Eiffel Tower

(Editor's note: This piece needs it. Have soccer tonight. Too lazy, also. I'll get to it tomorrow along with the grass.)

I would be remiss if I'd didn't, first and foremost, apologize for the lack of post lately. I was waiting for someone to comment. No, not really. Then I'd never post again. Really, work has been stupid crazy combine with the holiday weekend and had not the time, will or wherewithal to get any writing done. So, because actions speak larger than words, I offer up three stories. An "A" frame of writing. I'll let you decide which is the taker.

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A dignified dad is good for many things. Not the least of which is advice, support both financial and emotional, a friend, a confidant and someone to look up to. However, there are some things that Dad's in our day and age just can't be trusted with. One of these is our cars.

My old man's got a friend who runs a automotive repair shop and my family has, for the past several years, taken all cars and trucks off warranty there for tune-ups to overhauls. My dad works close to the shop so when the old girl needs repair, I'll trade trucks with him and he'll do a drop off on his way to work. The problem's occur when he tries to operate the after market stereo I put in five years ago. Now, I'll admit, the fact that the head unit doesn't have a power button can be confusing to the technologically feeble, but at it's core it work just like any other stereo in a car, with a few more features than your standard base model. I don't have any problems adjusting to his stock stereo.

Inevitably, as you might have guessed, in his vain search for the power button, tired of listening to my devil music, he simultaneously managed to push every button at the same time, causing every setting I've ever inputted to be mangled beyond recognition. Granted, I was lucky the poor thing even turned on when I got it back but it took me no less than a full week to figure out and fix all the things that happened to it. I can't stand when the sound isn't just right, and for awhile it was anything but right. I thought I was going to throw myself out of the driver's side door a couple times. Thankfully, I got everything straightened out and back to glorious stereo-phonic sound.

Dad, next time, take the volume nob and turn in all the way to the left till the volume says "0" for the sake of my sanity.

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As a commuter, I dealt with my fair share of oddities on the highway. In fact, maybe more than my fair share. Or does everyone else see the same fucked up things? Either way, there's one phenomenon that always scares the shit out of me.

You're driving along in rush hour traffic. Things aren't too congested but there are plenty of cars around and you're moving at a moderate pace. You're most like heading home with no real place to be. Then, out of no where, the highway clears and you find yourself almost all alone on the once busy streets. As the clear roads continue, I always start to get paranoid and think that maybe the second coming has happened and I just got left behind. I'm not super religious but I can't help but imagine Christ, descending on a cloud while the heavens part and trumpet play on high, scooping up all the righteous people and leaving me behind.

Fuck, I just got left behind. Oh shit, I've gone and said "fuck" now there's no way he'll come back for me. Goddamn it, now I said "fuck" and "shit". Damn this mouth, goddamn it!

Ok, so maybe I deserve my fate, but I head the people in hell are real assholes. Bummer.

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I'm driving home yesterday and pull behind an old Caprice at a stop light. This car is beat to shit seven way to Sunday. The paint, if you want to call the brown shit splattered on the car that, is wearing off in big spots, making the car look like a retarded leopard. I'm waiting for the dual two inch exhaust pipes to spew black soot when the light turns green, but is glides off effortlessly, not a hint or wisp of pollutant filled smoke. I follow and after a couple hundred feet I start to smell this truly awful stench.

The first thing everyone thinks of when they smell something seemingly mechanical in nature is, what the hell is wrong with my car. Just like them, I thought the same thing and as I continued the smell exponentially increased in strength and ability to make me when to hurl. I let my truck drift back to put some space between it and the leopard. Sure enough, the smell subsided, confirming my initial suspicion. It was the car just ahead of me.

The closest approximation I can think of to the actual smell has to be burnt chocolate and I mean really burnt chocolate. Like microwaved to a crisp Hershey bar nasty smelling. Part of the reason I associated the smell with burnt chocolate may have been the color of the car. Dual sensory overload always gets the brain working overtime. Still, I think it's a reasonable approximation.

Much as smells tend to trigger, memories began cropping up between thoughts of suppressing my gage reflex. The most prominent of which would have to be a drunken night of frivolity and a failed attempt at making late night shmores. I can't tell you where I was, not because I don't want to but because I can't remember. It's inconsequential anyway. The point is, the flaw in our perfect place was putting the chocolate bar in the microwave until for twenty minutes and or it lit on fire. That was the night I first learned chocolate was flammable - a little known fact that could save your life if you get lost in the woods with a candy bar. Needless to say, we filled the house with smoke and longed for the smell of death as a release from the constant cocoa assault. The most important thing I learned that night was not to use anything electronic while off your ass wasted. It all lights on fire.

