a space.
"It married together people from the community and local artists," Kraus said. "A lot of entry-level musicians who were doing their thing at home to more well-known folks."
The goal of the second annual GumptionFest, according to Executive Director Dylan Jung, is to capitalize on the buzz produced from last year's event to bring in more artists, participants, spectators, and area businesses to celebrate Sedona's art community.
"We're trying to establish GumptionFest as an entity for years to come, to put on events around town in partnership with local venues, other arts organizations and the Sedona Cultural Park, which should be up and running again in the next few years," Jung said.
To prepare both the artists and the community, there will be a series of smaller events with organizations such as the Sedona Arts Center and local venues, such as The Well Red Coyote bookstore.
The goal is to help build the "artistic support system" that underlined the purpose of the inaugural event.
Education events will also be added to the festival, such as dance classes at Light Vibe Dance Studio, yoga classes at Devi Yoga, lectures on art topics from students at Northern Arizona University.
Films this year will include students from the Zaki Gordon Institute for Independent Filmmaking, who screened more than a dozen short films last year. The festival organizers also hope to work with the Sedona International Film Festival & Workshop and No Festival Required, from Phoenix, which draws student and short films from around the country.
The film-screening portion of the festival will also include a wine tasting from local wineries paired with cheeses from New Frontiers Natural Marketplace.
The Well Red Coyote will also invite local authors for booksignings, according to owner Joe Neri.
Bands already booked range from solo guitarists like Richard Salem and Keith Martini, to Sedona bands such as Yin Yang & Zen Some, the Tarantulas and the Doodles and regional bands like Carnuba, from Prescott, and Showbot, a comedic band from Flagstaff.
One of last year's unforeseen complications was coordinating 80 musical groups between the stages at Oak Creek Brewery, Creative Flooring and Devi Yoga.
The remedy, according to Jung, is that other venues around Sedona that couldn't participate on the day of the festival due to their locations will have supporting performances leading up to GumptionFest culminating in slew of performances on the night of Friday, June 1.
Painters, sculptors, visual artists and photographers will have art on display, some of which will be for sale through a silent auction.
The festival promoters will also be encouraging schools to participate, from a class painting a mural for display at the festival, to teachers encouraging individual students to exhibit their work, according to Jung.
"We want to get more of the youth involved," he said.
There will be a number of other performance events, ranging from modern dance, stand-up comedy, improv, belly dancing, theatre, fire dancing and a performance poetry reading open to the public.
However, all the art forms will cross over.
"You never know where else a poet might show up, such as when Aaron Johnson did a slam poem between bands at the brewery," Jung said.
To participate, volunteer, or contribute as a sponsor for the preliminary events or the festival itself, contact Jung at 202-8144 or e-mail to GumptionFest@yahoo.com. For more information, visit www.MySpace.com/GumptionFest.

Sedona Underground is published every Friday in The Scene. To comment or suggest an artist, contact Christopher Fox Graham at 282-7795, Ext. 126, or e-mail to cgraham@larsonnewspapers.com.

The thirteenth step is to learn not to be an ass

This follows some recent conversation with poets in Phoenix and their views on divorce between me and NORAZ Poets via its executive director.

Following recovery, 12-steppers need to learn some love.

The addiction doesn't go away, it just changes form. For many, that underlying problem, not covered rather than dealt with, just makes them judgemental pricks. I'm all for the benefits, but I suppose that if you join a group wherein the first rule is to announce that you have no power to control yourself, you have a tendency to blindly ignore that capacity in others. That, and being "saved" from addiction bleeds over into other meanings of "saved," and thus, the gentle stumble forward into arrogant self-righteousness.

To elucidate:
It seems the shift from addiction
(I must have this drug or I can't function; no middle ground)
shifts to the 12 Steps
(I need help or I will die; no middle ground)
then to personal interaction afterward
(this person is my friend or my enemy; no middle ground)

I suppose that if these people learned moderation in the beginning with drug use, they could learn that people are not a drug - there's a whole lot of gray in human relationships.

But, I guess, just like hitting rock bottom with drugs, they have to hit rock bottom with friendships before they realize they need to attend the 12-Step Program of Not Being a Prick.

How long, Mr. Lane?

Welcome to the Show

welcome to the show
we fit the parts cast by the playwright
dodge bullets in slow motion
according to the script
and the audience holds tightly
to the armrest
waiting for the quotable one-liners
that slip into the memes of later days

the girls said I was mysterious
over a glass of wine
and that they held onto the illusion
that I had a dark side beneath the sunglasses
the collarless navy blue coat
and the unwavering addiction to proper grammar
while I smiled inside
and wondered from where
they got that crazy idea

I'm as mysterious as sunlight
open your eyes
look up at the way it bounces off the leaves
and see what's already there
I'm two words and an invitation away
from spilling my guts
but somehow, no one wants to ask
"can you tell me your story?"

shyness, I suppose,
has unintended results
my words reveal the façade outside
put on to pass the days
to put it simply
I'm Calvin minus Hobbes
though I keep him at home on the nightstand
sometimes, in the city,
I'm Spaceman Spiff, until Wormwood
in all her incantations,
brings me back to the math class world

sometimes, I wonder,
what the world will say of me after I pass
will anyone step forward and reveal that they knew me best?
will the dots and dashes of my days
be readable to those still listening to my ramblings?

