I have so many cards to write. I am not a card person. I am not even good at giving gifts. My thing is to make people feel special on a daily basis by listening to them and offering my help. Maybe that isn't enough. This time of year makes me feel a bit inferior.
The situation with my brother in law has improved a bit. My sister wants him to recover, but she isn't sure if she wants him back. Over the past couple of weeks some major skeletons have come crawling out of his closet and it has been a huge deal for all of us to take in. I don't make any apology for my feelings of wishing that he'd passed at certain moments, thinking that my sister and her kids and family would be much better off. However, he is responsible for two things that I value a great deal: my niece and my nephew. There will always be that part of me that will love him for that. So, I have decided to give him a fair chance to change his life, at least from my dealings with him.
I'm really pissed off about this guitar neck that I bought off of Ebay. I finally got some time to work on this parts-o-caster project of mine and this neck that I got for a bargain turned out to be a massive shit stick. The truss rod--the thing that adjusts the neck relief--is stripped and I can't get rid of a bad fret buzz because of it. On the plus side, I now have an electric sitar. Oh well.
I was eating at a cafe on Ogden's infamous 25th street today. While it is now all done up as an urban attraction, it still is home to many a hobo. This cafe has these big, one-way front windows. A particularly fired up hobo put his face up to the window and started shouting all manner of profanities. The best part was that nobody was sitting in the section that he was tearing a new one to. I like a bit of entertainment when I dine.
Winter is a curious season for men. One step out makes you smaller, and a while back in the warmth makes you tall. I'd settle for something in between.
You spend all day working outside in the frosty winter air. Skip in for a pee break and the thought that your scrotum had sprouted a toadstool gives you a panic. It takes you a moment to realize that the hookah-smoking caterpillar was not able to be summoned from his lair. While it was disconcerting at first, you take comfort in knowing that no matter how big or small your caterpillar may be, I can always go pee.
The Wonderland doesn't stop there. You should see it when the Mad Hatter stops by for tea....Change places!
Sometimes you grow too big for your house and an appendage pops right out of the front door.
Playing chess with the queen...well, strategy is essential in checking your mate.
After all the adventure is done, there is still the Cheshire Cat grinning his grin from within. So pleased with the deed....You can take the smile from the cat, but not the cat from the smile!
I want to start my own tribute band. I want to call it "My Morning Bowel Obstruction".
There's these identical twins from Mexico, one named Juan and the other is named Amal, that are attending university in the U.S. Because their family is very poor, the boys have to take turns visiting their family on the holidays every year. This year Juan came back home to visit during the holidays. His mother, while happy to see Juan, said, "I love both of my boys so much, but I really am sad that I do not get to see Amal. I miss him!" Juan, trying to console his emotional mother, said, "But mama, if you've seen Juan, you've seen Amal!"
You really need to say that one out loud in order to get it.
I have a coworker that has been telling me how much weight he's lost over the past three months. Every day it's, "I've lost forty pounds!" I am happy for him, but I am rather weary now of his constant bragging. So, today, when he started on his little kick about his weight loss "Man, I've lost forty pounds", I remarked, "What, since yesterday?" He didn't find this very amusing. However, I did and so did every one else in the room. That is all that matters.
Updates:
The moving of my sister Bonnie's belongings from her apartment is finished. I had a lot of help and the move went well. We are storing it in my parent's storage unit for now. This was easier than I expected. I had thought that it would be hard emotionally to move all of her stuff out, but it gave me a feeling that I was helping her. Also, when all of the stuff was moved out, all that was left was an empty apartment--it was no longer that "place" that I had found her in such misery this past year.
My brother in law, Paul, had an accident at work on Monday. He was working on the roof of the convenience store that he manages and the ladder slipped on the ice as he was descending. He fell fifteen feet and landed on a cement Jersey barrier chest first. Monday he was listed as critical, but has since improved and is conscious. He broke all of his ribs; a rotator cuff; internal injuries to his liver, intestine, and kidney. His heart was unstable for awhile, but the doctors were able to get him to pull through. There was some good that came about all of this--provided he recovers--in that the doctors discovered that he has been a diabetic for some time and that he has cirrhosis of the liver from his "I'm not an alcoholic. I only have two beers (and all of that whiskey that nobody knows about) a week." drinking habit. You'd think that after having been a poll bearer for his sister in law, who died as a result of her alcohol addiction, would have had a wake up call then. Well, he is starting to realize that he needs to change his life and said that he will give up his drink and chewing tobacco.
Who said Mormons don't know how to have a good time?
If you are part of the growing homeless population, never fear, there is hope. You may think that you are jobless and without hope for a bright future, but you can join the ranks of "independent", self-employed/appointed toll booth operators of our nations highway off ramps. Yes, it can be you, the guilt-inducing village idiot, that comes up to my car and demands funds for your unfortunate circumstances. It has become such that when getting on the highway that I would rather drive to the middle of Death Valley and start selling beef jerky from a trailer just to get away from you. I must tell you a story that happened to me today. I was in this situation and I gave the man a few bucks only to have him come back to my truck and demand more money. When I didn't give him any more money, he started cussing at me. Yay! Charity is fun.
Being the youngest, I am handed the scraps of my deceased sister's estate. I am okay with this. My oldest sister gets a fairly nice car and I get...shampoo. However, this is no ordinary shampoo, folks. No, this is vegan shampoo. Even better, it is vegan shampoo that gives your hair more body! This sounds a bit paradoxical: going vegan usually involves losing body. But hey, I'm open minded and went ahead and tried it. The first day seemed to go well enough. My hair smelled better--they say that vegans do--and I did have a rather shiny coat of fur atop my noggin. It was after day three that things got a little strange. I woke up and found a whole pile of spare rib bones on my pillow. I think my hair is trying to tell me something.
I was angered the other day by somebody referring to my sister as being a "drunk". It was then that a rather strange thought came to my mind: I am going to get a time machine and punch you in the face two days ago, you ponce! I have no idea what going back in time would actually do, so I thought this was a bit silly. Then I was cut off by some douche bag on the highway and I said it this time, "I am going to get a time machine and punch you in the face two days ago, peckerwood!" It was then that I realized that if I punched them in the present it would be a little too on the nose, no pun intended. If I came up to them two days earlier and said that I had a message from the future (I'd wear a space suit disguise or something) then punched them, then they would be mystified and shit their pants. It would just be great fun to use a time machine for such senseless purposes. I guess I wouldn't need a time machine to wear a space suit and punch people. It probably has the same effect from their point of view.
