Close Encounters With the Crypt Keeper

Earlier this month, in the sunny town of Auckland, the grand opening ceremonies for the Rugby World Cup commenced. It started out as a great day for Paddy, Erin and I as we wandered the ridiculously crowded streets and packed ourselves into the trains like sardines. Every bar was filled to capacity and then some, and all of downtown was alive with energy and excitement. The three of us wandered around for a while, found a bar called Cowboys and Outlaws but got rejected by the bouncer on the Cowboys half (they were over capacity) and returned about 30 minutes later and were able to sneak into the Outlaws side by crawling under a table with the help of some new found friends. This motley crew consisted of an Australian, some Kiwis, a Brit and a Samoan...all over 50 years old at least. We drank a couple steins and enjoyed watching the crowd for a couple hours, and watched the opening ceremonies and then the All Blacks dominate Tonga. Les, the bastard Brit, kept telling Erin she had shifty Yank eyes but her eyes were amazing. Her face, eh, but her eyes, beautiful. Backhanded compliment? And he would look at me and say "well you are lovely but she is amazing" about Erin. Whatever he was old. And I rightfully assumed that since he was married, the wrong side of 60 and infatuated with Erin's eyes I was completely in the clear. We had fun chatting with them and I even had to help Les text his wife back telling her he's "pissed as a coon". And then...tragedy struck. We were all leaning in to hear each other talk, and he turned and planted a kiss right on me. Not on my cheek, or forehead, or even nose or chin..all of those would have been so much better. Nope, I got full on kissed on the mouth by this man and his wrinkly old lips. I wanted to cry.  Florence, the Samoan, instantly became my surrogate mother and screamed at him for a good 5 minutes about how he is such a creep and she should punch him in the face and he needs to leave. God bless Florence. (She even gave us her phone number and address if we needed anything.) Les then proceeded to tell Paddy how it was clear how much he loves me as I shrank into his arms to try and get as much distance between us as possible, and told me to make him stop smoking. Then left. My otherwise perfect night to the start of our trip was ruined. It's no less traumatizing now but funny enough to tell the story. Old people are fucking dangerous. 

Anyone fancy a hike?

Today was gorgeous in Diomede, AK. The sun was out and the wind was only blowing 15mph; it was practically paradise.  Naturally my roommate and I decided to go for a hike up to the top of the mountain. The only problem was that all the adults were already up at the top picking berries (women) and shooting birds (men). That left two high schoolers and a few elementary kids to take us to the top. We told them to lead the way and instead they just wandered around the rocks for a bit. Now, it was an easy climb for them, seeing as how they are half mountain goat, but for my roommate and me it was pretty much hand over hand and foot over foot praying to God to spare us. Which is when I came face to face with the human skull.  I stopped and looked up to realized the kids had led us into the graveyard.

Here on Diomede there is no 'ground' to bury people so they simply put the bodies in wooden coffins, put rocks on top to keep the lid down, and place the coffin on the rocks. This works like a charm until there is a rockslide. Then the coffins break open and the bodies tumble down the mountain.  What I had almost stepped on was an intact skull, minus the jawbone that had rolled down from the graves higher up.  Everywhere I looked I saw graves, some open, some covered in moss and grass--the skull was growing some bright green moss--and huge boulders.  The kids just hopped around the bones and the rocks telling us who the people were.  One kid pointed out her mother and her grandmother's grave, thankfully, neither were broken open, and another kid pointed out his cousin's grave. You could tell his grave was new because it was made out of metal as opposed to the wooden boards. I didn't know what to do. These kids just told us not to touch the bones or the wood otherwise we would be haunted.  Then they proceeded to tell us about every gory death, mythical death, and ghost that is on the island.   I knew I shouldn't take a picture, but I couldn't help it. I took one.  But then I felt super guilty, so I deleted the pictures. 

A Day of Badassery

The day began at four thirty in the morning. I was up an hour early, not because I was excited, but because I could have sworn it was five thirty. I wander like a zombie into the shower, and bathe myself in freezing cold water for a few minutes. The life comes back to me, I have returned. After the shower, I throw on my Oakley boots, my 5.11 tac pants, the Russian tanktop, and a couple layers to keep me safe from the cold. As I make my way down my stairs, my father, who is ever vigilant; kindly let me know that I was indeed up an hour early. Back to bed, close my eyes for an hour. I got it right the second time. I make my way down to meet my brother who is in his stoic cheery mellow mood (this is a good omen). We make breakfast, and wait. And Wait...And wait... At long last the doorbell rings, and we are quick to leave the house into Michael Angelo Barragan's car. In his car I meet his two sons Juan Pablo (Juanpi) and Fabio. All these gents were way older than my brother and I, but it didn't really matter. We didn't really know them either, so... fuck it. On top of it they were late, but it is Bolivia...

