The day was warm. As is my wont I began the morning with a naked telephone chat on my deck with Mr. Cino, about middle schoolers and dildos mostly. After this invigorating foray into the spoke word I quaffed a cool jug of badger milk and went to the fitness center. While there I lifted weights until my intestines threatened to explode out of my scrotum. When faced with the choice between leaving to run some errands and continue working out at the cost of having my insides smeared all over the nautilus hugification instrumentation, I chose the road. First I went to BMC to ask uncle Greg if he had some coolers I could borrow. He was not in.
Miffed by this betrayal, I then went to the Harley-Davidson dealership down the street and applied for a job. Take that BMC. Then I went home and ate lunch. It was a bread and cheese sandwhich. After Lunch I worked until dinner, and got a little bit of climbing in for myself. While working, most of the climbers were relatively experienced people my age, but I did get a few of the young ones in, most notably a little guy named Max and his sister Rachel. There is nothing very special about the kids besides that he has the best name ever, but their mommy is an interesting subject. She has always been very friendly with me, and I assumed it was simply because she was a nice lady. (pretty too) Well, it turns out that daddy is not in the picture and I think nice mom has actually been flirting with me. I am kind of into it. I'm kidding, i'm really into it. After work dinner was a hot dog roll I found with some peanut butter and raisins. I need a better paying job. Now I am looking for coolers again. Tomorrow I'm rolling south to Medford to meet up with Scotty and Rob. Theyre in the state to fish steelhead, and they were kind enough to bring up my elk meat, so I don't have to pay for shipping. Its a bit of a haul to Medford, but it will be cool to see the guys, and I'll have my sweet sweet dead elk mommy carcass all the sooner.
Other than that ch.7 of nerd novel is done, nothing else is new. I love you.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Queermo Sensuals
I knew things were bad America, but I had no idea how bad. I just saw a music video from a "Rock band" called The Academy Is. I'm not sure what the academy is, but it surely isnt rock and roll. As these anorexic looking tweeny boppers strutted around whining about love and how chocolate sooths their menstruation in jeans tight enough to show off the string from their tampons and the fact that they have never ever grown a pube I died a little inside. The 80's were bad enough with Glam rock and Hair metal turning men into question marks, but at least the music was fun and funny and at times wonderfully hard core with topics like whores and boobs and drugs and parties. These guys simply make me want to do violence, and I've never been inclined to beat women before.
Our parents created Rock in the 60's and perfected it in the 70's. Our older brothers almost ruined it in the 80's. We brought it back in the 90's and early 2000's. Was it dirty and simple? sure. But at least the men looked like men, and sometimes the women did too. This current generation however, has sunk to a new and unforseen low. Emo, goth, nu-rock, pop-rock whatever it is, tell it I hate it. Will this be the youth of America's legacy? I hope not. Tell all these bands to get off the stage, produce some hormones, grow a beard and some nut, buy clothing from the mens department and when they get back so help them they'd better actually rock. No more whining. No more love songs. Learn to play your instruments, lift some weights, eat some red meat, shoot some guns and be a man. Preferably a hilariously ugly one. Its Rock and Roll for Gods sake, not ballet.
Rockers still allowed to do their thing:
Zakk Wylde (aka the greatest rocker of all time)
Glenn Danzig
Henry Rollins
M. Shadow
You see what these men have in common? Theyre men. That's my only requirement.
Our parents created Rock in the 60's and perfected it in the 70's. Our older brothers almost ruined it in the 80's. We brought it back in the 90's and early 2000's. Was it dirty and simple? sure. But at least the men looked like men, and sometimes the women did too. This current generation however, has sunk to a new and unforseen low. Emo, goth, nu-rock, pop-rock whatever it is, tell it I hate it. Will this be the youth of America's legacy? I hope not. Tell all these bands to get off the stage, produce some hormones, grow a beard and some nut, buy clothing from the mens department and when they get back so help them they'd better actually rock. No more whining. No more love songs. Learn to play your instruments, lift some weights, eat some red meat, shoot some guns and be a man. Preferably a hilariously ugly one. Its Rock and Roll for Gods sake, not ballet.
Rockers still allowed to do their thing:
Zakk Wylde (aka the greatest rocker of all time)
Glenn Danzig
Henry Rollins
M. Shadow
You see what these men have in common? Theyre men. That's my only requirement.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Updaten
I realize that I have not been keeping you updated on my day to day drudgery of existence. Accept my apologies and allow me to remedy the situation. After the California/Arizona/New Mexico/Colorado trip I flew to Connecticut for Christmas. Big Momma got me socks. Cino got me a 2008 babe calendar. Heavily used. The Bossman beat me in a milk drinking competition. I saw a few of you. The ones I didn't, shame on you. I returned home to Bendover Oregon all too soon, and got back into the rock-climbing/nerd noveling/job search swing of things. I was invited to an interview with an internet marketing company called Audettemedia. The next day I was called back to meet the owners. I think the interviews went well. I was handsome at least. Hopefully something will come of these meetings, I could do worse for a 9-5er.