Choose Your Own Deficiency

Did anyone else have an insanely dumb kid in their fourth grade class try to give a book report on a "Choose your own adventure" book?

For some reason, I keep hearing and reading about the CYOA series all over the place. It's like they're making some kind of drastic, and very unlikely, comeback. Are kids reading these things again/still? If they had kept the room full of monkeys with typewriters going, wouldn't they have written enough of them to fill the Grand Cayon twice over by now. I swear, it seemed like they'd come out with a new one every month or so.

But really, all I can think about when someone brings up those books is the kid in my class who did a book report on one. I couldn't tell you which one he used, mostly because there were a million and you just died every time until you cheated to get to the end, but it doesn't matter anyway. Everyone had a kid like him in their class. He was the funny looking, awkward guy that picked his nose and ate it. He'd talk with his mouth full of PB&J, spraying the lunch table and anyone within range with multi-sized pieces of half-chewed, saliva covered, jelly rimmed grossness. Then, the alien liquid you assumed he must use to digest his food while it's still in his mouth, would run down his dirty chin and dry, festering there for the remainder of the day. He was the guy you tried with all your little might and force of will to avoid when the teach paired the class into groups. You were convinced that he lice, if not fleas, and that being seen talking to him meant certain social death.

I can still see the poor bastard standing in front of the class, seriously trying to give a pathetic report on a pseudo book, while the rest of the class either tried to ignore him or were shaking their heads at the shear stupidity of what they were witnessing. I remember being filled with a shallow sadness, only to rationalize myself out it with the justification that he had done it to himself. That wasn't totally true of course, since life had handed him a deck of cards that wasn't even close to full and most of which were covered in honey and dirt. Most children's strong suit isn't compassion.

My only consolation is, knowing how fucked up life can be, he's probably the CEO of a fortune 500 company, with a super-model wife and a house the size of Wisconsin now. Honestly, I hope that's the case, because universal karma owed that guy big time.

Beck 'n Sail Me

Read: Kate Beckinsale is sex starved

What? Stop the fucking presses. Now put 'em in reverse and lets read that again (you really don't even have to read it the first time, the title pretty much does it justice). Are you kidding me? How in the name of Venus does something like this happen? People want to complain about the war and eduction for city school children and the like but this is where true crime against humanity resides. I'm going to try to resist using cheesy underworld play on words, but I can't promise anything.

Let me start by saying this: Len should have his balls - assuming he has any, which continues to remain a point of contention - slowly and meticulously ground off with a belt sander. To let a woman of Kate's impeccable "character" go without the sweet fruits of loving for more than a day is a sin against God and every penis in existence today, nay in human history. If I were him, I would throw myself off the nearest bridge because considering he doesn't want to put the old bump and grind all up on her, there's only one conclusion for the rest of us to draw. He's just been outed on a international level. It's the only explanation.

What I can tell you is that if I got to jump those lovely bones, there'd be no end to it. It'd be a perfect circle of love, no begin and no end, just one long never ending cycle of highs, lows, peaks valleys, sways and buzz. I would be the atom in an excited state. Forget Kate having to keep me in bed for a month. She'd have to try to get me out of that bed. I would never leave, unless she tried to leave and then I'd get up and hold the bedroom door shut so she couldn't leave. And she'd push against my burning muscular chest, feeling my heart pounding like a jackhammer, as I smothered her hands with mine. We'd wrestle for a bit, inching passionately closer to the bed, while our libidos filled with arousal till it felt like we'd burst into flame. We'd fall back to the bed and I'd take her in my arms and the cycle would start all over again. Our calenders would clear for the rest of the year.

Seriously, she'd need a crowbar, a forklift and a fifteen ton crane to pry me from her hallows. And not because I'm fat. Because that's how strong my love is. In fact, she'd probably have to break my arms off at the joints because nothing could persuade my hands to loosen their fierce grip. They'd lift my body off the bed, suspended from the boom of a crane, while my hands and half my arms remained firmly supplanted in mattress and sheets and maybe a little side boob.