In the car we drive to Las Cholas. A popular meeting place for all those who grew up in the 70's 80's and 90's. I just missed the generation for that, and we spent more time in Cafe's than Las Cholas. Nevertheless Las Cholas is famous, and is always a great meeting place. We met up with the others (who's names I'm just going to leave out, mainly because I don't rightly remember all of them). We take the costanera down into Mallasa. From there we head up towards El Alto via Achocalla. Once we make our way up to the high ghettoish city at 13,400 feet, we drive towards Patacamaya. A little town situated near the border with Chile.

The road, though asphalted was in desperate need of repair, we were all glad they were building a second lane, a project that was headed by three international companies. One of them (the Argentine one I'm told) hightailed it out with the money, and hence part of the lane will probably never be built. So in the car I get to know these gents, one is a retired rally car driver with a couple screws in him, the other is a chill dude, and the other a chill father. They all like Harley Davidsons and listened to the intro to that one show... Sons of Anarchy. They love that show.

After a quick hour and a half we made our way to Patacamaya. Now, there isn't much at Patacamaya, and you really would probably miss it if it wasn't for three things about the town. First, if you go straight(slightly left) you'll head down to Cochabamaba, Sucre, Oruro, Potosi, Tupiza, Villazon, Jujuy, Salta, Metan, El Jardin, Tucuman, (we're in Argentina as off Tupiza). Second, you turn right and head off to Chile. Now when you turn right, you're going to notice a small military outpost, and this is where today's journey had brought us. Through some type of negotiation and exchange of medicinal goods, as well as some funds for a new racketball court, we were allowed a tour, demonstration, and of course the chance to shoot a bunch of things that would usually be off limits to civilians.

After a breakfast of steak and eggs (passed on the eggs), we headed off to watch a little demonstration of our Austrian tanks from 1979. Then we sang the national anthem(both parts). Then the real fun began. The day started us off with the shooting of the FN FAL and an M1 Grand. Sadly I didn't get my chance at the m1. As for the FAL I managed to get all my shots onto the target, in a pretty concentrated area the first time around. The second time wasn't as good, but still all shots were on the target. We later went to shoot a MAC (light machine gun, not a MAC 10). By this point we were all riled up.

While we were having fun with the MAC we had five tanks and a repair tanklike thing pull up behind us. We then rode on the tanks to the tank shooting range. Before we got to see the tanks shoot off a couple of rounds, we got to try out a .50 Cal machine gun. It was pretty awesome watching the tracer rounds fly a distance of two kilometers and hit on target.

Next up, we got to see the tanks fire a couple of rounds into the mountain side, and just DECIMATE a crater. By DECIMATE a crater, I mean just make it much bigger. While watching the tanks shoot, you could feel the shots (we were maybe half a kilometer away from them) in the stomach. The neatest thing was watching the explosions go off and waiting for the original blast, and then the echo. After this demonstration of firepower came the real fun. My brother and I got to shoot a round. I remembered hearing the other shots going off, sounding like some Viking God's battle drum, each shot like small punch to the gut. Then came our turn, I could have sworn the shot before ours was ours (I loaded and aimed the bullet Axel fired it, hence we were separated by the loading mechanism). Then out of nowhere an ear shattering blast (with ear protection on) went through my body. I saw our round blow up a chunk of the mountain. AWESOME... or so I thought, it was just getting started.

After firing the rounds and performing a "good" failure free demonstration the people who fire the shells and aim them must pick them up, fill them with a liter of beer and chug the beer, if you stopped drinking you were dishonored. I am proud to say I was the first one to finish. When you finish your...shell you are supposed to yell TANQUISTA!!! Which I did with a primal shout, that really sounded like a Whisper due to the ringing in my ears. I just realized I chugged a liter of beer out a tank shell that was just fired, I immediately could taste residues of gunpowder and probably sulfer. At this point I just realized I had one hell of a fucking day. Not only did I get to indulge my addiction to the smell of gunpowder, shooting things, explosions, and got to aid in shooting a tank which my brother fired, I just chugged a liter of beer faster than anyone in a group of nine adults... out of a tank shell. To make things better we headed back to the military base at Patacamaya and had lunch and drank with the officers got to know each other, and well just got drunk. Driving back we chilled out to Pink Floyd, Lenny Kravitz, and other stuff. Headed back to Las Cholas then home, hauling our tank shells as proof of our bad ass day.

I just realized I found a new Kings Cup for New Vegas. Awesome. 

 

*Tanquista kinda of means he who drives a tank, a tank driver, but made into one word.

