Before It's Too Late...

 Last day of the year. Kiss it goodbye.

Ask for forgiveness before it's too late. 

Or not. It's up to you.

I Been Hoodoo'd

I hope my occasional readers are enjoying the uploaded music. The recordings are rough but that's what makes them fun for me. If my dreams had come true as a young man, I would have pursued music as a vocation. However, dad wanted me to be an engineer and mom wanted me to be a dentist. I wanted to be a cowboy, or a butler for my mom so I'd never have to find a real job much less move out, maybe a preacher of my own made-up religion, or maybe an astronaut. If I washed out of the American astronaut program, I'd go to Russia and volunteer as a cosmonaut. I had it all figured out.

You know what happens to the best laid plans. I became a hippy guy, decided to get educated in college, and then that got interrupted by fun and games in Southeast Asia.

I came home from the war disappointed and bitter. I had a look behind the curtain and decided we were working a fixed game. I've learned a little more since then, but the realization that my life is an illusion did not come naturally. We are too propagandized to break free of the programming without effort. Effort comes through a driving interest in the truth and the courage to accept it when it is revealed. If you're still going through the motions of life based on the reality that the establishment has offered you, then your life is meaningless -- the unexamined life is not worth living.

If you have allowed yourself to fall into a sinful or deviant lifestyle, you don't have to accept the notion of God to realize you have crossed the fine line that divides sanity from insanity. You're not going to hell; nope, you're already there and what's more, you're going to take down those around you, including kids, grandkids, lovers, enemies, and friends. This is guaranteed. The ramifications of a truly demented lifestyle affect everyone. One contributes to the insanity of the world by leading a life one knows one shouldn't. But you do it anyway 'cause it feels good. Furthermore, most don't see themselves as the demons they've become. That's what happens when you sink to those depths. You sacrificed peace, truth, friendships, and normality for fringe behavior. I am sorry. It's such a cheap offering for a life. 

In regard to the damage done to me, I am sorting out the reasons for the emotional poison revealed to me. The shaman and the woman down in the valley are helping . They said the "infection" is deadly and I will go crazy if it is not treated properly. Everything they have told me about the witches' behavior and how I would react has come true. I am doing as they requested; I'm fasting, drinking water, and seeking clarity from all my solo time in the woods. At this time, I don't feel like I'm getting any better. I'm getting worse. My anger comes out without me knowing immediately what I'm even mad about. Sometimes I wake up mad; like fighting mad. Shaman says I will be all right but I have to work the process, so I've still got two weeks until the woman will perform the cleansing ceremony. She won't move up the time. Maybe by one day, she said, but no more.

Shaman told me again to stay away from people. "Anything can happen," he said. "You could get mad and hurt somebody."

A quick rundown on what happened: I was deceived by a woman I was enchanted by and loved for years -- unrequited, I might add. I earned another cluster for my fool's wings . The deception centered on her concealing her own deviant nature (oh yeah, we're talking really nasty here) while presenting herself as a righteous woman. I was taken in and the accumulation of lies worked to distort my view of reality, including the efficacy of the Christian religion. You might think it's a load of nonsense, but I'm telling you it's not. A tribal shaman agreed to treat me after meeting me and that's where I am. They're working psychological magic on me with my permission. Jesus or Buddha ain't got nothin' to do with it.

 

Bangin' the Boombah

Bangin' the Boombah was recorded by the inscrutable Scott Huckabee and I am quite sure I asked him to throw it out. Scott dug the rawness and he was the one in charge of recording, so... Anyway, I guess I see what he means. It's so bad, it's good. The devil got into my guitar on that one and our timing was all over the place. I'll try to find a drummer and a bass player to do a mountaintop re-do. Otherwise, I'll do the parts myself and it'll be next year before it's ready. Or maybe just an acoustic version.

You have to be odd to be #1.

-- Dr. Suess

Mexican Butterfly

Use a Little Common Sense

If Sasquatch really existed, don't you think someone would have gotten a photo by now? Ever heard of trail cams? Duh. Also, no skeletons have ever turned up. So I'm voting for no Bigfoot. However, there remains the possibility that Bigfoot was brought here by aliens aboard spacecraft from the future.

Blind Date

 

I was a little shaky,

might of had the bends,

might have come up too fast.

Out of the corner of my eye,

there was a shadow passing by,

and he said, "You shouldn't be here."

