Water Safety

Remember kids: If you are ever in a shipwreck, root beer floats.

Lazerly laterly

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.

Yep.

TIGF!!! Silk blindfolds

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.

Any of you use a blind fold?

Couch coma

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.

Okay, that is enough nonsense for tonight.

Home again! Home again! Jiggitty-jig!

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 expeditious wacko. I did have the boots, though.

I will have to report about this sometime down the road.

On walkabout....

Dead Horse

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.

I did get in some R&R last weekend

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.

In a daze

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.

Different hair styles and the total lack thereof

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.

Golly gee wizard nuts! I like my new stubs!!!

Guess what I finally did

And there's a story to come soon about the special day.

Bukowski probably said this

There are worse things than being alone.

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.

Happy Birfday to me!

I am old.

Work=Stupid. I am happy to have a job, though.

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.

Birfday. Yay!

Appleologies

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.

Baby calves and kid goats make me happy

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.

End post.

12-inch Pianist (plus a joke)

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!!!"

Larph.

Cotton swabs promote homosexuality in infants

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'm no fun anymore.

Cat

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.

What a freakin' liar douchebag!

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.

Hike-itty, hike!

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.