When you have a girl like Kate, you've got to take as much as you can, whenever you can, and in whatever form she chooses. As men, often times a situation will arise where the correct play is listening to the head set squarely between the shoulder and ignore the one below the waist. Many a sexually transmitted disease has been avoided by employing this strategy. However, when Kate's involved you fucking flick every switch off in the five pounds of gray matter supported by your neck, save cardiac regulation and inhalation. Anything that's not there to keep you alive enough to enjoy the experience, you defer to the man downstairs. You're in his element now and you work him till he doesn't know which way is up. Then you call him a pussy, sparking his ire, and push farther than anyone has ever gone. You're Christopher Columbus and the new world is full of treasure for you to discover. You're Captain Kirk, of the star ship Enterprise, and you're set to explore deep space at warp speed. You're Luke Skywalker with a lightsaber clenched in both hands at the ready to slay a bitch. Shall I go on?

It saddens me to have even had to write this. Kate, if you ever read this, call me. I've got a few (hundred thousand) ideas.

Baby Battered

I'm sitting at the bar, enjoying my lunch of a wrap and natty light and feeling the cool breeze on my face as it blows through the open windows from the street. It's a lazy Friday afternoon and the overcast skies do little to encourage me to go back to work. It'd be worse if it was seventy-five and sunny out, but not much. CJ, our bartender, comes over to check on the food she delivered five minutes ago and make small talk.

"How is everything?"

"Excellent as always. What's new around here?"

"Nothing much."

"That's what you say every time."

"I guess I lead a boring life. You know, the bar, the husband, the kid."

"How's the kid doing by the way?"

"She's good. She's starting to move around and get into things. I can't keep track of her. She's just all over the place. You don't have kids do you?" That exact topic, much to my chagrin, has been a point of contention around the old homestead as of late. And it's not that I don't want kids, I just don't want them any time soon. I'm not ready to trade in my freedom for the responsibilities of raising and teaching. I'm getting an intern at work, isn't that enough?

"No, not me," I said shaking my head furiously back and forth while waving my hands in front of me like I'm flagging down a train. "I'm not planning on doing that for a while. Twenty-six is way too young."

"Really? I wanted to get kids out of the way now so I could enjoy things later in life when I have money."

"I think I'd rather be poor and enjoy my life now. You might have the money later, but what good is it going to do you when you've had a knee replacement to go along with a trick hip and a bum ticker? You know, that Hoveround is only going to get you so far."

Makes Slashing Motion Across Throat

It steals from us, yet we continue to give to it freely. It dulls and deadens our once sharp minds, making us living, breathing piles of unfocused mush. It offers sustenance in the form of useless knowledge that we mark down as fact and then, unwisely and disturbingly, apply to our lives. It distorts the true images of our surroundings with false pretenses and ideas of grandeur. It exalts people and things never meant to be exalted. It gives those people power, which they abuse. Power we unknowingly gave up but should have rightfully kept for ourselves. TV may not be the devil but it's damn close.

I can't help but think of Fahrenheit 451. Nations of men and women, huddling around their futuristic TV's to watch "The Family", a pathetic show about what their lives could have been if they weren't sitting in front of the TV all the time. A society willingly ruled, influenced and controlled by the ideas of a few unoriginal people. The passage of free thought and knowledge stymied by a simple form of mind-numbing entertainment. Has gen x and the subsequent raised on-the-tube generations fulfilled the prophesy of the book? If not already, we're heading that way. All you have to do is look around for a million examples.

I'm cutting myself off. I'm not going to watch TV anymore. I will abstain from the electric glow of the cathode ray tube for all but a select few programs. I'm simply wasting too much of my life, otherwise. There are so many things I want to accomplish in my set number of day in this world and TV doesn't help me get any of them done. Just because I don't know what all of them are doesn't make them any less important. Entertainment is a necessity, but I want find that entertainment in activities that challenge my mind and get me moving, thinking, reacting and being proactive as well as productive. I want to do things that reward and give back. I want to get something out of my time, not just give it up like a worthless piece of trash. My time is precious and I don't want to devalue it any longer.

I've found myself watching the O's every night, which in and of itself is depressing and completely useless. But it's not just baseball. It's movies on FX and HBO, sitcoms, maybe a dramatic series or two. It's like picking different needles out of a stack of needles. They may look different on the surface but there still all just needles. And, honestly, how many needles does one person need? All TV ever does is remind me that I should be doing something better with my time. The human body actually uses less energy while watching TV than sleeping. It's hard to get any less productive than that.