In recent days I have been drinking too often, too early and too long in a feeble attempt to quell the unease and frustration I feel. Only now do I realize what the problem is. Oregonians are happier than they have any right to be. They're all overly content and peaceful, accepting a lower pay grade than they are qualified for because they like the lifestyle and the area among other things. In the America I know noone would settle for such nonsense. Instead they will happily slit their competitions throats for a perceived step upwards. I miss that.
In recent days I have been drinking too often, too early and too long in a feeble attempt to quell the unease and frustration I feel. Only now do I realize what the problem is. Oregonians are happier than they have any right to be. They're all overly content and peaceful, accepting a lower pay grade than they are qualified for because they like the lifestyle and the area among other things. In the America I know noone would settle for such nonsense. Instead they will happily slit their competitions throats for a perceived step upwards. I miss that.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Zombies
If zombies were real, the east coast would be way more screwed than us here. I'm just saying. Unless of course they orginated from somewhere in asia, like most horrible terror infections. Then I suppose California would be doomed. But lets face it, Cali is doomed anyway. Oregon though, I have a good feeling about Oregon. Relative isolation, tall mountains, lots of guns. Yeah. Fear of zombies doesn't keep me up at night. You on the east coast though...maybe you should start thinking about it. Better to be safe than the rotting undead I always say.
Zombies definitely got the short end of the stick in the undead lottery. They smell weird. They aren't sexy. To most people. They maintain a community college education at best. I guess it would be liberating to not have to think about things ever. Like how to survive zombie assaults. Even so, no thank you my ravenous shambling friend.
Vampires though, they're doing alright. They get to dress up nice, party all night and seduce the unwary. I've known a few people like that, they were always a fun time. I think I would miss the sunshine though, if only because i've always been an aficionado of bikini clad beach babes. Plus what if a vampire caught herpes or Hep V (a virulent vampire infection)? An eternity of shame and embarassment? nahh. You can keep your bat rabies vampirism.
So who wins this monstrous showdown? I submit, and feel free to disagree, that werewolves are the most kick ass. Though technically not undead like the zombie or the dracula, they still fit into that illustrious horror niche. They get to hang out in the sunshine, although they might want to think about a heavy waxing regime prior to hitting the beach. They get super human strength and longevity. And once in a while they have a free ticket to flip out and tear shit up with no regard to manners or self restraint. Not since the Irish invented beer in 1927 has man known such freedom. So if some crazy wolf beast decides to nibble on my tender manskins, I probably wouldn't be too put out. I'm just saying.
Zombies definitely got the short end of the stick in the undead lottery. They smell weird. They aren't sexy. To most people. They maintain a community college education at best. I guess it would be liberating to not have to think about things ever. Like how to survive zombie assaults. Even so, no thank you my ravenous shambling friend.
Vampires though, they're doing alright. They get to dress up nice, party all night and seduce the unwary. I've known a few people like that, they were always a fun time. I think I would miss the sunshine though, if only because i've always been an aficionado of bikini clad beach babes. Plus what if a vampire caught herpes or Hep V (a virulent vampire infection)? An eternity of shame and embarassment? nahh. You can keep your bat rabies vampirism.
So who wins this monstrous showdown? I submit, and feel free to disagree, that werewolves are the most kick ass. Though technically not undead like the zombie or the dracula, they still fit into that illustrious horror niche. They get to hang out in the sunshine, although they might want to think about a heavy waxing regime prior to hitting the beach. They get super human strength and longevity. And once in a while they have a free ticket to flip out and tear shit up with no regard to manners or self restraint. Not since the Irish invented beer in 1927 has man known such freedom. So if some crazy wolf beast decides to nibble on my tender manskins, I probably wouldn't be too put out. I'm just saying.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Deadly Deadly Max Tyson Part 3
The past few days have been a whirlwind romance of travel and treats as I jetted across the USofA for various holiday reunions. I am currently engaged in my return trip to the fortress of solitude. Luckily for you America, I have an extended layover in the Portland airport and WiFi internet is readily available to steal so I've decided to catch you up with my recent going-ons. goings-on? going-ons. For continuity I begin where I left off, with the Elk hunt in New Mexico. For your enjoyment I will even give you two versions.