I have come to the conclusion that Bigfoot is just a ghost wearing a fur coat.
I can't choose everything that I experience. I can choose how I use my experience.
The funeral was sad, beautiful, and spiritual. My eulogy went well, I am told. I really felt something strong surrounding me as I spoke. Bonnie had a great send off.
Going back to work was hard. Having people ask me how she died brought back bad memories for me. I am starting to feel that her death was suicide, but committed under extreme impairment--most likely an accidental overdose. If she was cognizant of her actions, then she would have left a letter and had some kind of "send off" for herself. She loved her family too much to leave without saying something.
I can hear her call my name out of my sleep, startling me awake.
I feel guilty sometimes for wanting her back.
She shouldn't ever have to go back. She completed her mortality. Now she knows what only an immortal can know.
This is my big sister Bonnie. Actually, she wasn't that big, only 5'4". This was a photo taken by my youngest older sister, Debbie, this June. They went on a trip together after Bonnie completed a stay at the "Unie" detox clinic. I really want to get across the fact that my sister was making a strong effort to kick this thing. This is why this death comes as a great shock to me and my family.
Bonnie had struggled off and on with alcohol the past 20 years of her life. Mostly, she was just a functioning alcoholic, in that she really kept it hid and it didn't seem to hinder her much. Our family didn't even know about her struggle until after this Christmas. She spent years on the wagon, then would slip off, then get back on again for a long time. What made the difference this time was that she now had a gastric bypass that wouldn't allow her stomach to metabolize the alcohol. Essentially, the alcohol would go straight to her liver.
What triggered all of this was a boyfriend that got her back into drinking. This guy was no louse at all, it's just that I think that he and my sister had no idea the potential danger of her starting to drink again. After he left to go back East to where he worked it really was too much for my sister. She was also working hard, sixteen-hour days with a new federal judge with a heavy case load. Drinking is great fun if you are already happy and not alone. Drinking is quite the opposite when you are alone and trying to douse your depression. Add to that mix alcoholism and the other conditions and alcohol is downright diabolical.
Bonnie was a sweet person. She was always trying to keep me on the straight and narrow when I was growing up. I did not know of a more tender-hearted human on this earth. She struggled a great deal throughout her life with depression and with high expectations. Her intellect was incredible and her academic achievements were to match. Bonnie was an English Literature major at the University of Utah and graduated with honors. She worked for law firms, the state supreme courts, and the federal courts.
As I said earlier, my sister was very feeling. However, this sensitivity was also a great burden to her. She often felt bombarded with noise and light. Other people's idiosyncrasies would become unbearable for her. The problem was that she would feel an enormous amount of guilt over her becoming annoyed with others. The court cases that she was involved in haunted her a great deal. The images of child rape, child pornography, and murder cases were unwelcome guests in her mind. All she wanted to do was to assist in the justice system to see things put right.
Although Bonnie was beautiful and always had the attention of men, she felt very self conscious of her body. I think a great deal of women do. I had a hard time convincing her of how beautiful she was. When she wasn't drinking she struggled with eating disorders.
I always wished that there was someway that I could have waved a magic wand and made her struggles go away, but that is incredibly selfish thinking. She gained a lot from overcoming and dealing with those trials and I gained a lot of wisdom and love from trying to help, even though I never quite knew what I was doing. To wave a wand is to remove yourself, your emotion, and your toil--it is not being. A life without sacrifice is akin to the life a comfortable house pet.
Bonnie loved kids and wanted so much to be married and have a small family of her own. Recently, one of her goals that she made in rehab was to help give aide to children in Africa. On our last trip together to make her court appearance she kept saying that she was a "Freaking Rainbow" and then would proceed to hug me while I tried not to careen off of the highway going 80 miles an hour. We would all laugh about it after I had regained control of the car again. The best part was when she slipped up and said that she was a "Fucking Rainbow" and then said, "Sorry mom".
After rehab, she was happy to have a chance at life again and had many goals and plans to carry out. It was not to be, however.
I never knew how much pain a person could feel until I woke up Tuesday morning. My grief had grown exponentially from the previous night. I had no idea the physical pain, on top of all the other expected pain, I would feel from this loss. This morning was a bit better, but I still had the "sledgehammer" of grief feeling in my gut. My heart is heavy and I spend a lot of time wondering why. I am really sad that she was alone when she died and that I wasn't there to do something before it happened. I am also sad that I will not be able to see her body, as it was not presentable for viewing. I have no doubts that she is happy now and in a good place. It is just going to take me awhile to accept that in my heart and to overcome my grief.
She just had her birthday this Halloween and was out of rehab the same day. That Monday she was overwhelmed with being terminated from her job. She closed herself off from everyone after that. I found out tonight that she has passed away. My parents made a lot of calls today to her apartment manager, the rehab facility, and finally the police. The police found her body in her apartment. She probably passed away on Friday sometime. I don't know the full details yet and won't know until the autopsy and investigation are completed. But the officer that my parents talked to said that there were no notes and that it looked as if her body had just failed.
I don't want to preach. Alcohol is such a curse to many in this world. She deserved better and I feel she at least does have that now.She was in so much pain. As good of a human being as she was, she had to deal with so much hardship in her life. She didn't deserve any of it. She led such an honorable life that the darkness that burdened her in her last year of life will not taint her legacy. She is my angel now.
I am very heart broken and sad, but I am dealing with this as well as could be expected. I miss her like crazy. She is loved. I love her. I just can't see her for awhile, but I feel that I will be with her again someday.
I often sit in a comfortable chair, drinking a Diet Coke, and think how unfair the world is.
I imagine a world where every person has free access to hugs and the right to refuse them--or the right to hug something in self defense.
Spaz is such a funny word. "Assistant to Spaz" is my job title.
I heard a man say that God loves irony. From this I also assume that God also gets a good chuckle out of not existing and existing at the same time. God must also enjoy giving one team a championship win because they prayed for it and letting the other team lose because they asked for the same thing. I also know of a kid who prayed to God that he would see a bear on his trip to Yellowstone and he did see one. I pray for a lot of things and I get mixed results. It is much like playing a slot machine that holds my eternal fate in its magic lever. What I meant to say is that I constantly fear pissing off the great slot machine up in the sky while hoping for enough winnings to pay for enough gas to make it back home. That is faith.
Some of the things that turned out for the better are still good while some of the other things that seemed good have actually turned out to follow a much more depressing course.
I have a hard time lately watching movies at home all the way through. There is something wrong with my attention span.