I catalogue my infatuations in my columns
each artist is a glorious interpretation
of who I might have been if born in them
instead of in this
I wish I could be them all,
but short of that, I'll let the readers know
in bits and parts
the pieces of me I see in them
my story is a transmutation of a thought:
we're all the same ash and dust
pushing out breath until we pass into oblivion
the stories, vices and art of our days
makes the moments between death and birth meaningful
though the dance is ultimately futile

but if we're doomed to fade
why make our days so trying?
smile wide, take her hand,
dance like a fool
kiss her when the moment is totally wrong
and make it right
because the judgment of a moment
is a matter of choice:
don't let fate decide the circumstances and react
with right or wrong
choose first, and fate will rewrite the facts

soapbox preaching only converts those willing to listen
and if no one does
I preach to myself
because I still need convincing from time to time
acting without forethought, in the present,
is what the zen koans elucidate
be one hand clapping
wash my bowl now empty of rice
thank the master, but don't take the stone
I need not be scarred by a bad choice
when a simple bow is all that's required
kiss when I feel like it
walk away when the time has passed
and find ways to live in freedom
that Robbins found through Satre

memes find me
at the time when I need them most
they hover around the edges
I'll known when to look for what I must find
temet nosce
and the pieces fill in the spaces appropriately

Fight Club

the bass beats run wild
while the johnny walker
reminds me of the daily pulse
dot dot dot
and drink down the night
deck me in the jaw
to remind me we're friends
that's how the pulse goes sometimes
while heavy metal rips on the speakers
god, life feels close
when pain is a fistfight away
bloody my face
and we're never part friendship

These night with wide-open eyes

these night with wide-open eyes
beers poured straight from the tap cold on barren lips
while warm memories of days past
hang in the air
swirling with cigarettes and stories

they laugh in the moments
faces illuminated by the fire
telling the same stories nightly
with new characters, new names

while indoors, through the glass
the musicians try to reinvent the wheels of chords
drummers play new beats
guitarists verse new instruments
poets pen new lines
and explode from the doom of days

we are heading daily toward death
trying to forget our inborn destiny
with swift fingers, kisses and pretty words

"if only we could drink them away"
the poets and musicians say between the lines
hoping that riff, that lyric will make it so
begging the drum beats to shake loose our age
and return us to youth and oblivion

but we wake in dawn's light
to the same fate day after day
knowing the course hasn't changed:

our hair will gray
drop to the floor
and remind us in the echoes
that lover's kisses are fleeting remembrances
forgotten with too much time or distance to part us

we will spill our incoherence from lips
dream of days past
press memories into photo albums
to remind our older selves
that we lived once
when the Golden World still held its glimmer with sheen
and we will sigh at all the appropriate times
when reminded and cued

"remember when?"
"yes, drunken poet, those were the days"
we raged against the dark loneliness of life
sweating in the arms of someone young
and gloriously beautiful
we dropped synonyms
and danced with our long hair swishing about hips rocking
to the beat
loosened our fingers as through
they were broken free from hands except for skin and intention
we shook arms and legs with reckless abandon
and tipped the barkeeps
too much for their troubles

but tonight
raise your fists
beat against the blind sky
and scream out in drunken ecstasy:
"tonight with not be the last!
we have more days to forget our names!"
more minutes to press lips to microphones
and believe in our own desperate words

we are dust and echoes in the pageantry of dying skins
renaming ourselves when the dialects change
live fast, die young at heart
and leave a poem, a song, a story for those who bury you

all that matters is the moment
the musicians, the poets, the lovers and the dancers
scream into the night
forget all that doesn..t matter
which is all of the human drama

we waking shadows
we walking dreams
we face the inevitable echo
that haunts all our days
that one morning will be silent and sober
when we are forgotten

on that morning,
the songs will change
and the band will play on

Days Keep Counting Down

these days of weighted dreams
hanging onto my psyche
pulling me down from those lofty places
I used to hold tightly
the pitter-patter stories
we, as boys, promised ourselves
we would follow
all those paths from hand-holding
to kisses at altars
and all the mishmash afterward
we boys dreams like little girls do
but hold them much more secret
and share them only with stuffed animals
spill them later on the teenage pages
as dreams ferment in our bellies into the angst
that drives us to wars and booze
as our hairs begin to gray

those boy's dreams wage war
with the boy I have become
whose lovers are few and far between
measuring the distances
with drunken nights, the newest novels
more poems than needed
road trips, porno pages and borrowed CDs

we make excuses about the ones we left
the one we're waiting for
if only time would hurry us there
and moments of the brain-blinding joy
when we think with butterflies
is this it, is this her?

but time keeps clicking
the scope of rifle zeroing in on moving targets
waiting for the round that will hit us
before we hear it

and our bank accounts fill and empty
the calendars fall from the walls
and the numbers keep adding up
while days keep counting down

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

Trailer:
Opens on the vacant desert. We see a scorpion cross the sand then run across asphalt. It pauses. We wait. Suddenly, the frame is filled with a beat-up silver pickup truck heading away from the camera down the arrow-straight road.
From a distance we see the truck appear from the right, then take a full thirty seconds to cross the frame on the road The landscape is barren, save for huge yellow bushes, the precursors to tumbleweeds.
Road stretches to the horizon, but is moving away. Pan down until settling on the hood, looking past the cracked windshield into the cab. Windows open, hair going crazy, two nicely tanned, nicely sunburned gringos gaze ahead. Driving is Christopher Fox Graham. Riding shotgun is Michael KuKuruga.
Pan up along the metal pole of a road sign. Highway on the left of the frame. Halfway up, the silver Toyota roars by down the straightaway.
The sign reads, "Puerto Peñasco, 50km."