How it should have happened:
I awoke before sunrise, my cell phone alarm proving once again unnecessary as I returned to consciousness driven by a primal lusting for blood. Stripped naked I slid into the bathroom where I ritualistically smeared my face and chest with feces. I wanted the elk to know I was coming. I wanted them to fear me. Slipping out of the bunkhouse the cold night air eveloped me into its chilly blackness, embracing me as one of its own. With me I had a tempered steel bowie knife, its blade darkened in the blood of my enemies. At the edge of the forest I also obtained a skull sized rock with convenient grooves for my fingers to grip. I was still naked.
Good connecticut folk acquainted with the reclusive whitetail deer of our thickly forested home are often surprised to find that enormous elk herds still roam the ponderosa hills and open grasslands of middle America, ranging from Utah and Wyoming down through Colorado and New Mexico. The ones I encountered that day had grown fat and lazy in their bountiful wilderness. I was pleased. With the help of a pack of wolves I had earlier befriended I was able to drive a small herd inside a rocky box canyon. While the wolves harried and snapped, keeping the shaggy beasts bleating and indecisive I scaled the wall of the canyon, working my way around the rim until I reached striking distance. Like the dread crow god Morrigu sent to claim the souls of warriors fallen in battle I dropped from above, impacting with one of the 500 pound beasts. Stunning her with my rock, I swiftly claimed her with my knife. As I stood laughing, being showered by powerful arterial sprays from the fallen elk my wolves shepherded the rest out of the canyon. Then we feasted. At least that is how it should have happened.
How it actually happened:
I awoke before sunrise, my cell phone alarm proving once again unnessary as I returned to consciousness driven by a primal lusting for blood. After a delightful breakfast of sticky donuts and hot coffee I dressed warmly in layers (it was cold outside after all) and loaded my weapon. I was hunting with a winchester 7 mag shooting 7mm rounds, with the scope zeroed at 250 yards. By the time the sky had begun the slight graying of predawn I had departed with scotty and our guide in his 4 wheel drive pickup truck. My guides name was Steve Kunico, and if you ever find yourself scheduling a hunt through tri-M outfitters I highly recommend him. He had lived his entire life in the area, and knew the land like a gay man knows designer shoes. After a few hours of driving and walking we had seen a few groups of elk ranging in size from a half dozen cows to nearly 300 animals streaming across the horizon in a bawling rustling mass. We were in the process of tracking down a small herd I had located with my binoculars (I proved much better at this than the old men, remember that for later) when we drove around the base of a small hill and surprised a previously hidden group that had been grazing the long grass at the bottom. Elk are incredibly hard to sneak up on, they have excellent senses and a naturally skittish attitude. When surprised however, they are indecisive and easily confused. Therefore when this group was suddenly confronted by the strange looking pickup truck beast they stood staring in uffish thought, rather than fleeing over the ridge. Seizing my opportunity I jumped out of the truck and using my backpack to steady the rifle I drew a bead on a yummy looking female near the rear of the group. BAM. One shot, 300 yards or so and we had ourselves a dead elk. She was a big four year old and had already given birth a few times. Basically a choice cow. We gutted her and dragged her into the truck and then continued hunting for Scotty's animal.
Long story short, after an excellent hunt involving a great stalk using terrain and wind we got within 150 yards of a small group. Being so close I remained hidden behind a rock as he crawled out to line up his shot, so as to not alert the animals to our presence. I should have come with him. His haggard old man eyes couldnt tell the difference between a bull elk and a cow elk and he illegaly shot a young male. This resulted in his animal being confiscated bythe fish and game dept and him being assigned a court date. As far as I know he might be in a new mexico prison right now.
So. Our elk hunt culminated in everyone getting a beast eventually. In a group of 6 ex-military men including 2 generals and a colonel, I was the only one who needed to shoot only one bullet. I also shot the center out of a clay pigeon at 100 yards without shattering the pigeon. And I have some delicious elk meat to enjoy in my fortress of solitude. And I got to spend time with my father's old academy roomates. And I received 3 solid job offers which might eventually bring me back to the east coast. Deadly Deadly Max Tyson.
How it should have happened:
I awoke before sunrise, my cell phone alarm proving once again unnecessary as I returned to consciousness driven by a primal lusting for blood. Stripped naked I slid into the bathroom where I ritualistically smeared my face and chest with feces. I wanted the elk to know I was coming. I wanted them to fear me. Slipping out of the bunkhouse the cold night air eveloped me into its chilly blackness, embracing me as one of its own. With me I had a tempered steel bowie knife, its blade darkened in the blood of my enemies. At the edge of the forest I also obtained a skull sized rock with convenient grooves for my fingers to grip. I was still naked.