 

There's a better place

just down the road,

sunsets in crimson gold,

there's grass and trees

and in the summer

you get a nice cool breeze,

but you don't want to stay too long.

 

And sometimes you feel it's all been a mistake.

 

She said she didn't want to hurt my feelings,

that's why I had to go,

nobody's fault, no one to blame,

tired of playing this silly game;

she said, "I'll hold open the door."

 

The telephone rang,

I picked it up,

said hello, said what's up?

Just called, got nothing to say,

how ya doing anyway?

Did you ever find your way out?

 

And sometimes you feel it's all just a dream.

 

So I come down here to see the lights,

cop a buzz, enjoy the sights.

Through the haze I thought I saw

a twisted logic to it all.

That's when they said, "Welcome home."

 

Sometimes, You Got to Get Sick...

 ...Before you can feel better.

I Can Dance Like a Monkey...

...If They Want Me To

When I went to Walmart yesterday, an employee with a face mask was stationed at the entrance. He asked if I was going to wear a mask today? I started to tell him it was none of his damn business, but I settled with, "No, I wasn't planning on it."

Then he said, "They make me say that."

God in the TV

It's Later Than You Think

 

And Then They're Gone

I found a place about six miles to the south towards Tenkiller where some kind of brambles had lost all their leaves and underneath a layer of branches, I was able to set up a roomy space out of the wind and totally dry. In the summer, there was no way to get in there but in the winter, it was like a framework. Plus, it was extensive, probably covering 1/4 acre. I had found fresh wolf prints and Mae was acting funny. It was too late to walk home and clouds were building up. It was a good place to camp. I would be safe. Or, so I figured.

When it got dark, I watched flashes of lightning approach over the next two hours until finally it started to rain and the temperature began to fall. The rain put out my fire, but I was okay and still dry sitting under my blue tarp. Mae, however, had become soaked. She's just not bothered by being wet. It's the Great Pyrenees in her; they are such strong, stoic animals. But anyway, she was wet and sitting/lying next to me and getting my other stuff wet.

By then, the rain had redoubled and was coming down in sheets. Any thoughts of remaining dry disappeared. Additionally, streams of water flowed through my camp, quickly turning everything to mud. I told Mae it was time to bug out. "We're already wet," I said to her, "What difference does it make?" After I said it, I thought about Hillary Clinton. I crammed my stuff into my backpack (I had my vinyl poncho on by then), checked my compass position, and set out on the most direct route to the river where I planned to use a highway bridge as shelter. That is, if the hard rain didn't make the river overflow. I had a flashlight, one of those head-strap lights, and I used that at first but discovered I could see better without it at all.

All the way there, I thought about the very real possibility the bridge would be flooded. If the bridge was flooded, then I wouldn't be able to hike home without a boat. Mae and I had to find shelter. Because it was dark and raining, I had her on a leash, and so it was slow going. We were soaked by the time we reached the highway bridge. The river was definitely up but the understructure of the bridge was bone dry.

It was a typical concrete ramp going up at a 45 degree angle until it ended at the concrete beams that held the bridge aloft. Between the beams were open spaces and I spied light coming from one of these. I smelled smoke and knew someone had built a small fire. "Yo up there," I called up. "Is anyone there?"

At first there was no response. I thought I heard a sound, something moving, then going still again. It didn't seem like a safe situation and, taking a step backward, I looked around. The rain was coming down like a curtain. Mae and I were out of it, but we stood near the river's edge. It raged and slowly crept up. I didn't know what to do. Mae kept beady eyes on the spot of light above. A figure appeared and Mae responded with a deep-throated growl. I had two large hunting knives strapped to my belt and I slipped the Buck out of its sheath, flipped it around, and slid the blade up my sleeve while hanging onto the handle in my cupped hand.

Boy Scout Motto: Be Prepared.

You can't predict what's going to happen in a fight, but if you're into such things, statistics say a knife is much more effective than a firearm in a close quarters' encounter. I believe that as well. Surprise, a direct attack with purpose, and the fight is over. This is not secret knowledge. Bar fighters all over the world know it's most advantageous to be first. Most guys don't want to fight with a broken nose. Also, some of us are more patient because we know we can take a punch and keep on ticking. Lots of folks can't.

I wasn't thinking about all that stuff at the time. I was wondering where else I could go to get out of the rain.