Cue video montage of the silver Toyota slicing along the highway.

WEHAVE2DAYSOFF PICTURES
and
DOS EQUIS STUDIOS
present
a WE GOTTA GET OUT OF PHOENIX production

Christopher Fox Graham as CFG
Michael Anthony KuKuruga as KuK

"MEXICAN WEEKEND"

with Donna
Rick as Big Rick
and Lenea as Fire Girl

Co Executive Producers
Christopher Fox Graham
Michael Anthony KuKuruga

Directed by
A. Whim



Prologue
Sunday Night, Tempe

CFG on the road. He heads to KuK's empty apartment covered in graffiti poured on the walls from a dozen different nights of drinking and conversation. At first glance, fhe apartment looks like the interior of a New York City Subway bathroom. But poetry covers the walls. Art from spray paint and sharpies. Philosophical pronouncements. Haiku. Portraits. Abstract art.
CFG walks in without a key; KuK never locks his door.
CFG walks to the bedroom, "KuK!" he shouts.
KuK wakes, dresses, and the two hit the roads of Phoenix, talking about nothing as the hours pass. At hour 2 1/2, CFG says, "you want to go to Mexico?" KuK is wary, finances have been thin lately. "Why do you want to go?"
"Why not? I have nothing better to do."

Monday Night, Tempe

CFG rolls home after a long day at work. His brother Brandon is waiting. He piles in and the two head to The Vine tavern. Inside, KuK and his neighbor Ashish are shooting pool and had half a bottle of wine before heading over. CFG and Brandon join them. CFG plays a game with KuK against another pair, one of whom is a dead ringer for Hootie. Blowfish are no where to be seen. CFG and KuK win one game by default as Hootie's partner grazes the 8 ball into a pocket.
A pack of people enter, and KuK knows them all. Their leader is KuK's best friend Kevin. He says, "everyone I know in Phoenix is here"
CFG tells him that there is a Chinese proverb that says if all a man's friends show up at the same place, the man can expect to die the next day. This freaks out KuK. After the joke has bee made, CFG reveals he made it up.
Brandon has one of the bartenders nearly disassemble the ATM, claiming he dropped his card into the machine. The bartender apologizes profusely. After 20 minutes, Brandon finds the card still in his wallet. He tells CFG this very quietly.
Brandon takes over as KuK's partner and the two run the table, game after game after game.
An Interior Design Major catches KuK's eye and he sets off. He's like a flirt-shark picking up on the single drop of estrogen in the water. She tells him that he's cute.
CFG hits on the bartender by asking her, "how may times a night does someone ask you out?" After her tentative reply, "depends on the night," the male bartender asks, "hey, can I use that line?"
The interior design major is replaced by an Italian with great eyes. KuK starts flirting almost immediately. Her name is Donna.
The night ends with a flawless round of pool won by KuK and Brandon. Outside, KuK keeps to conversation going with Donna. She gives KuK her number on CFG's phone. The boys pile into Brandon's car, ride the 1/2 mile home and drop off Ashish. KuK picks up his clothes and the bottle of wine and Brandon drops them off at CFG's. En route to the apartment, Donna calls. and talks to KuK.
CFG makes himself a bagel, KuK puts in "the Score", unsure if he had seen it.
45 minutes later, Donna calls again. She and her friend Rachel aren't busy and Donna enjoyed the conversation. The boys take up her invite and head to her place. KuK takes point, CFG is wingman. The girls are on the patio, smoking and drinking. The girls Donna's friend Rachel is hammered. CFG keeps her talking despite the shallowness of her conversation. Such is the role of wingman.
Rachel's contacts Schmuck 'n' Buck, as CFG calls them, show up with weed. She offers, the boys decline, preferring to remain on the deck with Donna. The girl is amazing. Dark italian eyes coupled with a dry wit and an engaging conversational style. She's a Public Works Major who'd rather be in Architecture. The conversation winds late into the morning while Rachel and Schmuck 'n' Buck remain inside watching "Johnny Bravo".
The boys ask Donna to join them en route to Mexico, but she declines because she's just met our heroes. Despite that, the boys know the trio would get along famously.
Dawn rises.
CFG says he wants some sleep before they embark. KuK says, "why don't we just go now?" The boy is brilliant.
KuK and CFG part company, walking Donna to her car after the 5 hours of getting to know her. The audience sighs.