Good connecticut folk acquainted with the reclusive whitetail deer of our thickly forested home are often surprised to find that enormous elk herds still roam the ponderosa hills and open grasslands of middle America, ranging from Utah and Wyoming down through Colorado and New Mexico. The ones I encountered that day had grown fat and lazy in their bountiful wilderness. I was pleased. With the help of a pack of wolves I had earlier befriended I was able to drive a small herd inside a rocky box canyon. While the wolves harried and snapped, keeping the shaggy beasts bleating and indecisive I scaled the wall of the canyon, working my way around the rim until I reached striking distance. Like the dread crow god Morrigu sent to claim the souls of warriors fallen in battle I dropped from above, impacting with one of the 500 pound beasts. Stunning her with my rock, I swiftly claimed her with my knife. As I stood laughing, being showered by powerful arterial sprays from the fallen elk my wolves shepherded the rest out of the canyon. Then we feasted. At least that is how it should have happened.
How it actually happened:
I awoke before sunrise, my cell phone alarm proving once again unnessary as I returned to consciousness driven by a primal lusting for blood. After a delightful breakfast of sticky donuts and hot coffee I dressed warmly in layers (it was cold outside after all) and loaded my weapon. I was hunting with a winchester 7 mag shooting 7mm rounds, with the scope zeroed at 250 yards. By the time the sky had begun the slight graying of predawn I had departed with scotty and our guide in his 4 wheel drive pickup truck. My guides name was Steve Kunico, and if you ever find yourself scheduling a hunt through tri-M outfitters I highly recommend him. He had lived his entire life in the area, and knew the land like a gay man knows designer shoes. After a few hours of driving and walking we had seen a few groups of elk ranging in size from a half dozen cows to nearly 300 animals streaming across the horizon in a bawling rustling mass. We were in the process of tracking down a small herd I had located with my binoculars (I proved much better at this than the old men, remember that for later) when we drove around the base of a small hill and surprised a previously hidden group that had been grazing the long grass at the bottom. Elk are incredibly hard to sneak up on, they have excellent senses and a naturally skittish attitude. When surprised however, they are indecisive and easily confused. Therefore when this group was suddenly confronted by the strange looking pickup truck beast they stood staring in uffish thought, rather than fleeing over the ridge. Seizing my opportunity I jumped out of the truck and using my backpack to steady the rifle I drew a bead on a yummy looking female near the rear of the group. BAM. One shot, 300 yards or so and we had ourselves a dead elk. She was a big four year old and had already given birth a few times. Basically a choice cow. We gutted her and dragged her into the truck and then continued hunting for Scotty's animal.
Long story short, after an excellent hunt involving a great stalk using terrain and wind we got within 150 yards of a small group. Being so close I remained hidden behind a rock as he crawled out to line up his shot, so as to not alert the animals to our presence. I should have come with him. His haggard old man eyes couldnt tell the difference between a bull elk and a cow elk and he illegaly shot a young male. This resulted in his animal being confiscated bythe fish and game dept and him being assigned a court date. As far as I know he might be in a new mexico prison right now.
So. Our elk hunt culminated in everyone getting a beast eventually. In a group of 6 ex-military men including 2 generals and a colonel, I was the only one who needed to shoot only one bullet. I also shot the center out of a clay pigeon at 100 yards without shattering the pigeon. And I have some delicious elk meat to enjoy in my fortress of solitude. And I got to spend time with my father's old academy roomates. And I received 3 solid job offers which might eventually bring me back to the east coast. Deadly Deadly Max Tyson.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Deadly Deadly Max Tyson Part 2
Well. It is another day. I was about to tell you the story of my elk hunt weekend broventure. If you want to know more about the T.O. Ranch, look it up online or something. All you really need to know is that it is huge, and gorgeous, with rolling plains full of antelope and cattle, and mountains full of elk, bear, deer, and mountain lion. It is owned by a Mr. Malone, the 200th richest man in America. (alarming note: the Wal-Mart family have 5 of the top 9 spots, together they almost double what Mr. William Gates has accrued) Being a privately owned ranch, it is much easier for non-locals to get elk tags, but you pay a hefty price. This ranch's hunts are organized by an in-house outfitter, which supplies guides and a lavish bunk house with all the creature comforts of home including satellite Tv, wireless internet, and a full time cook to make us treats.
I'm going to have to put off telling you about the hunt again, we're heading out to the shooting range to play around a bit. Good day.
I'm going to have to put off telling you about the hunt again, we're heading out to the shooting range to play around a bit. Good day.
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