I want to accomplish something - many things - although I'm not sure what they are. I'm confident I'll figure it out if I quiet the other distractions in my life, including pressing the "on" button on the remote. Even if I figure out what to strive for, there's no guarantee that I'll reach my goal. But at least I would have tried. No one ever said they were proud that they watched ten hours of TV a day of their entire life. At least I hope not, because that's sad.

Lost stays and maybe an O's game here and there. And there's always those hangover recovery Sundays where you're unable to do anything else but slip in and out of consciousness laying on the couch watching TV. Everything else has got to go. I'm going to see what I can really do.

Blogging the Oregon Trail

Everyone has their own ideas of what's an American classic. For some, it's a pristine garage kept Chevy Thunderbird convertible. For others, it might be a restaurant, an actress, "When a man loves a woman" by Michael Bolton or any number of other things. For me, it's Oregon Trail. That's right, the Apple IIe game made in 1985 is my zenith of Americana. So, after figuring out that the internet - and really I should have known this - had provided me with a way to relive my childhood via Virtual Apple, I decided it would be fun to live blog the game using other bloggers from the blogosphere as my characters. Of course, the blog isn't live to you all, but I wrote it as the game went along a la the blogs reporters write from award shows.


My cohesive family unit is made up of an eclectic group of bloggers and internet users. My wife - they don't tell you in the game who's who so I'm assigning at a whim - is Kristen. The only non-blogger of the group and my lone commenter, I met her in a Vietnamese house of ill repute and we've been fighting and fondling ever since. Then, there are the kids. Goose, the eldest son and habitual dragon chaser, made the suggestion we undertake this adventure. He thinks we're going to California to meet up with all his other stoner friends. He has an affinity for the written word but still can't tie his own shoelaces. His hopes and dreams include being underwhelmed with angst and founding a center for the research of unsalted peanuts and there affect on man. Then we have the twin girls, Debra and AMG. Sure, they have different mothers, but the same father, which in my mind makes them twins. I think I'm right on this one. Debra worked as a crazy bear beer wench at a traditional ale house in New England. She enjoys t-shirts and prefers Glenlivet, but really any Glen will do. AMG on the other hand is much more grounded. A world traveler and consummate scholar, she searches the country sniffing out young boys and girls, much like herself, to participate in nude gay art shows. Her favorite color is lilac and if she had a million dollars, she'd spend it all.

Are these names correct? y

As a farmer from Illonios, I've got to say that I'm feeling at little out of place. 1848 Missouri is just an awful place. Must like the Missouri of today. Between the roach infested taverns, bleary eyed people and the smell of rotting prairie dog, I'm definitely ready to get the hell out of this hole. We're leaving in March because it's the month of my birthday and I'm selfish like that. I better stop at the store before we leave. I'm poor, but luckily Kristen doesn't require much in terms of clothing and both girls are soon to be forced anorexics, making our limited food supply last much longer. Goose simply said he needed a dime bag and nothing else, so that's all he'll get.

Matt, the oafish looking shop keeper, keeps telling me he's giving me a deal but I secretly think he's an asshole. Even for the 1800's these prices are ridiculous. Twenty bucks for a spare tire? What the fuck! Where's the local Walmart? Fuck this mom and pop shit, I'm going corporate. There you go Matt. Take your money you selfish son of bitch. I hope you get eaten by wolves. And I have the feeling prices are only going to get worse.

Now loading the wagon...

In a ridiculous stroke of luck, we've all survived six days without food. There's no way I'd buy food from Matt. Not when mother nature has provided me with the equivalent of a fast restaurant drive thru just outside the wagon. I'm a farmer for the love of God. I think it's time for a foray into hunting, but first let's cross the river. Damn Kansas and its rivers. The ferry operater is giving me his schpeal and in the interest of not killing everyone off at the first stop on this trip, I think I'll give in to his sagely advice.

Ha ha! Deer number one in the bag. I'm a fucking dead-eye with this four pixel gun. My joy isn't without a tinge of sadness however because I misfired on the first buffalo of the season. Not the best omen but I'll try to turn things around. The family can't live on deer alone. Oh yeah! 980 lbs. buffalo on my second attempt. Now that's what I'm talking about. Now if I had only lifted in the off season and could carry more that 100 lbs. of it back. Ah yes, and two squirrels for my little china dolls. I hope they remember to eat the eyes to absorb the life force.

A blizzard at the end of March. Unbelievable. Kristen is very cold, with perky nipples that could cut a polar bear's teeth. One just got me in the eye. I'm going to be blind for a week.