A voice came from the looming shadow. "You all right?"

"Sure, yeah. I came out of the rain."

"Yeah, she's pourin'. Come on up."

"I got a dog."

"I can see that."

The old man had a little fire at the top of the ramp with the smoke venting out through a seam in the overhead. There were pads from old furniture, blankets, a large pack on an aluminum frame, and the old man's sleeping bag, which had seen better days. It wasn't too bad; comfortable and warm. He urged me to take off my pack and have a seat. Surreptitiously, I slipped my Buckaroo back into its sheath. When I was situated, he handed me an old towel so I could dry off Mae and I went to work on her.

"Coffee?" he asked me.

"Sure. That'd be a real treat."

We introduced ourselves and he said he was Tom Franks originally from North Carolina but had given himself over to fulltime tramping twelve years before. "I lost everything in 2008. I had a plumbing business in four cities, but I got over-extended on loans and when the bust hit, I had to cut back. Money was tight. My wife left. One of my partners took off with $200,000. One day I found myself sitting on the floor in my million dollar house without any furniture because it all had to go back. My wife was still using her credit cards and she had moved out to the most expensive hotel in town. I sold everything inside a week, placed a notice in the local paper saying I had no other debts besides those I personally owed, and after purchasing a sturdy pair of walking shoes, I hitched a ride out of town, and never looked back. Best move I ever made. Here's your coffee."

He handed me a tin cup with the dark liquid. He got it from a coffee pot dangling above the little fire.

Thin and with lively eyes, Tom was about my size with graying hair. His face was tanned and wrinkled. A black and gray beard covered the lower portion but his teeth flashed white when he smiled. He said he was eighty years old and handed me an open tin of sardines, which I declined, although Mae was grateful to share it with him.

Mae likes fish, hot or cold, cooked or raw. Tom also had crackers. I broke out my last tins of tuna and we ate until everything was gone. Afterwards, Mae stretched out and snoozed as Tom rolled a joint and I revealed my half-bottle of TX.

Even with the rain and cold, it turned out to be a pleasant evening in the company of old Tom Franks. He told me about criss-crossing the country -- just going without a destination in mind. When he arrived at a pleasant place, he stuck around. Sometimes, he found simple work and sometimes he lived off the land, which probably meant he stole what he needed to survive day by day.

"I made the same mistake most everyone makes," he said.

"What's that?"

"My ambition, my ego, were too active. Everything was surface. I didn't have any depth, you know. I believed in money. I was too much in the material world. Now I'm in the real world every day."

We listened to the rain, drank my whiskey and smoked Tom's pot. A couple of times we had to get up and walk down to the river's edge to get away from the stink of Mae's sleep farts. Tom told me about staying in hobo camps and camping outside Denver during the winter. He said riding the rails was the quickest way to get somewhere but if you hopped cars often enough, sooner or later the odds were going to catch up with you. "If you just lose a finger or a thumb, consider yourself lucky."

He asked me about the military and working for DOD and I told him it was like anything else, it became a job. He perked up when I told him I was a writer and he recited this Dylan Thomas poem for me:

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
 
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
 
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

In my world, one good, drunken exposition deserves another. I offered up some Housman for my new friend:

Epilogue

"Terence, this is stupid stuff;
you eat your victuals fast enough;
There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, 'tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Petty friendship 'tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad."
 
Why, if 'tis dancing you would be,
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh, many a peer of England brews
Livlier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world's not.
And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:
The mischief is that 'twill not last.
Oh, I have been to Ludlow fair
And left jmy necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I've lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.
 
Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure,
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour;
It should do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul's stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.
 
There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all that springs to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat;
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.
-- I tell the tale I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.

How is it I can only remember this stuff when I'm drinking? We had a good time and enjoyed one another's company. We got some sleep but Mae wake me up at dawn. I got myself together, gave old Tom all the money I had in my pocket (30 or 40 dollars) because he was broke and I waved good-bye. Mae and I hit the trail.

The next day, I was driving through the area on my way to Walmart. I stopped at the bridge and looked for Tom but he was gone. Sometimes that's how it goes. You make a friend and then they're gone.

Modern Day Romance

 

Awe-Inspiring Movie Quiz

 

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Guess the movie, win a kewpie doll!