I have no current obsessions. It really worries me.
Well, in the immortal words of Ralph Wiggam, "Go Banana!'
Julie Schuler is a very talented painter and overall artist. She is also a die-hard Gruntonian. I thought it was about time that I gave her a well deserved shout out and post a link to her store: My Good Babushka.
I am a big fan of her paintings of classic horror figures and other weird or macabre subjects. She also does cute and cuddly--very diverse. Check out her work and buy something.
Remember how hot it was when Britney Spears danced all sexy like with that python/boa at the MTV VMAs? Now picture that routine but with a chimpanzee or a dog.
Now the whole symbolism of the Serpent/phallus tempting Eve in the Garden of Eden thing does not escape me. What does escape me is that a snake is just as much an animal as a rooster, monkey, dog, or a hamster is, so why are we okay with dry humping/sexually abusing snakes?
I once saw a '60s "B" movie, exploitation flick where a stripper was basically screwing a snake and sticking it in her mouth as she go-goed. What if, instead of a snake, she greased up a cat and stuck it between her legs then swallowed its head in a fit of ecstasy? What would we have then? Movie magic, that's what!
I declare, thinking about all of this here stuff has done given me a case of the wim wams.
Now I wouldn't classify Subway as a fine deli, but I do frequent the place, due to it being convenient and relatively cheap. However, there is one thing about Subway that really irks me and that is the inconsistency between stores, or even the employee making your sandwich. I find myself favoring one location over another. This is not due to proximity, per se, but how well they give good sandwich/Subway.
You can liken it to sex, if you want--and I know you will because only perverts read this blog. Some sandwich makers have that special touch where they just know how much mayo to put on, and so forth. Some sandwich makers put way too much of everything on, or think that bigger is always better. I am beginning to know what it feels like to be a woman, in that there are men who think it is sexy to jam their dripping wet appendages up in all of your "that"--there are just so many ways that it can go wrong, and usually does. Of course, and just as worse or more, are the ones that leave you hanging with hardly anything at all and you are left with a dusty orifice, all alone. Let's not forget to mention that the same hands that they touched your goods with were also handling their dirty cash just moments before. Both also can cause anal bleeding, as well.
When Subway is done right it is magnificent. Every placement and assemblage brings about twinges of ecstasy, building up to the high plateau of good times, the slight dip at thought of what this is going to cost you, and then to taking it to the face for the climax. Just remember to wipe that mayo off of your face before going back outside.
Hello. It's been awhile but I needed the time away from blogging. Some very significant things have happened to people close to me and I have been involved a great deal in those life events. It has been truly great. My sister is out of the chains of addiction and discovering a whole new world now. My niece has got remarried to a man that treats her right. My mom has finally retired. My brother is starting to really try to lose weight.
I am still grunty, but with more miles and wear and tear. I think it makes me look distinguished (read: older and fatter--"Orson Welles"). I have had some time off and I hope to post pictures of my trip to Escalante. My friend Wayne promised me a CD with pictures of the trip. So, we are all at his mercy. I am parting together another electric guitar out of odds and sods that I had laying around, together with a recently acquired Stratocaster neck from Ebay.
I've been doing a little work and consulting for a local metal band, nothing big, but cool nonetheless. I get paid "big fat donut" for my sage advice and skillful hands. It is all part of my plan to become their creepy tech guy when they make it to the county fair circuit.
Well, that's about it. More posts to come. Hopefully, they will be weird ones.
The next four days I will be in the slot canyon capitol of the world. I am horribly out of shape and will probably keel over from exhaustion within the first few miles. My back has been giving me trouble, but to hell with it, I am going anyway. After the summer that I've had I need to enjoy myself, even if it ends up killing me. There's nothing like telling people that you are off to venture into Little Death Hollow for a bit of R&R.
A bit of the random for ye:
I have an idea for something that would serve as an energy source and as a fashion statement: the photosytheshirt. When you wear this shirt you will get all your energy needs via sunlight. The downside is that birds and squirrels will nest in you and try to gather your nuts, even if you don't have them. On the plus side, sort of, dogs will really like you and hippies will hug you.
I was digging around my parent's storage unit to see if I could find my high school yearbooks and I found my trusty BB gun from way back when. Upon handling it, I had the sudden urge to visit my old neighborhood and shoot out the windows of all the homes of the people that were dicks. Good sense prevailed and I just went up in the hills and shot beer bottles and grasshoppers.
Dogs know the secret of steel. They don't tell anyone the secret because they can't stop thinking about bacon.
Have any of you seen that Evander Holyfield Taco Bell commercial yet? It is freakin' hi-larious. It's good to see this partially-functioning, punch-drunk former bruiser making a few more million as the taco ambassador to the world. I can't get enough of this commercial. You can barely understand a word this man is saying, plus you get to see him in "old lady" drag. About his speech, hell, I don't even think it is an offshoot of some bastardized form of Ebonics. It's more like a deaf Buckwheat walking into an alien ship and muttering random shit to the little gray dudes kind of language. I have been riffing a bit on this commercial and here is my version of how it goes:
Counter Girl: Welcome to Taco Bell. May I take your order?
EH: I hadda two hanga pangdoh tacknos peaze!
Counter Girl: Usually, a man your size can only eat one of those.
EH (pointing over to an old lady drag version of himself): Bud I pa-tadda na mama puh nunch!
The End.
I think there should be a sequel to this commercial where Mike Tyson sits down next to Evander in the Taco Bell and just stares at his ear, licking his lips, then takes takes a long sip from his Baja Blast. Evander could just say this line: "Oh no, potado!" Good advertising doesn't have to make any sense so long as it is funny as hell.
I have been looking around SLC cemetery for some years for this legendary gravestone. I was beginning to believe that it was only an urban legend. I wonder what one has to have happen to them in order to warrant this kind of epitaph? There's a few places in this cemetery that have epic levels of bad juju going on. My grandparents on my mom's side are buried in this cemetery. This is a pretty cool place to take a walk, especially around dusk on a Sunday, no less.
Btw, thanks for your kind support on my previous post. I will be taking a couple of days off this week to drive them and attend their hearing this week in Steamboat, Colorado. Hopefully, there won't need to be any time served, but it is very possible. Wish us luck.
Update: The hearing has been postponed till next week.