Sexy Breakfast Drink

Recipe:

In a glass fitted for the hand of Andre the Giant mix;

Lots of ice
A splash of lime juice
Then equal parts gin and tonic water
Garnish with a slice of orange

Pour this concoction into a second grandiose mug to mix it and voila, you've just cooked up a sexy breakfast.

Green River

After a fantastic road trip down the coast with some of my favorite people in the world (which is a different story altogether) I find myself in Green River, Arizona visiting my dad. Since I am feeling pretty lazy and hate typing on the keyboard that I’m using, I’m writing this post in bullet format. So here goes:

*Green River is located about 40 minutes out of Tucson and 30 minutes away from Mexico (yessss)

*It is basically a retirement town/community. You aren’t allowed to live here unless you are 55 years of age or older, but most are closer to 80 something. Since I am significantly younger than the required age, I need a youth pass to be here. I don’t have one. There is the possibility that I might actually get stopped and asked for my papers.

*Almost everyone drives a golf cart around here. They are safer than cars for old people…mostly. They also all have little yippy dogs….the worst kind of dog you could ever own.

*My dad and step mom are possibly the youngest residents here.

*How did they end up here? A relative lived here before and she died, so instead of moving into a little one bedroom apartment in Tucson, they decided to rent this house from the living relative who owns it. *Since I don’t remember the name of the lady who lived here, Ill call her Snow White, because everything from the no longer imported Chinese rug to the walls, tiles and furniture is white. Snow White was a smoker, and would throw talcum powder around the house to cover the smell of cigarettes. My dad and Christine have been living here for over 6 months and are still finding talcum powder in random places.

*Snow White was apparently a total recluse. She hardly ever left the house and even refused to have a mailbox on the street and put one on the side of the house instead (apparently the street was too far?) As a result, none of the neighbors have ever even seen the interior of the house. When they moved in, some of the more nosy neighbors craned their necks to peek in and asked if they could come inside. Christine said no. Way to keep up the tradition. Apparently Snow White was such a hermit (or she just hated her neighbors that much) she even stated in her will that after her death she didn’t want anybody going through her stuff or her house. To this day the neighbors still haven’t seen the interior.

*Not only have they made a friendly impression with the neighbors, they are also at ends with the mailman. As soon as he learned that Snow White had died, he told my dad and Christine that they needed a mailbox on the street because he doesn’t deliver to houses. Being as stubborn as he is (you can see where I get it) my dad told him no. They got a PO box instead and left the mailbox on the side of the house just to piss him off, and occasionally they still get mail addressed to the house, and the mailman ends up on their doorstep at least once or twice a month in an angry huff. Occasionally my dad will answer the door in boxers, a wife beater and a beer in hand just to watch his reaction. They get a kick out of it.

*Since a lot of these people are on medications and such, they aren’t allowed to drink alcohol. I don’t know how they enforce that, maybe someone checks on them something, but a lot of the residents go to the liquor store to buy those airplane sized bottles and once they get to the intersection before the neighborhood they chug them and toss them as they cart home. True story, I saw all the little bottles the other day. It’s both funny and sad.

*I just love this, it blows my mind. The sheriffs department is strictly volunteer. What kind of authority could an 85 year old volunteer sheriff possibly have?!

*Big news…there was a shootout in the neighborhood the other week! A man was on the golf course and saw his wife’s golf cart at another man’s house. So he jumped into his golf cart, ran home and grabbed his pistol, and shot his wife’s empty golf cart as he rolled past. (Quick! Someone call the sheriff! Oh wait…)

And that’s Green Valley. Yesterday we drove out to Elgin for a wine tasting tour and then I wandered through the desert with a mule hugging my left side and a cute but stubborn little burro on my right. It was actually a lot of fun! Today I might run around the neighborhood evading the pretend police and trying not to get run over by a golf cart. And tomorrow maybe shoot on down to Mexico to grab some dinner. Or a picnic. Or another adventure. Who knows.

The Journey Down South.

You know you are in deep shit when your grandfather calls you asking you when you're flight is.  It is six in the morning, and you casually respond "the twenty seventh..." there is a pause and then your grandfather says "It's the twenty eighth".  You think, "poor old man probably forgot to set his watch properly".  A few seconds later I checked the clock on my night table...it was the twenty eighth.  So began my journey down south, oh yea I almost forgot, a friend of mine was dead and I just ended a relationship, and was planning on getting out of another one.