The Weekend
Tuesday Morning, Tempe

Clean skin and new clothes. The boys bounce out by 6:30. They score gas and grab fruit and a loaf of bread at a grocery store. CFG hands $40 to KuK saying with a grin, "this is your allowance." They are advised to get smaller bills by the cashier at the grocery store.
The boys cut south down I-10, then head into Casa Grande and its southern towns. They have gotten lost twice before crossing over I-8. CFG tells KuK that he is not the first driver to whom CFG has said, "sure I know where we are, uh, just keep going."
CFG had no idea where he was.
The boys cross into the Tohono O'Odham Reservation. No cars, no towns for nigh-odd an hour. The boys talk about anything and everything. KuK sings a host of Irish drinking songs he learned through repetition from one of his few CD. Though CFG says little regarding this, he is greatly amused
They stop for 1/4 tank of gas in Why, Arizona. Why not.
They slide to the border and cross into Sonoyta.
They cheer.
5 kilometers into town, they realize that they forgot to get smaller bills, so they swing around. Border Patrol offers no real help, and doesn't check the car. KuK gets a stick of gum and breaks a $20. The cashier gives him shit for it. He refuses to sell CFG anything when he sees the 4 $20s he has.
For the 2nd time in 20 minutes, they enter Mexico.
They cheer.
They cut through town, KuK giving shit to CFG every time he goes over the speed limit. Paranoid CFG falls for it every time even though locals and tourists alike routinely violate the limit. Wayne Newton is running for Gabornador de Sonora. He and his competition have posters everywhere. But Wayne Newton stares out at us like Ronald Reagan, Fred Thompson, or Sonny Bono, like a Republican Hollywood invasion of the electoral process.

The boys hit the frontier and accelerate down the road, winding through the desert.

To combat unemployment, the Mexican government has commissioned the construction of buildings in the desert, then refused to complete them. Also, the government has placed expiration dates on many buildings ordering them to be demolished or partially demolished in the desert for no reason whatsoever. Such the viewer believes. It seems people are paid to move and or sweep dirt around as well. The boys find this the topic of some humor for most of the drive.

The road seems to never end. Straightaways. Heat pours in, cooled only by the speed with which our heroes travel. They have not turned on the radio all day.

On the flat horizon looms the outposts of the town. The few billboards offer no corporate logos or American restaurants. Just bars, cheap motels, and local businesses own and operate the 15-foot postcards beckoning the boys into the interior. A faint smell of the sea blows loosely across the sands.

Unsure of where to go, what to see, the slim Toyota cruises down the main strip. While we have no idea to where the boys aim, we sense that they have almost arrived. They arrive at the Old Port, along a single lane road that wraps around a rocky butte. They cut slowly down narrow streets and pull over in front of a local school just as students are breaking for lunch. Maneuvering down the streets toward to sea, the audience's pulse begins to race. Noonday sunlight glares down and the dull roar of the sea breaks on the rocks.

For a moment, the boys hang back watching the waves crash. KuK, excited like a child, throws up his arms as though he commands when they'll break. Ear to ear his grin lights up the shore. To outsiders, the boys look drunk on joy.

They saunter down the small strip of stores, selling trinkets, clothing, and other non-necessities to tourists desperate to waste money 'proving' to friends, family, and co-workers that they actually came to Mexico. KuK and CFG are not fooled, though every shopkeeper that calls out to KuK seems to draw him in. He must consciously say no or risk entering shop after shop after shop, all selling different versions of the same tacky crap they've seen Phoenicians carry back from the border.

As suggested by two sources, they boys leave the port, searching for Manny's Beach Club, supposedly a jumping beach bar on another main strip in town. Still relatively lost, the boys pull into an RV park hoping for directions. KuK scrambles out and scores a local map in English and directions to the bar, less than two hundred yards back. Rolling in, they hop for hundreds of beach bums, tourists, and locals enjoying the noontime lunch hour. Instead, they find a barren restaurant open to the sea, floored in sand, and populated by less than a baker's dozen of Americans. They wet their feet and ankles in the sea, then return to Manny's

The audience sees that KuK finds this all horribly amusing, while CFG is frustrated, hoping that this initial failing will not repeat. While nothing is spoken, they both quietly hope that in the next ten minutes, 600 people will magically appear.

The waiter offers drinks, KuK and CFG both order margaritas, hoping for a salt encrusted jewel of a drink the size of their heads. They are greeted with two small 6oz plastic cups of what appears to be lemonade. There is a faint smell of tequila and a stronger smell of disappointment. They order food, also expecting sustenance measured by the tonnage. However, the audience is one step ahead and prepares to laugh at whatever humor the screenwriter produces. They are not disappointed as the portions would qualify as an appetizer north of the border. CFG begs for a Taco Bell. After blowing $17 on a meal worth $5, the boys leave discouraged. They vow to avoid every American-owned restaurant or tourist target in the town.
The audience quietly cheers their choice.

The boys head north to Playa Bonita, vacant of a buzz. With KuK now on the map, they snake their way through the town's small streets, but KuK can't seem to locate the roads CFG shouts to him. Turning right at a dead end in front of a large, 5-story modern hotel they are flanked by a huge berm of white sand. Camera pans from the right side of the truck over the berm to a huge curved beach line of white sand. KuK and CFG head back the way they came to a closer parking spot, then make their way to the sea.

Locals line the beach selling trinkets. Few are buying.