Blogomatic Now Online

 

They Want Everything

I know most of you look at yourselves as enlightened individuals. You believe in cause and effect and "science" and whatever your own emotions and logic tell you. You depend on the information you receive from recognized authorities. You don't believe in Bigfoot, UFOs, ghosts, or the evil within people.

All the same, I have to tell you -- demons are real. Furthermore, they are all around us. They preach to us from television screens, take our money at the tax office and take our temperature at the hospital. They sit next to us in church. It's gotten so bad, they are in the pulpits and leading the congregation in prayer.

What do they want? Everything you've got. Your property, your way of life, and finally, your soul.

Christmas on the Mountain

It was pretty cold this morning, 27 degrees, but I had my heavy sleeping bag, a one inch pad over a ground cloth, and a tarp hung so that I could trap the heat from my fire. I'm building small fires now that give off little smoke because I don't want a ranger or a landowner to get upset about me camping where they don't want me to camp -- which is everywhere. You should see all the POSTED signs. I generally don't run into people when I'm out unless I cut through a town... but after getting arrested, I may avoid small towns altogether (those PD's are just looking to shake down somebody).

A note about sleeping on the ground: if I haven't mentioned it already, do not sleep on the bare ground. It's not so bad in warm months but in below-freezing weather, you must guard against frostbite, especially those areas of your body that rest against the ground, like the point of the hips and the back of the shoulder. Take care to cover fingertips, your nose, and your toes.

I once had to deliver and set-up an HF portable radio for guys out in the field -- Europe, mid-90s -- and they couldn't get a chopper to fly me out so I had to spend the night without gear. I got frostbite on my hip.

Now, for something completely different, I met a carload of folks at the entrance to the river ranch who were looking for the white eagle. What white eagle? There's an albino American eagle that nests out here somewhere close to the big bridge. So, now I've got another task for myself -- get a picture. They say the eagle has eaglets with her.

I read the gospel of Thomas last night on my phone. I was surprised to get a signal. Jesus had brothers, you know, and some say Thomas was His twin... (Thomas means 'twin')...

I've been poisoned by lies and deceit. To a certain extent, we all have; however, when people you love do it to you, it is particularly hurtful. I will no longer trust another person. I will no longer have faith in the notion of Christianity. I will do my level best to avoid evil persons and the artificially pious when I am able to recognize them. Those preachers and reverends and priests who are out in front telling us how to lead our lives? They're just as twisted as we are. Egomaniacs standing before their congregations so excited by their leadership roles they can barely conceal the raging hard-on in their Sunday-best trousers. You know who runs American churches these days? The American Left. Cadres of feminists and lesbians and homosexual men have moved in and are influencing the population through satanic propaganda. Think I'm kidding? Think I'm off my rocker? Think again.

Corruption is everywhere and if you’re not alarmed by it, then it’s likely you’re part of it.

I’ve run out of time again on my metered connection for the month. I can send and receive email but surfing the web and posting to the blog will be a challenge until after New Years’. I will spend Christmas at mi casa on the mountain with the animals.

Marilyn's Random Thoughts

Hello, this is Marilyn posting from TommyBoy's account. Got an email and a GIF from Tommy and he's gone hiking again; says he'll be back tomorrow night or Monday. Here we go again. Tommy said I can do a random thoughts-type of a post if I want, so that's what I'm going to try to do.

My first random thought is that I need to get a cup of coffee. Check.

My second random thought is that I am suddenly devoid of thoughts. I had so much to say and now I can't remember.

I'd like to talk about the presidential election but Jimmy told me absolutely no politics or things that are controversial.

So I guess I'm limited to movie subjects or camping stories. I hate camping so forget that. I haven't seen a new movie since the pandemic started, not even streaming. Nothing sounds good.

Well, here comes Christmas and I am soo not ready. I have to do gifts for family and I haven't done any shopping yet. It's too late to order online. I was thinking of a bike for my daughter and I might even get something for TommyBoy. He wouldn't admit it, but he's had a rough year.

I want to talk a little about TommyBoy. I've never met anybody like this guy. He's wizard smart in so many ways but he just won't help himself. I think he's been alone for too many years and that's crazy b/c he's a good-looking guy with a heart bigger than his good intentions.

TommyBoy is my favorite author. I actually got to meet him at a book signing in OK City. He's funny! Big-time loner. No wife, no girlfriend, just a bunch of dogs and cats and a beat up old pick-up truck that looks like it's on its last legs. No, he's not gay. I think he's Buddhist.