While it may not be for some, a couple of weeks without blogging is an eternity for me. Since the end of February I have been going through some real difficult stuff with somebody close to me. In this past month I was pretty sure that things were going to end badly. I've gone through some really bizarre, frightening, and heart wrenching shit in my life, but this current ordeal really stands out as a contender for the title of "shit that sucks" in my life. I am so stressed out from one week to the next that I don't keep track of the days much now. I don't think it will be over for a while, either. But things did change for the better this weekend. It didn't come easy and I really thought that I had failed and had to accept the fact that I would lose this person forever to alcoholism. But, as I mentioned, things are looking up.
Thanks for supporting me through all of my weirdness. I hope to have something wacky to post in the near future.
Have you ever entered a public restroom and wondered to yourself if this is what gorilla sex smells like?
I asked myself that question today. Only, I also wondered if this smell that I experienced was gorilla sex mixed with the aftermath of taco Tuesday at some hole-in-the-wall joint in the "ethnic" part of town. Whatever it was it was bad. The type of bad smell that curls up in-between your teeth and gums and takes a nap. Man, it was B.O. and human waste. Not only that but I think the person responsible made the room hotter and more humid somehow. I think scientists should follow this person around and collect samples of their droppings and other various products. There might be some value towards discovering an alternate fuel or energy source there.
Have you ever met somebody and decided that you were put on this earth to mess with them? I have. This guy thinks it is his purpose in life to be exacting in everything that he does and then proceeds to enforce this upon everyone that he comes across. I, having a deeply buried malevolence towards this type of individual, decided that this was just great. Why? Because I need a break from being benevolent every once in awhile.
The best way to mess with someone like this is to approximate things all of the time. Never get anything right on the money. However, bust them hard and remind them constantly of their failures to be thorough and precise. Also, with philosophical matters, strictly adhere to a loose "spirit" of the law and not blind observance. Plus, if they are religious zealots, like this guy, plan on coming out as a witch during one of their visits. The look on his face is going to be priceless.
I have also thought of telling this man that I believe him to be a prophet, or even one step further, one of the Three Nephites. Better yet, I think I should convince this man to write that religious book that he has always been meaning to write and to finally make his move to the Holy Land. There are many ways that one could play this. What things would you do?
I think I may have brought this subject up before but I wanted to do it again.
The scenario:
Imagine that you are sweeping a floor with a typical broom. Just for kicks, you stick the broom between your legs like a witch would. To your amazement you begin to fly.
The questions:
Where would you fly to first? (Ideally)
Where do you think you'd really fly to, considering that this might all be a fleeting phenomenon?
If you found out that this was not a fleeting power, what would you do with this power besides flying around like a dipwad?
Would you dress any differently as a result of your new found power and if so what kind of attire would it consist of?
Would you use your powers for good, evil, or indifference? Explain.
Would you take the opportunity to crap on newly washed vehicles?
Would you just waste this power trying to see how it could get you laid?
Jar Jar Binks is teaming up with Randy Jackson and Danger Mouse to lay down an album's worth of slow jams and Calypso tunes. It's totally true because an angel of God visited me in my room three times in a row and told me to stop abusing my brain with drain cleaner, that the Celts are the primary ancestors of the indigenous peoples of New Guinea --and btw, Jar Jar Binks is making a comeback!
Some of the leaked song titles include:
"Oh, Annie Man Will Do! (Show Me Your Darkside)"
" It's Da BBI (Binks Bitches Inc.)"
"Say Da Mana Cuz I Don Have Time, Walter (WTF???)"
"Tally My Banana, Oh!"
"The Ballad of Qui-Gon Jinn (with Gordon Lightfoot)"
I had this dream last night about an old friend of mine that I haven't seen in years. In this dream he was single, but in real life he is married. The other part of the dream was that he had used condoms strewn about his pad and a huge assortment of sex toys. Now, I think you might now where this is going, but wait, there's a big wtf twist! The dream became focused on a pet of his: a magical cat. This guy hates cats in real life, so why in hell did the dream include this? The cat was magical, though. It knew how to make its own Fancy Feast dinners appear out of thin air, balls of yarn would just fly about the place, and it would even talk in a weird cat voice.
So, Kenny, is it true? Are you now single, creepy with sex implements, and own a magical pet cat? I'll be waiting for your answer.
I went to a family reunion last Friday. It was my mom's side of the family. I've never had a family reunion on my dad's side of the family because my dad and his half-sister are just barely acknowledging each other. While I find my father's side of the family more interesting, in a clinical way, I do get along better with my mom's side of the family. It was a good get together and I got to have some face time with my cuz Brett (formerly, The Incorrigible Vagabond) who inspired me to start blogging in the first place. I just wish all of my sisters were there. I wish I could get more into that, but I said that I wouldn't.
The other things: went off roading, bought a cowboy period-style piece for target shooting, pulled a nearly overturned truck out of a culvert with my truck, slashed my wrist while trying to roll up a window in my damned truck when the handle broke and the jagged left overs dug a nice trench in me. That gas station attendant was real spot on with her getting me first-aide supplies. I spent my Sunday asking God "why" and avoided people. I think it's the manses. Anyway, it was a full weekend.
My imagination gets all the chicks. I hate it. Even if I have a woman my imagination goes out and gets a better one. I can't compete.
The other thing I hate about my imagination is that it conspires with my memory recall to bring up weird nudity that I've seen over the years, and places it right in the silver screen of my mind at the most inappropriate times. For example, I am talking to a woman about her new grand kid and Tara Reid's Frankennipple pops into my mind. Things resembling sea monsters eating nachos, shaved voles, and rude vegetables compete for my attention constantly in crucial times. This is why I am not the CEO of Dairy Queen right now. The real kicker is that in times of loneliness and arousal my imagination leaves me and can only think about stuff like how good an actor George C. Scott was. I mean, Patton...are you kidding me? That guy is a national treasure.
The thing about nudity and my imagination is that it can only do one body part at a time accurately. If my imagination tries to create a whole composite, then things start to get a bit strange. Let's try this for example, if I were to imagine a whole nude woman and then bring that creation to life in the real world, she would resemble Salvador Dali's "The Bather".The cruelty of my imagination is unending.
This is not totally about my imagination, but I was at my friend's house this Saturday. It was sad because they got a replacement pet for their elderly blue healer: a cute black lab puppy. Nothing says "You're gonna make great mulch for the rose garden" to your old dog like having it train the replacement. I could tell that old Blue was pretty depressed about it all because she didn't even bother telling the pup where to go bathroom--it just peed all over the floor inside. I mean, how can you do your job when your morale is low? The bonus part of training your replacement is that you can train them wrong. Take that, master's shoe! Okay, that part involved imagination.