KuK, giddy like a schoolboy strips to his shorts and makes a mad dash into the surf. CFG having forgotten both shorts or swimming trunks, strips to his boxers and runs afterward. Roughly 200 people line the beach. Children and young adults play in the waters while adults sit idly under rented tents. Aging drains the love of the sea from adults.

Video montage. Beach Boy songs play while the tourists frolic. Perhaps a dozen women provide eye candy to our heroes.

After roughly an hour in the sea and on the sand CFG and KuK dig up their money and valuables buried in the sand beneath their clothes, and head to the aforementioned resort and grab a table overlooking the beach. After a few cigarettes, KuK introduces himself to another table of six Americans, roughly their age. This crew is currently in their own film, "The Mismatched Adventures of Coworkers IV: Mexican Fiesta". KuK get directions to a bar on Choya Bay, far to the west. The boys consult. CFG smokes two of KuK's cigarettes in the style of William Faulkner. The audience notes the resemblance for future films starring his character. Roger Ebert and Richard Roeper will seize on this in their review. KuK now starts up a conversation with a woman using the observation, "you have an oral fixation."
CFG watches in awe.

The boys make their way to Choya Bay by cutting through the shantytown barrio north of the beach. Without getting pulled over by the Federalis or hassled by locals, they find the road west. They pull into a area of new construction; large luxury homes and American-owned resorts. They pull down a cul de sac overlooking the sea, tip the seats back and nap.
Camera pans down the shoreline to the roaring surf.

The boys wake around five. CFG has woken a few times, read a little "Fast Food Nation" in between, and gone back to sleep. Both groggy, the boys start up the truck. The Reef, though large and with ample parking, has only 3 cars out front. A bust, they head back into town.

The audience senses something is amiss. Is a conflict brewing?

CFG is at the helm, but keeps turning down uninteresting roads. At an alto sign, they switch seats and coast south. Back in the Old Port around, they wander out, looking for a place to eat. Starting north and working south, most of the shops and restaurants are closing up. They find a discotheque entrance, but it too is closed. They settle on the upper floor of a beach front restaurant wherein they are two of ten customers, and the only non-couple. The audience senses a general sadness in the air around the boys. KuK gets a Dos Equis, CFG a Pacifico.

What happens now? Will they head home? Has this been a bust?

After light talking, KuK asks CFG if he wants to head home. CFG is a little taken aback. He hadn't considered such, but if KuK wants to head back.... KuK says no, he thought CFG wanted to... Without packs of college kids or gaggles of girls in skimpy suits, why stay? What happens to our heroes? the audience wonders.

From below comes a bellowing voice. Up the stairs comes a tribe of Americans. The waiters set up a table for 15. KuK and CFG watch eagerly. The females of the tribe are in their forties, tanned and demure, the males are obese and loud. The man who sits closest to our heroes has "US MIL" tattooed to his left shoulder and has the tan of an Anglo who has slept on the beach every day for three weeks. The kind of lobster red you'd shuck a shellfish for.

His booming voice deafens the patio. The boys just watch. A conversation begins between this bear of a man and the boys about Puerto Peñasco. He first arrived here 14 years ago and hasn't been back in six years though he used to head down 4 or 5 times a year. Though nothing is said, all agree he owns this town. The boys ask where to go, he lists places left and right. He complains bitterly that tourists have ruined this town by buying into the price-gouging so that now goods and services cost more here than in the States.

Cue sunset.

The conversation continues. He leaves his table to join us while KuK smokes a cigarette. He does two hits of snuff and offers. The boys have never done so before but take two hits each. The tobacco almost instantly clears their sinuses and the boys can feel the nicotine in their system. He speaks of his sons, one whom he kicked out at 18, and the other who married too young, and where in town to get some tail. "For good bitches, go to the Pink Cadillac." As they part, he holds out his hand, "name's Rick." He has one of those hands best suited to wielding a claymore or a battleaxe. CFG feels like he is ten-years-old again. The boys head down stairs and find three huge dune buggys parked right on front. One obviously belongs to Big Rick.

The boys checkout some of the bars Rick mentioned, but as he said, many are closed because today is, after all, only a Tuesday. They buy a bottle of rum and settle on "Around the Corner," a frat bar. They take rum shots and head in. They shoot a game of pool, KuK runs the table and CFG orders food. No one is present besides two bartenders and a single customer hitting on one of them. Yet, everything feels fresher, newer. The enchiladas are twice the size and 1/3 the price of Manny's. The audience quietly cheers.

As they pay the bill and head outside, a girl appears. Demure, petite, and polite, she has a hemp necklace, short black beachworn hair, and terrific smile. She catches their eyes and holds longer than a glance. Undeterred and without pause, they approach her. She has a unique accent that CFG trys to place. Lilting intonation, soft vowels, and several strong consonants hint French as her primary language. Lenea reveals that she is from Quebec by way of Vancouver, Brittish Columbia. Her profession is fire. This throws the boys off until she explains that she spins fire at circuses, renaissance festivals, and other such events. She runs a company in Vancouver creating and selling fire sticks to other performers. She's spent the last six months touring Mexico with a circus and uses her profession as an ice breaker because she is unbelievable shy. Fortunately, the boys are not. She supplies the quote of the night, "fire is very important part of my life right now." However she mentions a boyfriend and this breaks the boys' hearts. Despite no real intense contact with a gaggle of girls as in their recent cameo in "the Real Cancun", sweet Lenea has made the trip. They depart for the beach.