Welcome to the Big Blue river crossing my salty little family. There's not much to see or do, but one of you might die in the river. So take a long look around, because this might your final resting place.

With a sigh of relief, I'm happy to report we all made it. It was a muddy fording of the river but we didn't get stuck. I'd like to think it's because my expert piloting of the wagon. That, and my unsettling closeness with the oxen. It's those cow bells, they get me every time.

Another round of hunting netted me my largest pull yet - close to a thousand pounds of the finest deer and buffalo meat God's great earth has to offer. I was hoping I'd getting stronger and able to carry more meat, but, alas I'm still lugging the flank steaks a hundred pounds at a time. I think Kristen is poisoning me and Goose said that AMG and Debra were lezzing out in the back of the wagon but I don't know what that means. Maybe it's a new disease, like Typhoid. Someone better get Typhoid soon, I'm getting anxious.

Fort Kearney, the place were dreams are made and then forgotten. I once had a dream that I was Amish. But then I remember that, at this time, everyone was Amish, so I forgot about it. So far, so good. Everything has been going smoothly. No one has died or ever suffered an injury. Frankly, I'm a little disappointed in the lack of drama on this trip. I thought things would be explosive but up to this point, not even a sparkler's worth of tragedy. This has to pick up. Either that or I'm going to start causing trouble.

I've just been informed by a local that they're not deer, they're antelope. I always thought antelope were African in origin. Silly me.

Yes! The gold medal for best actor in a supporting role goes to Kristen. She broke her leg while showing me how flexible she was. We'll leave it at that. I guess I'll have to go back to using the oxen to pull the wagon now. Also, we have a new hunting high mark - 1710 lbs. That's right, people. I got two buffalo in one session. I would have gotten a stag too but the game cheats.


Oh, God no! Shit! Just like an actual Apple IIe, the game locked up. I can't do a thing. Reboot! Reboot! Damn it! I lost it all. Alright, I'll pick up the blog when I get back to the second fort (Fort Lamarie). Don't worry, I'm a pro.

Wow, that ended up being a lot harder than I thought it'd be. Between the multiple snake bites, bouts of measles and a ferry breaking in the middle of the river, it took me quite a few times to get back to the fort with the same credentials I had before. But were here now, at the fort of the dancing gay pride Indians on horse, so let's press on.

Don't dig a water hole, a faceless and very hairy lady warned me. I didn't even know that was an option. Speaking of watering holes, my wine glass is looking awfully empty. Time for another Riesling courtesy of our friends down under.

I've finally made it passed Fort Lamarie to the next destination, a big rock, and let me tell you I feel great. Everyone's in good health, we have no money but were used to being poor anyway and Goose has informed me that Debra and AMG have stopped lezzing out and are playing a happy game of Russian roulette. Things are most certainly looking up.

After a successful hunting venture, a wheel broke, which I was able to fix. A simple farmer put the wheel back together. I'm not saying that I'm the second coming of Christ. But I am. For my next miracle I'll turn a buffalo into wine. Oh, and now a tongue too. God, grant mercy on these sinners for they know not what they do. I wonder if there's a code in the game to give carpenters the middle finger as I fly by them in my oxen powered chariot.

We've entered my favorite country. That's right, bear country. And why is bear country my favorite country you may ask? Well, I'll tell you the short version. Back at Independence Rock, an Indian named Jeremy told me that, though I look like a retarded snail, I have the spirit of the great brown bear. Then I riped Jeremy's head off and gnashed out this heart with my teeth. I think he was right.


Not good. The river's 20 ft deep and that's a little much to ford. Is the green river always so offensive? What the fuck do I do here? Wait, I know. Let's break out the caulk gun and see if we can't seal up a thing or too - most notably Debra's mouth, she's driving me nuts with her incessant chatter. And I can't forget about Kristen's flaming vagina but I'll need something with more fortitude than caulk for that one. That thing's already set fire to the wagon twice. While were talking about the family, I thought I might do a little update. AMG has been playing something called guitar hero for the last sixteen days straight while snacking on whole grain barley kernels. The barley seems to be fermenting in her stomach and producing a rich barley wine beer. Unfortunately, this has left AMG in a game engrossed zombie like state. Debra, unsatisfied with the lack of attention, has hit the bottle and is doing flaming body shots off the reserve oxen. She's also tapped AMG and began serving the Indians AMG brand brews. They seem to be enjoying it. We haven't seen Goose in days but the game says he's still alive somewhere, roaming the plains of Colorado and singing karaoke.