I don't know what else to say. I ran out of words. If I think of something else, I'll make a post.

Sooo Exciting!

In what movie does this famous drug addict appear? Where does this scene originate? Why are we here? Is 42 truly the answer? Do I care?

Hills of Morning

 

Underneath the mask of the sulphur sky

a bunch of us were busy... waiting.

Watching the people lookin' ill at ease,

watchin' the frayin' rope gettin' closer to breaking.

Women and men move back and forth

in between effect and cause.

Just beneath the range of normal size

this glittering joker

was dancing in the dragon's jaw.

Let me be a little of your breath,

moving over the face of the deep;

wanted to be a particle of your life,

flowing over the hills of morning.

The only sign you gave of who you were

when you first came walking down the road 

was the way the dust motes danced around

your feet in a cloud of gold.

But everything you see

is not the way it seems;

tears and sing, and joy and shed a tear, 

you can take the wisdom of this world 

and give it to the ones who think it all ends here.

Let me be a little of your breath

moving over the face of the deep

wanted to be a particle of your life

flowing over the hills of morning.

Flowing. Over the hills.

Wherever I Go, There I Am

 

If I'm so crazy, then explain this:

A tribal shaman has told me I have been infected by a witch but not to worry because he knows a woman in the valley and she knows the correct purifying ritual. I have to fast and chant and drink a lot of water for a month before the ritual will take place.

Meanwhile, he says I’ll be prone towards anger and to avoid everybody.

The infection includes an enchantment and over time it turns you into a slave, or so the shaman told me. He indicated I was already a slave but I had become aware because the witch made the mistake of revealing the truth to me. He also said I was hard-headed and ignorant in the ways of women and that I should take extra care around them. Funny thing in that he added it was good advice for all men. I need to break the enchantment and get rid of the evil that has been put into my mind. The shaman said my perception of the world had been twisted by the witch and the purifying ritual will put things back into their proper perspective.

He showed me respect and called me a great warrior and said I would win every battle until I chose my time to die. “You’ll live as long as you want,” he said.

It was a moving experience and a good pep talk. Guess I’ll have a big meal tonight and start the process tomorrow. Sorry, no pix -- he wouldn't let me take any.

"I can't take any more bad water
I've been poisoned from my head
Down to my shoes."

 It's snowing! Mae loves it!

Sandy Pearl

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Available as an ebook, audio book, or traditional industrial paperback. Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes&Noble, Apple, and most other purveyors of online literature.

If I Had a Heart

 

Contemplation

 Behold! The banana.

Holy Moses

 

My Camping Trip (Part 2)

I grew up in bayou country, so I spent much outdoor time hunting snakes, fishing, and hiking. I was a scout and I did my first night hikes as a young teen. I learned early on it was better and easier to carry a lighter load on your back (of course!), so I began paying attention to what I would need for a day trip compared to a three-day trip. A week is different and one needs to plan their daily routine. Walking all day? Half day? Or maybe lazing around a swimming hole somewhere? Those are different calorie counts.

If you're going to be walking day in, day out, you need calories. I suggest tins of tuna. Find the small tins at Walmart and plan to eat two every day, lunch and dinner. Take some hard candy with you for quick energy. Power bars are another lightweight treat. Fruit, trail mix, nuts, and crackers are also good choices.

In any case, you didn't decide to go for a long hike in order to get something to eat. When in the bush, eat for energy rather than pleasure. Don't think you're going to be able to fish for dinner. Plenty of times the fish won't be biting. There are foods in the forest that I'll not list here but I urge you to get a book outlining naturally growing edibles and bone up on what's safe to eat. Stay away from mushrooms unless you are an expert -- the wrong ones will poison you.

If you're in snake country, invest in a pair of gaiters and keep them on even after you've set up camp. Sleep in your clothes.

Speaking of clothes, winter camping is way different than summer camping. You need layered clothing in the winter with something to keep you dry, like a poncho or a tarp you can wrap around yourself.

I find that small tarps are one of my most useful items. They can be used for shelter or a groundcloth, or a wind break or wrapping up that skinned venison or even using it as a sled. Truth is, if the weather is good, you don't need anything over your head. Remember, I'm talking about minimalist camping.

