This is but an appetizer--read the next post in conjunction with this short post.

How in the bloomin' eff miester did I just step on a damn Lego? Legos don't exist here! There aren't any kids here. Well, I sure as hell don't remember siring any, lately. Where the flobee did this thing come from, anyway? I think that Satan put it there to mess with me, seriously. It almost broke my skin. Well, no it didn't, but I'm a lonely man and I need all the attention that I can get.

Well? I couldn't stop. I was asleep for about a half hour after finishing "The Squid and the Whale" and I think I had a dirty dream about Anna Paquin (I spelled her name right this time folks)--it had something to do with pulling crab meat in a rather passionate manner. Okay, I know that for those who have not seen that movie will think that was rather dirty. And for those who have seen that movie will know just exactly how dirty that really was.

I'm at the witching hour(s) and this is when I flow. If you catch me in the morning, I'm rather baked and don't know what's going on. So, what I will do (come closer, I won't bite) is just do what I do best and flow.

I was thinking the other day about the road less traveled. Monday, I gassed up both tanks on Clyde and bought three boxes of 3-inch magnum load 12 gauge shells. For the uninitiated, that's some serious boom boom! Okay, were not talking 50 cal. here, but it'll bruise you. I have not done much shooting for the past five years and thought that I'd go to the desert and eff some shit up--pretty much one big hillbilly dumping ground out there.

Getting out to this place is nice. You get to see some great country and listen to great tunes along the way. What did I have on tap? Well, let's see; there was Neil Young and Crazy Horse "Zuma", which is one of my all time road trip favorites. "Barstool Blues" is my favorite track off of that album. It should be "Cortez the Killer", but I really like the shit-faced emotion that pours out of old Shakey on Barstool. Even though I don't drink, I get drunk on moments and feel that way from time to time.

What else? The new Calexico album "Garden Ruin" is a great album. It's a little different than "Feast of Wire". I saw Calexico open for Wilco. That was one hell of a concert. Wilco played for almost four hours. But, no Wilco on this trip--I'm giving them a rest. Oh, I did have "Van Halen I". This is not my favorite Van Halen Album ("Fair Warning" is my fave), but I really love "Jamie's Crying" and "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love", and not to mention that Diamond Dave is a superior dancer and likes to get carnal with the devotchkas. Maybe too good of a role model, eh? I had a promotional CD that came with the Halen album that featured The Cars "Just What I Needed" (let me say that this is a genius pop song), Stevie Nicks/Tom Petty "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around", Carly Simon's "Your So Vain", Bare Naked Ladies "Jane" (the one song I don't be hatin' on of theirs), and my man Curtis Mayfield doing "Superfly". My brother brought along some shit like Persian psychedelic music and the new Shooter Jennings album--I guess that has its moments, but feels like one long rip-off of Skynard. I should have brought my Pavement albums too, but there was already a full listening set.

Well, I'll tell you what, old Clyde did good. I took him straight up a narrow ATV trail. When I say straight up, I mean that literally--2000 feet up a steady 28-30 degree climb, with some spots at about 35 degrees. Clyde is an old horse: a 1978 3/4 ton Chevy 4x4. But, I've taken care of him, restored him and modified him to my liking. The cam is a bit bigger/hotter; the exhaust is meaner; the ignition was serious, until it started acting like a bitch ( I should have gone with MSD instead of the Jacob's Pro Street). It is already high enough off the ground for trail meats. I don't like yee-haw sleds, so only what is needed to do the trails. It has a top loader SM465 tranny, with a Centerforce clutch (bullet proof), and a New Process 205 transfer case (bulleter proofer).

I've beat the hell out of Clyde since getting him all purdy. His dark metallic green paint is now scratched to hell, and I refuse to wash him. This is the only way to show the $50,000 dollar cock implants who's king of the hills. I've not adorned Clyde with all the Calvin pissing trinkets that are normally associated with this sort of thing. I despise those. Clyde is lean and mean, with no excess--'cept his torque band in compound low. I can set Clyde off by himself in four low and compound gear and watch him crawl away from me up the hill, inspect him on the outside while moving, or just to take him for a walk up a steep hill. He tends to have a mind of his own when you're not in there to give him what for.

So, at the top of this hill, there were panty trees. This is a phenomenon associated with the back country. It's like saying, "I'm king of the world" to the uptight villagers down below. Panty trees are, well, trees with bras and panties hanging in them. A kind of trophy case, if you will. I wonder how many cherries were popped up on that hill? How many "Oops, I didn't pull out in times" there were as well? Whatever the case, it was a real pretty sight in an abstract way, to see silken hag flags waving in the wind way up there.

The way up was brutal and exiting, but the way down was punishing and downright scary. I got stuck in a few trees (too big), but managed to squeeze through. After that bit of fun, I went and set up a little shooting gallery of whatever was on hand: posts, 50 gallon drums, an old basket ball standard, a plastic jack'o'lantern, and a Wilson basket ball. I had the hip-shot jones thing going on and had to do that first. Wow, you guys might look down on me for enjoying this, but it was out of this world excitement--way better than a movie. If a trap load is akin to finger painting, then a 3-inch Mag load is Jackson Pollock. I think you get my drift.

After getting all that red state poison out of my system, and bruising the hell out of my shoulder (come on, three boxes of these babies hurts), I took Clyde up a rather precarious trail that I believe was on old mining/wagon trail. It was overgrown and didn't look like anything had been up it for years: perfect! I followed this treacherous dual track until it became more of a single track, then it became "Where the fuh are we, anyway?" track. Eight miles of basically wheelin' up washes, creeks, meadows, and ravines. I know this is bad back country etiquette, but I'm not perfect. I'll do some reclamation work to make up for it, okay? Well, I found myself in a dead end of cliffs and was clear in the hell away from the site of anything artificial, except my solitary posse. I managed to hit a rather large rock with my rear bumper, trying to turn around in a tight spot, and smacked my rear pumkin hard on another (actually dragged this 200 pound boulder about ten feet before it got loose). No were no casualties.

I think that I can honestly say that I was the first person on earth to listen to "Superfly" in that canyon. See, there are still little frontiers out there just waiting to be conquered. I finished off the day with a 40 degree climb up some loose shale. That one nearly killed me, but I made it after much violence on the way up. The way down made my balls run behind my back and hide. If I wasn't wearing a seat belt, I think that I could have just laid down on my dashboard and waited for death to come, it was such a nice angle for that sort of thing. One situation you need to consider on a steep, loose, decline: don't let your ass end pass up your front--bad things will happen. Fortunately, I was on the ball here. Oh, here's a tip for you out there who would want to do this sort of thing but are not really that experienced: Never wrap your thumbs around the steering wheel--you'll break them. I sprained my wrist from some serious confrontations with the terrain, and am paying for it today.

Well, I didn't expect to tell you this story. I guess the witching hours told me what to write and here you have it, a real story about a real road less travelled. Yeah, you could go ahead and attach a metaphor to that one, if you'd like, but for me, it was the real deal. And there is no substitute for that, Larry.