Goose came back. Apparently, he was on tour with Phish for a couple weeks. He also brought back a bear cub which he proceeded to immediately roll up, light and smoke. He said it was the best toke of his life. That, and we're at Soda Spring so let's all just relax and take in the majestic beauty of America's heartland. It's so breathtaking here it confirms my suspicion that it was the right decision to steal this land from the natives.

Miles Hendrick told me that taking the short cuts is worth the risk. Personally, I'm inclined to believe him and his ironic name.

Well, hello there Fort Hall. You're not exactly a welcome sight considering you're going to rape the shit out of me on supply prices, but something's better than nothing. The key to this game is anticipation. I'm still maintaining our supplies and hoping they hold up. The end beats the shit out your rig so buying things early, when they're cheap, and keeping them till you cross the finish line is crucial.

The mountain rise before us like the guardians of the west. Goose won't stop yelling, "It's the Andes! It's the Andes!" And I'll tell you what, a couple more days of this and I'm going to ship him to South America. That way he can work as a Sherpa in the real Andes. Something needs to happen on this trip because I'm sick of writing fiction.

Someone call the fire department because I'm on fire. Three bears in one session. I can't say whether that's ever been done before but I'm doubting it. It's like the career home run record in baseball, completely untouchable. Kristen, stir the fire because daddy's bring home the bacon tonight. Bear bacon that is. Not to mention, I fixed another wagon part. This time it was the axle. So, if you're keeping track at home, that makes me 3 for 3 in the fixing shit department. That's right, I'm handy as all hell.

We're at the snake river and all the Indians pointing off into space is really starting to freak me out. I've seen Dances with Wolves so I know they do this on a regular basis but really I just want to hang my laundry on there arms. They'd also make good scarecrows. If they knew in a couple years the Asian were going to put a monopoly on the dry cleaning business, they probably would have been more willing to hold on to my wool underwear while the stiff breeze blew. I've always said, don't trust a man who's skin is browner than the earth and look what happened. My damn Indian guide took three sets of clothing right out from under me just to get me across the river. Just wait till the Alamo. Then we'll see what's up. Wait, that has nothing to do this, moving on.


Finally, someone caught something sweet. Alex, I'll take Kristen has measles for 400, please. *buzz* What is Kristen's gross and bloody sores? Hell yeah, that's right. The monarch of our little family has got a case of the measles. What ever shall we do? Damn Kristen, now a broken arm too. What are we going to do with you? If it's karma, maybe you should do something nice for someone because right now, life is taking a giant dump on your head. By the way, I could put up with the syphilis and herpes but I have to draw the line somewhere.

The winter is not going to be pretty. We have three pairs of clothes between the five of us and I'm not sure how that's working out. I'm trying to wait it out, hunt my ass off, and stay warm in front of Kristen's fire crotch. Goose, Debra, and AMG seemed reluctant to toast there digits at the alter of Kristen's raging STD's, but with a little encouragement from our favorite friend, frost bite, they all came around. If I head out on the trail, someone's going to die.


And like I said, Goose dies of exhaustion or bad water. It's tough to tell. I didn't see the kid do an once of work in his life, yet he dies of exhaustion? It must have been the tiresome bothers of life were too much for him. The man was bringing him down. Of course, humping a cactus for twelve hours can be tiring as well. He's in the Lord's hands now. Rest in great ball of fire, Goose.

Were never going to make it. Our fire has been put out. Kristen is no more. A second bout with the measles was her final demise. She truly was a cesspool of human biodiversity but she lived like an ocean. A breeding ground for some of the prairie's most formidable diseases. The Midwest's version of Paris Hilton, just without the money. The cold has been spreading to our private places for sometime and it won't be long till things get much worse. We're dropping faster than Jews in a concentration camp.

Crap! The twins bit the bullet within a day of each other. It seems they were closer than we thought. AMG succumbed to dysentery and Debra just plain froze to death. That's what happens, I guess, when you only have 3 pairs of clothes in the middle of winter. It's just me, myself and I now. I've wrapped myself in two dress and put my only pair of underwear over my head to protect my ears. Maybe I shouldn't have skipped that last fort.