Back at the resort, the hear the booming sound of fireworks reverberating. They maneuver through the building and wander down to Playa Bonita. They sprint down into the surf and race each other along the shoreline until CFG unsuccessfully tries to tackle KuK. Boys will be boys.

They watch the pair setting off fireworks on the beach and drink more rum. Video montage. Cue audio.

Heading back through the resort, they have now finished the aforementioned rum and look at a pair of free passes to Babes Topless Bar. Based solely on the humor of poorly translated English, the boys enter. They order Dos Equis and sit through twelve songs by four girls. After each song, a triumvirate of bouncers and hosts ask if they want a table dance for $10 or a 'private room' dance for $25. Although curious what a 'private room' would entail, their better judgment keeps them voyeurs. The invitations become more frequent and invasive and the boys decide to bounce out.

Shortly down the street, they stop at an outside restaurant run by a boy and girl no older than our heroes and an woman in her late 30's. They fumble over the language barrier with wide-eyed smiles and score a quartet of tacos, topping them off with fresh vegetables and various spicy condiments.

They drive back to the rich development and pull into the same cul de sac as earlier in the afternoon. They lean the seats back and sleep off all that booze and dreams.

Dream sequence.

Wednesday Morning, Puerto Peñasco

Dawn comes early and low. There are no mountains nor trees to block the first rays and the boys wake periodically, adjust in their seats, and drift to sleep again.

Around eight, they are woken by an American, that "you can't camp here." They acknowledge his presence, but aren't exactly 'camping,' as it were. Their logic, however is lost on the man, so the boys start up the truck and head back to the town.

Across from the resort are a line of shops built to gouge Americans. They park nearby and KuK uses the hotel's facilities. CFG heads to Max's espresso house. Coffee here is more expensive than in the states, but CFG orders a cup. A tiny Indian woman with a huge hat walks by, offering sombreros and wooden trinkets made in the southern states of Mexico. CFG believes that with such a headdress, she must be the Queen of Rocky Point. The audience agrees.

KuK arrives and they converse about a whole host of topics.

A five-year-old Mexican girl appears, grabbing KuK's chair and holds up a handful of necklaces and bracelets. Her mother is shortly behind. CFG buys a small simple bracelet from the mother more as a souvenir than real adornment. Also, the girl is adorable.

The conversation turns to family. They've each had their own unique troubles. Perhaps because of his reading material, CFG muses to himself that the blended family trees of Americans are convoluted at best, depressing at their worst. Bloodlines and marriage trees connect scores of souls, yet, there is a profound hollowness in American families. CFG admires the simpler, stronger structure of families in this new country. This is the deep, meaningful part of the movie wherein the audience feels they have learned a lesson about their lives. At the academy awards, this inner monologue will earn CFG the nomination, though not the win, for best actor. That win always goes to a character with a drug/alcohol addition or handicap. But, it is a honor to be nominated, they say.

KuK misses his family, both close and extended. CFG concurs. KuK scores a bagel and both leave without being charged anything. There are more tourists to gouge this morning.

They walk to the beach and sit on deck chairs on the sand overlooking the sea from above a cliff. A huge thatched shade reminds them of a Corona commercial. As such, CFG disappears and returns with two Coronas from the hotel. It is 10:30 AM.

Cue commercial endorsement. "Corona Extra. Miles Away From Ordinary." (http://www.corona.com)

They head to the Old Port, looking to fulfill CFG's postcard fetish. He's also searching for something turtle related. Long story.

The boys search up and down, watching tourists by the same crap at every store. Shirts, toys, jewelry, glass, ceramics, etc, etc. Capitalism is an animal and tourists are blindfolded, hogtied prey. The boys try to offer advice on bartering to a pair of girls as a way to flirt. Speaking of prey....

Later, KuK finds himself fascinated with a blonde in sunglasses. Unable to leave the port, he decides to approach her. "I can't leave Mexico without asking you for a kiss."

Although he plans to ask this, he decides not to, thinking it may come off less innocent than his intention. He settles on conversation while CFG takes wingman.

They head east up the hill and stumble through shop after shop. At the peak is a four story shop packed with ceramic crafts of a thousand different styles lining the floors, the walls and the rooftops. On one corner they have passed for two days is a demolished building. Local children have been sitting out front, waiting for the bus. Spray painted on the side is "for sale". CFG muses what he would do if he owned it. Across the street is another abandoned building with an open window. KuK, fascinated by the echo starts shouting through the window. The resonance is almost 12 seconds and has overtones. KuK shouts, screams, and yells into the window while the boys listen to the echo. Schoolchildren across the street laugh and yell back. CFG finds three postcards to prove he came to Mexico.

Deciding not to get hosed on beer at the resort, the boys pick up a six pack of Dos Equis from the same convenience store from which they purchased the rum yesterday. For less the resort's 2 Corona's they score and entire six pack.

They grab the same seats as the morning and bring with themselves the remaining fruit purchased yesterday. After a time and long discussions about 20-something male life, they maneuver down to the beach and KuK gets one last long, great swim with CFG adjusts his bracelet.