There are certain kinds of cereal that I believe to be alive when you prepare them for consumption. I'm talking about the floaty kind of cereal. You pour the milk on them and the little bits of cereal try to escape, jumping off the edge of the bowl in hopes that an ant will whisk them away to freedom. If they are smart the bits will choose the most opportune moments to jump, like when you are moving your bowl from the counter to the coffee table. It's there that the cereal bit can drop on the floor and become undesirable for human consumption, banking on there not being any dogs or babies to eat them. The other places that cereal can drop are in sofa/recliner cushions, baby seats, and in the folds of the morbidly obese.
There's also the kinds of cereal that comes into play: being the type that mom buys and you don't want to eat, kids. That cereal goes on to live an exciting life of adventure in the waste facilities of the world. I think that, in this case, I'd want to be generic, sugar-free raisin bran or anything that involves natural ingredients--the cereals that are made up entirely of delicious poison and cut the roof of your mouth don't stand a chance.
It's unfortunate, however, that the liberated bit of cereal really does nothing with its freedom other than watch feet nearly crush them to death. The anxiety of being free cereal must be great, but so too is the need to not be eaten.
Time machines would be great. But there is something that I would do with that technology to make all of our lives kick tits: The "Just In Time" Machine (patent pending). This works great for hitting those historical or personal events that you want to relive, witness, or fuck with the space-time continuum just so you can make sure that your mother-doesn't-marry-someone-better-than-your dad-so-you-can-exist kind of thing, because we all know that you get an awesome Toyota 4x4 truck that you can take your girlfriend to the lake in and you can screw her all night and she won't get pregnant kind of "new" present life. Longest sentence ever! But wait...there's more!!! The Just In Time Machine (patent pending) really shines in future travel. It is perfect for nailing the perfect spots for witnessing natural disasters, accidents, assassinations, celebrity wardrobe malfunctions, and even Jesus Christ himself!
Dogs need to get jobs, buy things, and learn how to drive. It's the only way we can fix this economy.
I went in for my quarterly cancer examination today. Things checked out great with one exception: my hemoglobin is low. I asked my doctor why it was low and she couldn't say. This got me thinking about possible causes. I came to the conclusion, after much thought, that I was raped in the night by the Hemogoblin. I made this deduction from the fact that my ass hurt when I woke up this morning and rose petals were stuffed in my shoes. True story.
Fun Fact: Work is slowly robbing you of your will to live.
So, I was going on my Sunday evening hike and I came across these two men on the trail. We all stopped a bit to talk about the canyon and I asked them how far up the trail went and so forth. Anyway, the "leader" of the two starts asking me a lot of personal questions and then introduces himself with a hand shake. The quiet one looks me directly in the eye, and with no irony says, "They call me Hawk." Besides the obvious question of who "they" was, I was tempted to just come right out and say that I wasn't interested in being raped in the forest.
My activity on this blog has been in decline (for me, at least). Ever since I got back from my vacation awhile back it has been hard for me to focus on certain things. Since it has been a whole week (!) since my last post I have decided to share with you some of my new-found passions: fun, lobster racing, snipe awareness, touching my nose with my_______, making dirty thoughts pop into people's heads without doing anything dirty, dust bunny rancher, likes a wide variety of hats (does not wear hats), bonsai tree liberation, taco cart maintenance, fish bowling, star gazing with Bob (imaginary mentor--I'm all grown up now).
Aside from these new pursuits and hobbies, I have been busy deconstructing my milieu. See, I had this dream. In this dream I was involved in an activity where the adult men and young men were gathered into a gymnasium. We were told to bring a gun. When we were all present, the leader told us to stand apart from each other a certain distance and then to fire our guns in turns. I kept asking the leader why we were doing this. He told me that it was better to be obedient and assured me that no one would die or get hurt badly. I was rather nervous in the dream because I was only ten feet away from a boy pointing a double-barrel shotgun at me. I pretty much knew that I would be wasted with one shot. I persisted in questioning every grownup in the group and everyone seemed to ignore me now, instead laughing with each other and acting rather casual--this was all going to be fun. End dream.
This impressed upon me the futility of warning a body/group of the foolishness that they are engaged in. A group is an organism. It will do many things to protect itself.
I've been thinking about the collective state of mind versus the individual: happiness. I really believe that a member of the collective will sacrifice their individual self for their collective self out of the need for security and comfort over autonomy and truth. The collective will rarely, if ever, truly listen to an individual who threatens the state of the collective; whereas, the individual can become completely absorbed by the collective.
Collective/group reality seems to be just as subjective and prone to credulity as that of the individual, if not more. Group think is prone to depersonalization as well as a lack of critical thinking. The responsibility of scrutiny is dispersed completely. It is no wonder that large groups of people have taken in claims, concepts and myths in confidence from jugglers of perception and emotion.
This all takes me back to the days when I was studying social psychology. It is nice to shut the brain down and make everybody happy, but I don't think that they understood what it was that made me unhappy. The more I think, the more it seems to unravel who I am. My real interest in life is thinking. I am a thinker. Speaking in general, if what I think about makes you feel uncomfortable, then that is tough shit. I am a big enough person to handle your mind garbage, why not you mine?
My older brother had "the" poster with the magic nipples in it. I was an avid watcher of Charlie's Angels reruns, but was more devoted to Wonder Woman. I will remember her for her character of "Blond Girl" in Logan's Run and for her paintings, using her nude body as a brush. This is proof that Texans are different from the rest of us and that is why we like them. Mostly, though, I will think about another fellow being that lost their battle with cancer and how fortunate I am to have survived my battle with that disease.
Of Ed:
I was lucky enough to have spent many nights of my youth watching The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. I would sometimes crash my parents' room and watch this with my dad while my mom was busy doing mom stuff. There was something about Ed that made you like him, or fear him. You just knew that if you met him in the right circumstances that he might "heyo" you to death. Ed was one of the few people that could put "Trademark Laugh" on a resume and it would get him the job. At least he and Johnny can do the show again.
Of Michael:
Pop genius, pure and simple. I really got into my brother's 45's of the Jackson 5 and his early solo stuff. I wasn't even ashamed to like him when he released Thriller, then things started getting weird...Howard Hughes meets Elvis weird. From hyperbaric chambers to Elepant Man skeletons, and the occult to Bubbles the Chimp. Throw in Brooke Shields, Webster, Neverland Ranch, and a bunch of young boys and you have only a grain of sand on an entire bizzaro world beach. He seemed only to be visiting this planet, anyway. Somehow, I am happy for him. As tragic as his death may be, I really didn't want to see what advanced age would do to him. I found it painful to watch him make attempts at becoming "adult", having kids and canned marriages. He just could never be old--he needed to exist elsewhere, away from normality. Maybe he really was Peter Pan. There won't be anybody nor anything like him again.