Wouldn't you know it, two stops before the end and everyone's dead. I was running at the slowest pace I could pick but it appears even that was too fast. No one can escape the icy chill of winter. I was so damn sure I would lead us to the promise land. I apologize to everyone since I failed as your leader. You may promptly vote me off the island now. But you're dead, so you can't vote and so am I, meaning I wouldn't listen to you anyway. You win some and you lose some. The important thing is, you have the time to waste two hours of your day giving play by play of your Oregon Trial adventure. Life is good, isn't it?


Obviously, the characters in this tale are complete fabrications and in no way are representative of the actual bloggers. I've never even met them. I'd also like to take a minute to apologize to all the races and religions I've offended in the aforementioned piece. You know I got love for you.

Crunch Time

I've found myself in quite the quandary. It's ten-thirty and I just finished working out. Now, that might not seem too late to you night owls, but for a guy who gets up at 6 every morning it might as well be the next morning. In college I would stay up till 1, 2, maybe 3 in the AM without blinking an eye - mostly cause I'd just pass out at my desk. But I didn't have to worry because I'd sleep in till noon the next day, regardless of whether I had classes or not. Sure, I missed a couple tests but I honed my "bullshitting my way out of trouble" skills in the process. Supposedly I'm an "adult" now, and as such I'm expected to make a contribution to the working world. In other words, I'm screwed for the rest of my life.

It wouldn't be a big deal if working out was the last thing I wanted to do today, but it's not. There are still things I'd like accomplish which I enjoy but don't necessarily feel an obligation to. And really, aren't those the things that give us the most satisfaction? Aren't they what keeps us going? Like writing, reading, (arithmetic, just kidding) playing music, ect. The only viable solution I can think of is to make days 36 hours long and readily distribute speed to the general populous. Exacerbating the problem, work is ramping up to some unforeseen climax set to crescendo circa late June. I'm already standing in the doorway watching the whirlwind as it approaches from the West. I'm not sure I'll make it to shelter in time before getting sucked into it. Might as well make a run for it and leave my fate up to the gods.

At least I had a little time to finish this poorly penned diatribe.

And now for a couple random facts:

- I signed up for the Marine Corp Marathon on Wednesday making it official that I'm actually going to do it. All the training thus far is, at least for now, not in vain. Hopefully, I can keep it up and continue to improve. My side goal is to qualify for the Boston. If I do, I'll definitely run it, although the thought of driving up there is a convincing deterrent. There is no drive more horrifying in the continental US than traveling 95 north from Baltimore to Boston. The Turnpike, the GW bridge through New York, the Big Dig, anywhere in Conneticut, they're all terrifying. Is the big dig still going on or have they finished that monstrosity? I'd brave it all for the honor of running in the most famous footrace in America. Hell, I'd even make the trip Oregon Trail style. I just hope Kristen doesn't come down with typhoid fever and die during a river fording. Killing all those four pixel rabbits and eight pixel bears sure is fun.

- I took off every Friday, starting in June, for the three summer months. It was tentatively approved but I'm not holding my breathe waiting for it to come to fruition. If I actually get to take half of them I'll be satisfied. Just thinking about all those days off give me a hard on like you wouldn't believe.

- I'm not a big fan of ER. Back in the day, I watched religiously. It's one of the only medical dramas to actually portray the comings and going of a hospital in a semi-truthful light. However, I think they really need to wrap up the series. ER been going what, nine or ten years, maybe more. The writers, it seems, have straight up run out of ideas. The well has run dry my friends. Having a character stumble out of a bar into the road and get hit by a truck is about as original as an episode of Scooby Doo (I'm not ripping on Scooby here. I love Scooby, but ever show is basically the same plot. Considering it's a cartoon, I never had a problem with that). Come on guys, I know you can do better than that. You get paid to write this stuff but a blind kid could have seen that coming from a mile away. I love the classics, but that was just not a very bright idea. There's no such thing as vintage in TV series writing, there are only cop outs. If you pick it up and put out a little effort, maybe I'll give you a scooby snack. Ok?

Fug or Die Trying

It's a typical Tuesday night at the local bar. The crowd is light but smoky. A few of the patrons sit in tight groups of twos and threes, holding private conversation in a public place. There are a couple loners watching the various TVs around the large open room, most of which have tuned to Oriole's game. I'm seated to the left of my right hand man, Sloppy, front and center at the bar, casually watching the game and toasting what sweet lives we have.