Another good sleeping arrangement is to hang a hammock. If it's cold, use a liner (a tarp or blanket if you have one -- a coat or poncho would work. I actually prefer hanging a hammock to sleeping on the ground. Speaking of sleeping on the ground, it's much better to have a sleeping pad to lie on than nothing at all. The tradeoff is that you have to roll it up and it's another item you have to carry. It's worth it though because the ground can become awful hard in the middle of the night.

In your pocket, you need two knives and not something itty-bitty made with poor steel in China. I also recommend a larger, fixed blade knife. Don't purchase cheap knives -- the blades will break and they will not maintain a good edge.

I would also recommend carrying a firearm except that if you run across a ranger in the woods or a cop while hiking along the highway, I can assure you trouble will ensue if they decide to check you out. As ironic as it is, it's probably safer to not carry a firearm.

Know where you're going. Get a map and learn to read topo features. The same with a compass. Learn how to use it. Keep in mind it is possible to get lost but you won't be lost long if you've got a compass.

Don't stuff your backpack with items you won't use or don't need. If you need something to occupy your mind in the evenings, take a book or sharpen your knives with a honing stone.

Take some kind of flashlight with you and make sure the batteries are fresh before you leave the house.

I bring my own water in a animal skin container with a sling strap and usually have either a canteen back-up or a plastic container. Water is heavy so don't lug yourself down. Don't drink water from streams or ponds -- too risky -- unless you boil it first.

Take care of your feet. Blisters will bring an abrupt halt to your hiking trip. Nice, thick, clean socks. Wash them at night by hand and hang them up to dry. I also suggest additional cushioning in your sturdy hiking shoes.

Do I need to tell you good shoes are essential?

If you want to know more or desire a minimalist outdoor experience, drop me a line. In addition to offering knowledge in survival camping, I can offer deer hunting and good whiskey around a campfire at night.

 

Have you ever told someone you loved them

and they responded with a thank-you?

Let me tell you, it will really put you off

telling anyone ever again how you feel.

 

Three Wishes

 

My Camping Trip (Part 1)

While everyone was over-reacting and looking for my rotting corpse, I was sitting in jail in a small town ten miles north of the place where they found the suicide guy. I had no idea what was going on -- in regard to the hysteria taking place. Jail wasn't too bad. I got three square a day and it was a small town so the cell block wasn't packed with inmates. That translates into quiet enough to sleep most anytime. That's what I did mostly.

During the days I spent time declining Latin verbs in my head and watching the other guys in the common area. I don't have a lot of experience with jails and criminals but I figured it was best to keep a low profile. Most were in for drunk driving or behind on child support. I was there for vagrancy.

While walking through town, I made the mistake of stopping at a wooden bench propped up outside an old abandoned filling station. I needed to tighten up the laces on my shoes before I rubbed a blister so I sat at the bench and took off one shoe before massaging the foot and then putting the shoe back on again. I focused on the other shoe and took it off, likewise massaging my foot briefly. At that moment, a POLICE vehicle pulled up and a cop got out. He looked to be about mid-twenties.

"Hi," he said.

"Hey," I returned. "How are you?"

"Just fine. How about you?"

"Me? I'm good." I started to put my shoe on again.

"You from around here?"

"I got a place on the river ranch."

He nodded. "Cool. Got any ID?"

I looked at him. "I just stopped to retie my shoes."

"That's okay. So do you have ID?"

"Why? Have I done something wrong?"

"I don't know, have you?"

I stood up and pointed south down the highway. "I'm just passing through."

"This'll just take a minute and you can be on your way. Show me your ID and let me verify your address."

"Why?"

"Because I asked."

I shook my head. I was nearly six inches taller than the young cop. The encounter was turning out to be a bit stressful. "I don't have any ID," I told him. It was true. I had left the house without my wallet or phone. There was about forty dollars in cash stuffed into my front pants pocket. In my backpack was a groundcloth, a small tarp, a set of plastic stakes with attached lines, one power bar (my last), camping utensils, flashlight, my Buck knife, my rolled up sleeping bag, compass, topo map, binocs, and some fire starter props. That was it. The cop wanted to look inside and I let him.

I asked what he was looking for. "Weapons," he said, "or drugs." He looked at me. "You got any drugs?"

I laughed and shook my head. I've got long, white hair these days that reaches my mid-back. I was used to cops asking stupid questions. "No. No drugs. I smoked the last of my weed last night before I threw my AK-47 into the river."