They are just boys in the world of men.

After much discussion, they decide it is time to head home. It is early afternoon. They look one last time for food, but find nothing appetizing as they head out of town.

Realizing that they have a two hour drive, four bottles of beer, and half a bottle of wine, all of which they must abandon before crossing the border, they imbibe the contents. Everything Mexico feels like 1950. Sleeping on the beach and not getting hassled by the police, free conversation with strangers, beer, and driving with the windows open. They feel free for the first time in a great long while. Free and sunburned.

With a healthy buzz, they roll into Sonoyta and stop for food within sight of the border checkpoint. Four locals, two male, two female operate a small roadside stand, similar to the one the night before. They serve the boys one last meal, like crossing the border is synonymous with walking the green mile. Twenty-something José runs this operation and sits with the boys, trying to again overcome the language barrier. Neither KuK nor CFG speak a word of Spanish. CFG does make a crazy attempt to speak German, but he always does so after a few beers. This foolishness makes him admirable as a character, endearing him to the hearts of the audience.
They finish their meal and CFG pays $10 for the $4 meal, instructing José to buy Cervesa for his staff.

As the head for the border, KuK says CFG did a great deal for his karma. True, the audience concurs.

Border patrol asks the tanned boys what they've brought back. CFG replies "postcards". The agent takes their driver's licenses, KuK gets nervous, but nothing goes down. They cross the border without hassle and head north. KuK chides CFG, mainly because KuK hasn't bought cigarettes all day, "trying to quit" he says. But all in good fun. They stop for gas, switch drivers and head north through Ajo. En route, they agree that each is an excellent friend and has enriched the other's life. This declaration does classify this movie as a buddy road-flick, but gives a warm, fuzzy feeling in everyone's belly.

Epilogue

As sun falls, our heroes roll into Tempe. At KuK's place, they embrace like brothers parting ways, and CFG boards his truck for the lonely ride home.

Cue sunset.

Roll credits.

Cast
Ashish_____________________________himself
Big Rick____________________________himself
Brandon______________________Brandon Dame
CFG__________________Christopher Fox Graham
Donna______________________amazingly herself
Hootie____________possibly Hootie, of the Blowfish
José______________________________himself
Kevin_____________________________himself
KuK________________Michael Anthony KuKuruga
Fire Girl_____________Lenea from British Columbia
Rachel_____________________________herself
Schmuck and Buck__________________themselves

My Five of Five

Five things that 2002 taught me:
1. I can survive for 4 months on $300. Pretty well in fact.
2. My poetry doesn't suck. I am actually good at what I love to do.
3. By selling it all, choosing homelessness, and going on tour, I've done more at my young age to follow my heart than most people will do in their entire life. I'm braver than I thought I was.
4. I have to make my own destiny. Fate doesn't exist.
5. Life sucks without a car.

Five personally significant events of 2002:
1. Disowning my father. This was his second chance to be my dad in any way and it went worse than the first. Now I know how not to treat my children.
2. Finally telling Daniela to put up or shut up. She's been a cock-tease and a love-vampire for the last three years and I let her use me because I'm a coward. But I've finally stood up. I'm almost certain I've lost her but I'm free.
3. Getting arrested. It was stupid, I was guilty beyond doubt, and I don't want to commit the same crime ever again.
4. The Save the Male Poetry Tour. 39 shows, 26 states, four men, three months, two countries, and one van. Wow, what a ride.
5. Leaving Flagstaff. It's a good place if you can stand small towns and intrusive personalities, but I'm a city boy and need the diversity of 4 million people. I'd rather be a little fish in a big pond than a big fish in a soup.

Five things I want to do in 2003:
1. Make a National Slam Team and do the thing in Chicago.
2. Be satisfied with my poetry. The kind of poetry that isn't just selfless mental masturbation.
3. Have a meaningful relationship with someone who isn't 18, or in high school, or recently divorced, or my boss. A punk rock art chick who'll break me.
4. Make enough money to buy a car, get a computer, and start publishing the chapbooks of poets across the country.
5. Plan my next national poetry tour.

Five things I don't want to do in 2003:
1. Procrastinate.
2. Let fear or fear of loneliness paralyze my better judgment.
3. Settle.
4. Write crap poetry and try to pass it off as art.
5. Blame writer's block.

Five (groups of) people who I'd like to know better in 2003:
1. My three step sisters, Jessica 19, Danielle 17, and Kristina 11. Jessica got engaged over the weekend, Danielle has a secret artistic side I think I could coax out of her shell, and Kristina is more like me now than anyone else I know.
2. Corbet Dean. He's been the most supportive of all the poets I know, but I don't really know him like I should. He could also help me improve my performance.
3. Klute. He and I could have one of the great friendships that art scholars will debate for decades.
4. Trish JusTrish. I like her and her art more and more I hear it.
5. Scott Creney and Mathew Moon, the two Guerrilla poets from Boston moving to Prescott this month.

What is Christopher Fox Graham about?