Jay Gibbons, the O's eight spot batter and arguably their worst hitting ball player, save the pitching staff, steps to the plate and begins his pre-at-bat routine. We're not paying much attention. It's Jay Gibbons, we know what's going to happen. No one's on base so he's not going to ground into a double (or triple) play. He'll probably fly out, most likely to right field, or strike out on three pitches. I'm mid-swig when I hear that tell-tale crack of the bat. Could it be? He's already had two hits. A third and a home run to boot, well that's just uncalled for.

"No fucking way," I said while letting the glass drop slowly from my mouth as I watched the ball arc gracefully over the high right field wall. I forgot to swallow again and almost spit up beer all over the bar top. Drinking and talking don't mix. Much like drinking and driving in LA. What's going on out there anyway? They hire more cops or something?

"HA HA!" was the triumphant reply from my barfly friend. Not the most intelligent retort but it got the job done.

"He must have sacrificed a small child to the devil before the game tonight or something."

"Who knows, I'll take it though." Sloppy takes the flaming shot off the bar and downs it without blowing it out first.

"I wonder if he sold his soul."

"That's...how...he...SHOULD...be...playing," Sloppy screamed in between tiny burst of fire ejecting from his mouth each time it opened. I pushed his beer closer, an offering of peace to subside the war raging in his throat. "He has the potential."

"To be fugly?" I questioned. "Cause I think he's got more than potential. Mission accomplished my friend."

We raise our beers and knock them together in a traditional American ritual of agreement.


*A note for one: Sloppy, I realize I transposed our conversation from its original format. Trust me, this way makes us look much cooler than we actually are.*

How do You Say 'Golf' in Spanish?

It's just after 8am on a brisk Saturday morning. Air clings to the bite it entertained throughout the night. The hairs on my arm bristle in a futile attempt to deflect the chill from the pale skin in which they are rooted. The crack of a three iron striking a golf balls is followed closely by the snap of can top popping open. With a hiss and fizzle the fanfare is over and I take a swig. It's a Mexican day and here I am taking my first pull from a Natural Light. Sure, it may not be south of the border but some would say that it tastes like it. Me, on the other hand, I would attempt to convince the masses it tastes like heaven. A true nectar of the gods. It's Cinco de Mayo and, for as early in the morning as it is, the beer goes down surprisingly smooth. Maybe it was the atmosphere, a rolling greenish-brown golf course on the north side of Baltimore, or maybe it was the fact I had already been up for two hours. Maybe I'll never know what massaged my throat as that golden liquid slipped down it. I'm betting on alcoholism.

There's something about being on the golf course in the morning. You really feel like you're connecting with God's country, God's people. That was especially true at this golf course. Now, I'm not saying that I'm so cool that I have to go to a public golf course to slum it up ever now and again. No, I go because, besides heading to the ocean for the weekend, the golf courses I can afford are my best shot at seeing cutoff jeans and maybe a sleeveless flannel shirt with matching mullet. It's also the only place were I can observe these great and noble creatures outside of the natural trailered habitat while enjoying the freedom to hold a beer under God's great wide open sky.

However, such privilege does not come without peril. You see, they've given the natives clubs and told them to play an educated man's game. I couldn't tell you who "they" are, but all I know is they must have enjoyed the movie, Risky Business. It's basically the equivalent of going the zoo, taking shit out of the monkey's hand and inserting a loaded 9mm in its place. He won't know what to do with it but I'll be damned if he doesn't get off a few lucky shots. And a few of those lucky shots will find their way into the hearts of innocent bystanders. That's right Billy, daddy's dead.

I feared for my life no less than three times during the course of eighteen. You think the tree you're standing next to will protect you from the unseen enemy. Then you hear it. A faint whistle in the distance. The whisper of impending doom. You freeze up, thinking maybe it's like a T-rex and can't see you unless you move. But the whistle gets louder and louder, a frozen rope from the great beyond and it's got good tone on your head. Soon, the whistle is a deafening buzz in your ear and you duck, your only true defense, as the ball goes whizzing by, severing a branch from ten feet above you. The branch falls the ground at your feet, as dead and lifeless as you almost were. You quickly cross yourself, say a hail Mary and promise to go to church more. A vain search for balls the rough swallowed resumes.

Eventually, I accepted my fate, made peace with God and got back to enjoying the scenery. But for those split seconds when my life was almost at its end, I could swear I saw God. Or maybe that was just the reflection of the morning sun off my mirrored silver 12 oz. of Natural Light. Could it be they're the same thing?