Day 4 and 5: Damn it feels good to be a gangster

Thursday, September 26th. Lets fast forward through today. I applied for jobs online, and watched movies on HBO and Encore. It was cold and windy out. I also found a really nice guitar and fender amp. I stole them. Now I am a rock star.

Friday, September 27th. It gets interesting. While out and about looking for jobs, I conducted an important experiment. I wanted to know how fast my truck is. It's a 93 chevy blazer. 2 door, white, with chrome wheels. The wheels add speed. Of course so does the fact that the previous owner (a race car driver) put a larger than stock engine in it. So the results of the experimental study were two-fold. 1- the truck is fast. 2- the truck has no brakes. I am now afraid of it.

After barely surviving a debacle involving a tractor trailer truck, an irate soccer moms minivan, and a mature blue spruce tree I decided I needed a vacation from the job hunt. I limped my disobedient vehicle back to the ranch and lo, there before me in the garage was the answer. It stood gleaming a deep cherry red with white flames, its long lines and fat ass promising me the most sinful of pleasures if only I would give in and get the key. I gave in. I took Steve-o's motorcycle out for a whip.

As you may or may not know, I rode a lot back in CT on my suzuki street bike, and I figure I looked pretty good all done up in my leathers weaving through traffic, leaving behind only the raspy buzz of one million killer bees. This 100 CID rigid frame chopper is a whole different monster. With a thumb on the ignition switch and a twitch of the throttle the huge engine between my legs barked like a mastiff, propelling me towards our front gate in a motion that is best described as lumbering. Once out on the empty road the machine shed any hint of its initial lack of grace and I was off. With the soul crushing roar of a feral kodiak the fat rear tire bit pavement and the front grabbed at the clouds. Like I said, racing street bikes is fun. This, was terrifying. And yet, I felt so....Manly. I spent the rest of the afternoon out in the desert channeling the outlaw biker within, devouring pavement and blowing down sign posts with my subsonic snarl, until the bean sized gas tank forced me back to reality.

When I returned to the ranch Steve-o was there. I assumed I was in for an epic beating. Instead, he seemed pleased with my audacity. His only words on the subject were, if you keep stealing the bike and you get hurt, i'm not calling your mother and i'm kicking your face bones in when I get to the hospital. Fair enough.

As if this venting of my inner primal wasn't enough Steve-o then invited me to "shoot guns at stuff". As a man, I was compelled to accept, so we spent the next hour or so doing just that. We may not have killed any animals, but I can tell you there are several mortally wounded soda bottles on my property right now, and the pond out back is going to think twice before it starts something again. I shot rifles and I shot shot guns, 22's and 9mm's. Steve-o evidently has been preparing for when the terminators come back to bring us armageddon.

As we finished our manscapades, Jami got home from class. Jami is my other roomate. I'll tell you about her later. For now, you should just know that today she brought home a cheech and chong sized sack of grass and an enormous burrito. She also invited us out tonight to see what the downtown scene is like. Steve-o seemed unenthusiastic. I jumped at the chance. So here I am blogging away in the afternoon sun while Steve-o shaves and grumbles to noone in particular and Jami alternately coughs and munches on her rice and beans.

I look forward to this evening. You should too.