Christopher Fox Graham is about to reassure us
Christopher Fox Graham is pushing the case
Christopher Fox Graham is going on
Christopher Fox Graham is more plentiful
Christopher Fox Graham is in the ratings hunt
Christopher Fox Graham is trying to leave the door open for those who have yet to come through it
Christopher Fox Graham is saying 'is'
Christopher Fox Graham is in the henhouse
Christopher Fox Graham is Ralph Stricker
Christopher Fox Graham is shutting down
Christopher Fox Graham is running
Christopher Fox Graham is back at camp in a new way
Christopher Fox Graham is pledged to continue
Christopher Fox Graham is good
Christopher Fox Graham is brown and red
Christopher Fox Graham is now available as a toolkit
Christopher Fox Graham is trapped by the tentacles of power
Christopher Fox Graham is a sly teacher to keep kid's attention
Christopher Fox Graham is hungry
Christopher Fox Graham is over eight thousand days old
Christopher Fox Graham is named employee of the month for march
Christopher Fox Graham is not a useless piece of trash
Christopher Fox Graham is based on TV
Christopher Fox Graham is put into practice by the government of Suriname
Christopher Fox Graham is one of Staten Island area's most respected fishing advocates
Christopher Fox Graham is in the open
Christopher Fox Graham is back
Christopher Fox Graham is a sly fox
Christopher Fox Graham is seen in this file photo
Christopher Fox Graham is Charlena Marie Wilson
Christopher Fox Graham is committed to land protection
Christopher Fox Graham is not on the run
Christopher Fox Graham is elvis
Christopher Fox Graham is the newest Lifetime Channel member
Christopher Fox Graham is trying to cancel Futurama
Christopher Fox Graham is better than MTV
Christopher Fox Graham is a remarkable glider
Christopher Fox Graham is a stream
Christopher Fox Graham is a director
Christopher Fox Graham is Canadian
Christopher Fox Graham is about to reassure us that Bush can scold wall street with a straight face
Christopher Fox Graham is right
Christopher Fox Graham is doing it
Christopher Fox Graham is full of crap, and lots of it
Christopher Fox Graham is IS
Christopher Fox Graham is frying many fish
Christopher Fox Graham is our logo
Christopher Fox Graham is pushing the case with his popularity high
Christopher Fox Graham is staying home
Christopher Fox Graham is indecent
Christopher Fox Graham is maxine
Christopher Fox Graham is symbiosis
Christopher Fox Graham is in the ratings hunt
Christopher Fox Graham is off base
Christopher Fox Graham is trying to leave the door open for those who have threatened our delegates
Christopher Fox Graham is shutting down websites
Christopher Fox Graham is pledged to continue Mexico's subordination to us
Christopher Fox Graham is a good randy playboy trick
Christopher Fox Graham is a new stretch of 11th street opened by the city of Springfield
Christopher Fox Graham is common in most of northern North America
Christopher Fox Graham is better than CNN
Christopher Fox Graham is this
Christopher Fox Graham is that
Christopher Fox Graham is a saying about kings
Christopher Fox Graham is found in the treeless tundra extending through the arctic regions of Eurasia
Christopher Fox Graham is put into practice by the publisher
Christopher Fox Graham is lowest profile standard unit available for real time clock applications
Christopher Fox Graham is taking from my *$#%@!
Christopher Fox Graham is a Southern writer who understands heat
Christopher Fox Graham is hunted by hounds following the line of scent
Christopher Fox Graham is great
Christopher Fox Graham is smaller and skinnier than the red Christopher Fox Graham
Christopher Fox Graham is one of two fox species found in the southern mountains
Christopher Fox Graham is one of the most common mammals in Ireland
Christopher Fox Graham is suffering from rabies as well as other fox species
Christopher Fox Graham is the state
Christopher Fox Graham is solitary
Christopher Fox Graham is a professor of industrial engineering with cross appointments in the department of computer science and faculty of management science at the University of Michigan
Christopher Fox Graham is guarding the chicken
Christopher Fox Graham is a pest and his population needs to be controlled
Christopher Fox Graham is singing again
Christopher Fox Graham said "I joined because Iowa was one of the first states to start recycling mandatory returnables"
Christopher Fox Graham is at the top of it's food chain and has never naturally been hunted
Christopher Fox Graham is getting a bum rap
Christopher Fox Graham is tops for redbird gymnastics on senior night
Christopher Fox Graham is Christ
Christopher Fox Graham is called a reynard
Christopher Fox Graham is an exciting glider
Christopher Fox Graham is coming
Christopher Fox Graham is a lot better that MTV
Christopher Fox Graham is one of the most widely distributed carnivores in the lower 48 states
Christopher Fox Graham is casting single men and women for a new reality show
Christopher Fox Graham is making a mistake
Christopher Fox Graham is like to fly
Christopher Fox Graham is 'lucky' in love
Christopher Fox Graham is a C++ based toolkit for developing graphical user interfaces easily and effectively
Christopher Fox Graham is spotted
Christopher Fox Graham is a spiritual theologian who has been an ordained priest since 1967
Christopher Fox Graham is a dual national
Christopher Fox Graham is a large fruit bat weighing 400 ounces
Christopher Fox Graham is found in the far north
Christopher Fox Graham is on the town
Christopher Fox Graham is evil
Christopher Fox Graham is located on the southwest corner of Oak Park Avenue and Lake Street in the Scoville Square office building
Christopher Fox Graham is all that AND a bag of chips