While the beginning of the journey seemed... well just screwed and doomed to fail, through some odd miracle I actually made money off the missing of my flight, and was able to celebrate the birthday of assless chap boy (pictured below).  On the way down I stopped in Denver(I can only think of Moriarty, and Marx), where I had an ex-alcoholic bartender who worked for American Airlines at the Admirals club treat me to I think 12 shots of high quality Colorado Berry whiskey. This lady was OBSESSED with the serenity prayer, said the thing had gotten her through her life, and that God was looking out for her.  I have to admit I admire her resolve.  Any ex-alcoholic fighting the airlines for her old job as a bar tender is clearly...just a different kind of being. As for the whiskey...this was GOOD stuff, I mean I hate whiskey, but this was on a whole different level.  So in a slightly tipsy daze I strolled off to my next flight which would lead me down to Miami.  Yes, I also met an Australian soccer player who had a broken leg(before the whiskey).  It's amazing how being an ex-cripple lets you associate with people, he was going to Spain for the running of the bulls, I'm not sure if he survived, I never wrote him back.

When you get to Miami, the world on it's own ceases to exist, especially MIA (Miami International Airport).  People stop speaking English, they also stop speaking real Spanish, and speak this weird Caribbean/Central American Dialect.  Yes you can understand it, but if I had a beard this Spanish would make it twitch.  By the time I get to Miami I am low on sleep, and still have my mind a little jumbled from an empty stomach mixed with a couple of shots of premium Whiskey.  I was just nodding, and grumbling my way through the mispronounced vowels (whether it was in English or in Spanish) of Miamy Eenternashyonal AirpOrt personnel.  It was at this point where I began inboxing/chatting with an old friend I guess one of my best if not the best friend in high school.  A day later the guy ended his relationship with his girlfriend (my fault I convinced him too, but he agrees it was the best thing ever).

At this point my mind stopped and just went over the events that had transpired in the past two days.  Not only had I missed a flight, gotten a new one, and made money off of it.  I had also met a crippled Australian soccer player who was going to Spain to run away from Bulls, met an ex-alcoholic bartender to buy me alcohol, I had also gotten one of my better friends to break up with his girlfriend.  If this wasn't enough, I had to find a way to tell a girl not to keep her hopes up for us, mainly because she was a single mother, and quite honestly I wasn't interested.  What a mess, way to go out in a bang.

At long last the time came to board the flight from Miami to La Paz.  My journey came slowly to a close.  With just a haze of "holly shit that just happenedness" in my mind I stumbled off the airline at nine at night (an odd time to arrive to La Paz) taking in the thin mountain air getting high off of oxygen and sleep deprivation; I found myself thinking... what a way to travel. 


****I would like to point out that La Paz it at thirteen thousand feet, hence the lack of oxygen. 

A Sunday Drive

Yesterday I took a drive from Billings to my favorite camping spot, Basin, located just outside of the little town Red Lodge.  Along the way I realized what amazing local attractions Montana has to offer.  What follows is a simple one hour photographic journey that I have taken many times and only documented yesterday. Now I share it with you. 

The Beartooth Mountains while driving along 212

The first stop on our journey is a "Pathway thru the Bible" made by a farmer in his spare time by using rocks from his fields.  I didn't stop to visit Esther or Moses today, but my mom took me here when I was in 5th grade.  It's a rockin' good time.  Every major bible story is laid out from Lot's wife--now a pillar of sandstone--to a granite Jesus in a bolder gethsemane. 

Popular attractions include: Eve and Adam with a pebble snake, stone-hearted Abraham sacrificing a granite Issac, an ark of slate with stuffed animals on board, blind Samson pushing down two pillars and the crowning jewel is a baby Jesus sleeping on his manger of bedrock.  

Next on our venture is the front lawn of an art gallery in Joliet, MT. It brings to mind what our futures might look like.

Only a hop,skip, and a jump from that is Boyd, MT. Home to this car since 1977 the car has been looking for a new owner since the last one died in a tragic farm fire. Jared, I do believe this may be Big Chief Red Feather's long lost older brother.

Moving on we arrive at a sign just before you pull into the lost village bar and grill. Remember, we are in conservative country here, keep your fruity drinks and liberal ideas locked up.

Down the road from Joliet is one of the greatest road signs ever. If you need further information please call 406-425-2222 now.  Remember: Talk. Teach. Listen. Lead.  



 Pausing outside of Red Lodge we find my favorite microbrewery; it is run completely on solar power and contains the infamous Bent Nail Porter.



Down the street is the Snow Creek Saloon, cash and cowboys only.

Towards the end of Red Lodge lies the Yodeler Motel; a prime honeymoon motel.  No joke. If you are too poor to go to Yellowstone on your honeymoon, the Yodeler is the happenin' place. Plus it is within walking distance of the Snow Creek Saloon.

Finally we reach our destination, Basin campground, spot 7, the most luxurious camping you will find outside of KOA fake camping.

Bullwinkle says hi.