You're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't. So, the best thing is to say that you are always thinking about it, whatever "it" is, and hang out with good people.
My mind is still on vacation. Astral travel is much cheaper than getting away physically, but I am no yogi.
My mind thinks of silly things quite often. Lately, I've been fascinated with how Dustin Hoffman says "uh-oh", you know, the "Rainman" catchphrase. I also have an equal fascination with how Jackie Chan says "uncle". He sounds like he's saying "unkhole". There's nothing wrong with it. It is just something that I get a kick out of. So, I've been thinking how great it would be if Jackie Chan and Dustin Hoffman did a movie together, called Uh-oh! Where's Uncle? Dustin Hoffman would just reprise his Rainman character and team up with Jackie on a quest to find his Uncle, who was kidnapped by international gangsters that ride motorcross bikes around the Bronx--the Bronx having the Canadian Rocky Mountains as a prominent backdrop (just like in Rumble in the Bronx). Apparently, Hong Kong filmmakers didn't even try to match their shooting location to their intended setting. Oh, and when is the last time you were traumatized by hordes of breakdance-couture, dirtbike riders in the inner city? Did they try to steal your grocery-store-owning uncle, too? Well, my friends, all of this nonsense will go into this production. Dustin Hoffman will use his savant super powers to process information from almanacs, phone books, and the "Adult" ads in Craigslist to track down the bad guys. Jackie Chan will just randomly beat people up, run around and jump alot, and smile at stuff while pronouncing things wrong to our delight. The best part is that they both will say the catchphrase "Uh-oh! Where's Uncle?" a lot.
I have sensitive eyes. Noise isn't the primary obstacle for me getting to sleep or staying asleep. Light is the main culprit for my arousal or inability to zonk out. I happen to live on a busy street. This damn street, and paranoid neighbors with their motion-sensing flood lights, make me go into fits when I'm trying to get a little shut eye. Up until now, my solution has been to use my black Pink Floyd "Division Bell" concert t-shirt to throw over my face. It still has that unwashed stench of concert sweat and weed and will stay that way--you never wash concert t-shirts, teens. The problem there was that I had woke up a few times with this t-shirt almost strangling me, having wrapped itself around my neck. So, I broke down, went to Rite-Aide, and bought myself a teal-colored, silk blind fold. I didn't opt for the one with lace, though.
As gay as I look wearing this thing, I have got to say that it feels divine. It is more than that, though; my eyes feel cooler and I don't wake up as "baggy" as I used to. The downside to this blind, versus the Floyd shirt, is that there is no olfactory enhancement that stimulates wicked dreams. In fact, this silk blindfold promotes more sedate and sensitive dreams, where I sit around drinking chai and asking people about their feelings. This pisses of that little part of me that says, "Oh, go shove a corn cob up your ass, you sissy boy!" I think, in time, this little part of me will come around.
It all hit me today. I watched enough bad T.V. to rob my brain of all independent thought.
Symbiotic relationships--like remoras and sharks--are fascinating to me. I like picking out who the "remora" is and the "shark" in any given relationship. My truck needs a remora. That would be awesome. I would be going down the freeway with a few of them stuck to my truck, cleaning all the foreign debris that collects on it. While we are talking around the wishing well, it would also be nice if our cars fed off of bugs in the air like a whale does with krill. No pollution or trips to the pump, just free energy and less mosquito bites.
I have come to the conclusion why the sasquatch gives off such a horrible smell: skunk lovers. Since the best kook psuedoscientists have produced enough hardcore speculation as to their numbers (3,500) it must get lonely out there for a hairy and horny biped--much like a long-haul trucker. Eyewitnesses testify that a horrible smell accompanies the beast--a smell that has nothing to do with the body odor that comes from a large man in a yak hair covered, latex gorilla suit. No, the sasquatch tides themselves over with the odd skunk here and there with a behavior that is known as "misting" in cryptozoological circles. I do not wish to get into the mechanics of such, but I will just say that the natives of this country did not call the sasquatch "skunk ape" for nothing.
I was hoping to join a cult in the wilderness but nobody would take me. I tried my damnedest to find Bigfoot but could not grow sufficient facial hair to fit the part of an expeditiouswacko. I did have the boots, though.
I will have to report about this sometime down the road.
It was on the side of the road and had a saddle blanket tossed over most of it. This scene reminded me of the horse that my friend Kenny and I found up behind his house back when we were kids. We sort of followed our noses to this bloated horse. Its hoof had broken off and must have been shot to spare it the suffering. That was probably the worst smell I've ever come across, other than a dead bull that our scout troop came across while bow fishing. We all started firing arrows at the bloated corpse to see if it would explode; instead, just an awful aroma wafted through the ravine. That is probably one of my favorite scout moments, other than burning things and smuggling in Penthouse mags at jamborees.
Anyway, this scene today did not ruin my grilled turkey pesto sandwich that I had afterward.
While on the rescue mission, I did get in some time to check out the local scenery in Steamboat. This was a very short hike and well worth the time to go see.
As for everything else, well, life gets stressful for all of us now and then. We either experience it because something is happening to us or to someone else. I've said this many times, that it isn't because my life is disrupted that I'm freaking out, it is that it is hard to witness someone that you are close to destroy themselves.
I feel for anybody that has had to deal with addiction. I feel, also, for those that have had to help those who were addicts. I am learning that the things that an addict says has to be taken with a grain of salt, even the things that are truly mean spirited. Today I had to read an email from this person that was a full on assault to my character. The months leading up to this day, being involved, I've been fairly stoic and in control. But, this message today broke me down. I was in the shower and without sensing it beforehand, I started sobbing. It just came out. It felt bad. It felt good. I needed it.
This whole week I've felt horrible and have not wanted to get out of bed. I have to keep reminding myself that this person, who is very dear to me, is suffering far worse than I. So, I get up and go to my lousy monkey job, grateful that someday I will be able to know this person again without the distortion of alcohol and pills getting in the way.
The past 72 hours of my life have been surreal and trying. I've traveled nearly a thousand miles in that time without any prior plan to do so. I've had to do things that I have never done before and never in my wildest imagination would have thought that those things would have to be for a certain person in my life. I wish I could be more explicit than this, but I won't. I feel like I've just taken that little possessed girl from The Exorcist on the road trip from hell. Well, "feels like" is not really what I mean. I mean that I, in fact, did transport something out of control from a long way away, after having helped detox it, having "it" escape, "it" be arrested by the Routt County Police in Colorado for DUI, and having to deal with more bail bondsman on a Sunday than I am accustomed to. Oh, and I learned another thing, ATM withdrawls on my debit card are limited to $300 per day and certain services take cash only. Oh, and the motel I stayed at had crap wifi and drunken parties going on all night long. Fuh! King! Aw! Suhm!
Did I mention that I had previously taken Friday off to have a three-day weekend to celebrate my birthday a little late?
If a certain co-worker tells me that he had the worst day because he had to take his daughter to dance class, I'm going to start shooting people from the bell tower. Well, I'd throw water balloons, but you get my drift.
If you never got to see me before chemo and radiation and during, go here. Anyhooter, I finally cut my hair for the first time since I lost it. I went from this, (about 14 months worth of growth)... To this...This is about as "before and after" as you're gonna get--I even did the dark-light frowny face "before" shot and the sunny/smiley "after" mug. I liked the long hair, to a point. Having to work outside the majority of the time, it was getting tangled from the wind and soaked with sweat and attracting dirt. I was also starting to draw the ire of the oldies and not-so-oldies that are squares.
So, I decided to go to a local "McBarber" and free my scalp. I decided that I wanted to go short all the way around to prove to myself that I have healed emotionally--that being almost bald again would not bring back horrible memories and feelings. Anyway, when the lady started cutting my hair we started talking and I shared my story with her. When the cut was done (fast) I asked her for a bag so I could collect some of my hair. She happily obliged. So, after I got done being a creep and having to explain to people not to worry, that I have a restraining order pending on myself, from myself, I approached the register to pay and the stylist says, "This one is on me!" I got a free, freaking haircut!!! People are now confused when they see me, but this is due to the town's tainted water supply. I mean, a year is a long time to remember what someone looked like with short to almost no hair.
Hank did say that. I don't think that he was the first to say it, but that certainly sounds like the dirty old man.
I would like to modify that statement thus: There are worse things than being alone, like being left alone with___________.
That is a blank that we all must fill. I would like to hear your answers. Mine is Dick Cheney or Richard Simmons.
BTW, I went into the wilderness on Saturday for a little adventure, climbed a slate covered hill, slipped, fell, and hurt my neck. It was nothing serious, but waking up this morning wasn't fun at all.
I have a new mantra that I repeat to myself at work: You people make me sick.
I am good at making things that don't work.
If I were to have one super power I would want the power of super persuasion.
I think a duck is stalking me, maybe even trying to kill me. I was attacked by this duck when I was leaving a local Burger King. I think it is the same duck that I came across up in the mountains--a very odd place for a duck to be hanging out. I'm going to have one embarrassing obituary if things keep going this way.
First off, I need to Apollo Creedologize to the following: Californians, Californians on my mother's side of the family (I really do love you), and my father's side of the family that scare me with their war stories, cowboy boots, and unibrows.
Today for Cinco de Mayo I went and had some delicious food made by Mexicans at McDonald's. The plan was to go to the Mexican restaurant in town that employs white people and one Samoan. Yeah, I do get a bit head scratchy about that one sometimes, but then I drink something with lots of caffeine in it and go on with my life.
Just when it is safe to think I can tell people that I wasn't made out of parts and reanimated--that I have family--shit goes all 'razy again with a member of the family. Did I mention that I am my family's emotional waste facility? I am signaling the aliens to pick me up as we speak. I think I am robust enough to take their experiments. I have to accept the harsh reality that when I find the "one" she will have to be set down at the family table and presented with the "loving cup" ceremony: Gooba-gabbo! Gooba-gabbo! We accept her! We accept her! One of us! One of us!
If anybody asks, I'm out working on my Camaro, waiting for a French exchange student to help me ski the "K-12". Oh yeah, I don't have a Camaro.
I didn't grow up on a farm, but when I was younger the area I grew up in had quite a few real farms and ranches. There aren't many of those around now that Californians are leaving their quagmire of economic hell to cheaper pastures and snatching up McMansions by the dozen--so they can show little Johnny and little Suzy what a cow looks like. On top of all that we get the indignity of being told that we are backward hicks with no sense whatsoever and that our state should become more like the state that they had to move away from. It's awesome.
I like many Californians. Heck, I'm related to a whole bunch of them. It is one of those most awesome things that I get to participate in: family get togethers. I think all of the ones that involved the Californian branch of my mother's family consisted of me being acknowledged superficially, then ignored for three awkward hours. I'll say it again: It's awesome. At least my dad's side of the family have the social grace to say that they think I'm a loser to my face, then proceed to make fun of everything I do and that I'm a pussy. Hey, I can't help the fact that I haven't had the opportunity to kill a man, legally.
I think this post promised farm animals. Sorry.
Anyway, when I was a lad I had a paper route. Part of that route took me into farmland. It was there that I discovered the joy of baby cow season. I wasn't a happy kid. These baby cows took that unhappiness away from me for a brief moment. There is nothing more cute in this world than a baby cow. Puppies don't even come close, in my humble opinion. I think it is because you know what kind of fate a baby cow has that makes you appreciate that short moment it has of finding life fun and brand new. Let's face it: nobody's lining up to play Frisbee with flossy, other than to throw parts of her onto the grill.
So, today, I was not feeling particularly great. It has been a while since I've been truly depressed, thanks to my friends at the Pfizer corporation. But today was beyond chemical help. I needed more: Baby cow therapy. Hey, I've used a lot of colons in this post so far! High five!
I headed off to the county behind the mountains that divide where I live from Marlboro country. When I got there I was received with plenty of friendly waves from total strangers. My truck may not be a shit-kicker delight, but it gets the nod due to its vintage. After the welcoming committee, I went up a valley where the baby cows, kids, and the occasional juvenile alpaca roam. I parked my truck and stared lovingly at the jumping, kicking baby cows like a pervert watching moms at a playground. Well, I wasn't planning anything like that--I'm not a sicko. Let me rephrase that whole thing: I was not getting off on them; just that I made the mother cows feel a bit uncomfortable with my "hamburger" eyes.
When I started feeling better, I started to think happy, ponderous thoughts. I wondered to myself, just at what point do cows become boring? I haven't seen adult cows do much of anything noteworthy, other than feed an overfed nation. I mean, no cow has ever invented anything useful. I'm pretty sure a dog or a monkey has.
Wait...
New. Foul. Odors. Yes, cows have done remarkable things.
This is one of my favorite pianists playing one of my favorite pieces, by one of my favorite Russian composers. Check out the wicked left-hand action. I've loved this pianist, Anna Gourari, ever since I saw the Werner Herzog film Invincible. She's not only talented and beautiful, she also makes "oh" faces when she plays--kind of like Hendrix did when he played the guitar.
Enough of this high-brow crap.
Today's joke comes directly from my childhood--a little gem that used to crack us kids up back in the day.
There's this Indian chief that is constipated. He goes to his shaman to seek a cure.
Shaman: "What matter, Big Chief?" Indian chief to shaman: "Ugh! Big Chief no fart!" Shaman: "That problem can take care of. Try this soup. It has many beans. It will make Chief fart."
So, the Indian chief goes away to his tepee and partakes of the shaman's special soup. The chief wakes up in the morning feeling even worse. He goes back to the shaman.
Shaman: "How soup, Big Chief?" Big Chief: "Ugh! Big Chief no fart!" Shaman: "It worse than expected. I'll make even stronger soup so chief can fart."
The Indian chief does as he's told, just like last time and eats the soup. The next morning the chief feels the worst that he's ever felt. He has his sons carry him to the shaman's tepee to see what can be done.
Shaman: "Big Chief don't look so well. Still no fart?" Big Chief: "Big Chief still no fart! Big Chief kill shaman if no fart this time!" Shaman: "Big Chief will fart. I have concentrated soup with strong chilies, many beans, and chunks of boar fat in it. Big Chief will fart, or I will willingly die if fail."
The Indian chief is carried away by his sons to his tepee. The chief eats the shaman's strongest soup and goes to sleep. Early in the morning the shaman is woken up by an explosion. He gets out of his tepee to see what happened. When he looks out he sees the villagers running up the hill screaming. He grabs one of the frantic braves and asks him what happened.
Shaman: "What happened? What make big noise?" Frantic Brave: "Big fart! No Chief!!!"
Not really. I was watching a bit of mind numbing stimuli on the TV whilst eating some eggs and toast this morning. When I eat I don't pay attention to shit. So, when I eat I usually need to have the TV on to something hypnotically dull. On The Discovery Channel there is this absolutely überboring program called " How It's Made". See, if you ever wondered how pens, lobster bibs, or jack hammers are made, you can just tune in to that program and turn into human goo from the boredom. Personally, it is more of a trance thing for me. Watching the automatic assembly lines with the sound off, and some CAN in the player, that is what gets my void on. Anyway, this morning I learned that the first cotton swabs were called "Baby Gays" instead of Q-Tips. So, there I was eating my cocoa puff equivalent cereal when my brain received this fun fact, and then started laughing like a stoned college student, milk dribbling down my chin. It was at that point that I thought of looking through my bags of leftover prescription drugs from past medical adventures and see if I had any Oxes or Loris left and just make today a complete "shit the couch" circus. My better judgment prevailed and so I went to work.
I dropped by my sister's place today to find out that I have a new friend. My sister got a cat from the animal shelter, a seal point mix. I used to be indifferent to cats until I befriended a black and white "Sylvester" some time ago. That cat was affectionate. Unfortunately, it was killed by a coyote. I thought that cat was an anomaly amongst cats, but this new cat of my sister's is the bee's knees. The papers say that her name is "Princess" and we all thought that was pretty gay. So, this cat has no name at the moment. If it was a male, my vote would be for "Terence Hill". You just can't give dogs people names.
Anyway, my sister has been through a lot lately and she needed a faithful companion to love her and keep her company. It is amazing how much one little being can make life better.
I guess you just can't blame a guy for wanting to get laid, though;) BTW, I know elkspeak and this guy claims to have slept with Rachel McAdams, was a secret adviser to the Obamas, and invented the delicious desert that we all know and love: ice cream. Amongst other embellishments, this elk claims to have been the first member of the Cervidae family to land on the moon. The problem with lying your way into people's pants, hearts, and lives is that that you end up more alone and lost than you started out.
Farewell, Scott. It was nice knowing the fabrication that was you. And like a coward, you took down your blog and tucked your tail between your legs without so much as an apology, defense, or an explanation. This is how you lose respect and lose friends--people who would have heard you out. But, no, you slid back into your mossy crevice, waiting for the right time to reemerge and troll upon trusting people on the internet. I really hope that you get your act together and respect people enough to tell them who you are and not who you think would impress them. I, at least, hope that the good guy that I saw in you was real and that you can take from this humiliation something to build upon: truth. It is the only way that you will find happiness and I will gladly eat my harsh words towards you if you do so.
For those who need a back story on all of this, go here and especially here.
I'm sorry to have to kick your ass, Scott, but you need a good old ass kicking to get you started in the right direction. May your best efforts in restitution be rewarded.
Sunday, I went up into the mountains behind where I live to go for a bit of adventure. Sunday was the best in a few awesome days of spring weather that has been long over due around here. I decided to check out some old mine tailings that I had spied over the years--see if I could access them. Here is the first mine shaft that I reached. It wasn't that big. I crawled in and it did eventually open up enough to walk in without crouching. On my way out I noticed that there was a spot where the shaft ceiling was vertical. I pointed my flashlight up and there were about a dozen bats right above me. I must admit that I turned into a bit of a spaz and ran out of the mine, tripped right before I had to crawl, and got all muddy. At least it wasn't guano. This is the reward for hiking in leafless oak brush. I had to come down the mountain in the dark, but I was treated to herds of deer, relics from forest fire crews, and a duck. Yeah, a duck. I had no idea that ducks got that adventurous. I was at around the 6,500 foot mark on the hill and I hear this rustling in the brush. I got real curious when that rustling started going "quack-kwa-kwa-kwa-quack". Thinking that I was either going crazy, or the psilocybin was starting to kick in. I ran towards the thicket to see if I could flush this thing out and there it went: a damned duck at that elevation with no bodies of water around. I'm thinking that this duck just had enough of the daily grind of people throwing bread crumbs at him and all that quacking. Sometimes, you just have to get the duck outta dodge and go up in the hills.
Ah-hahaha!
P.S. When you bushwhack through oak brush that was burnt from a forest fire, you'll end up looking like you lost a fight with a big bag of Kingsford.
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