He dropped my backpack but held onto my Buck knife in its scabbard. "You don't have to get smart about it."

"I'm not."

"You've got no ID."

I shrugged and he continued to speak what sounded like a well-rehearsed line. "So I'm going to have to ask you to turn around and put your hands behind your back."

"What?"

"Come on," he said, "Don't make this any harder than it has to be." He turned me around and pulled my hands together before cuffing me.

"I can't believe this. I haven't done anything."

"Just step over to the vehicle, sir." The cop sort of push-handled me over to the car. "Have you been drinking?"

"When? Now? No, I'm too busy getting arrested." He put me in the back and shut the door in my face.

The processing officer was a short, overweight female with dyed red hair and a wad of gum between her molars. A nametag over her left breast pocket identified her as Officer Inelda Lighthead. It was established early on that I had no identification. In the eyes of the law, lack of ID transformed me into persona non grata. She grinded on the gum as she waited for my answers.

"First name?"

"Tommy."

"Last name?"

"Boy."

"How do you spell that?"

"B-o-y. Boy."

"Mmkay. Date of birth?"

"Today," I said. She looked at me. "It's my birthday," I added. Of course, it wasn't my birthday.

"Oh really? Happy Birthday."

"Thank you."

"What year?"

Hmm, I thought, how old would I like to be? My father was born in 1928. He was 22 the year I was born. "1928," I mumbled.

"Oh. That would make you..." she toyed with her calculator. "92 years old." She looked from the calculator to me. "I think I did the math wrong," she said.

"Just leave it," I suggested, then added, "it doesn't matter." This is an important moment to note for my readers who likely will not fail to notice the attempted Jedi mind trick. Actually, more than just attempted. By the time the report was completed, I was Tommy Boy, male Caucasian paid warrior for the elite, retired, 92 years old and still trying to get laid.

Inelda looked up from her computer and smiled. "You're kinda cute," she said. "What'd you do to have to come here?"

"I don't know. Ask the arresting officer." He was within earshot and she did ask him.

"Vagrancy," he said. "No ID."

"Ricky," she said, "look at him. He's 92 years old for Christ's Sakes! Let my people go! Hel-lo!"

"Process him and put him in a cell."

That's how I came to meet Johan, "Pronounced Yo-HAN or John if that is easier for you," he told me. Johan was in the cell next to me and was a boatmaker. He got drunk at home and his wife called the police when he responded to one of her barbs with the back of his hand. "She hit me first. Sometimes she says she's gonna kill me."

"She's not gonna kill you, man." That came from Peter who was in a cell across from us, separated by a wide concrete floor. He shook his head and repeated himself.

"How do you know anything? Once she said she was gonna shoot me and another time she said she was gonna wait until I go to sleep, then she was a'gonna stab me in the heart."

"She's just talking. She's not gonna do it. She told me so while I was fucking her."

Johan held up his hands and tilted his head. "Don't say that," he said. "Mr Boy here is new to town. He doesn't understand."

That sort of piqued my interest. "Understand what?"

"Peter and I have an agreement. He gets Saturday with her."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. Peter has sex with Judith every Saturday night."

"And when do you get yours?"

"Never! Thank Dios!" He lowered his voice. "Women are the bane to good society."

I didn't know what he meant but I tried to follow. What I gathered was that Peter was having sex with his wife, con permiso. Avant garde for a small town, or maybe not. What the hell did I know anyway about normality? Except the only thing that's normal is what the government says is normal. Sort of like censorship on Facebook. By then, I was pretty sure I didn't want to get caught up in some feud that was balanced to equilibrium by allowing the exchange of illicit sex.

So, I spent three days in jail. They ordered up a fine of $400 and allowed me to call Visa for the transaction. I got out of jail without ever identifying myself and started walking home. That was yesterday. I camped in the woods last night about three miles from home.

There's more to this trip and I'll write it out in sections, I guess. This is the first section. Other topics I think will include:

Minimalist Hiking and Camping

Thoughts on Suicide

Reality

Rumors of My Demise Found to be Unsubstantiated

I got back to the house this morning and fed my animals, looked around a bit, and took a shower before checking out the blog. I see everyone's been busy speculating on my demise. I appreciate the concern but I said I'd be gone for awhile. Anyway, I'm tired and need to lie down a bit. When I get up, I'll post something about my adventures. Oh, I spent the last three days in jail. I'll explain later.

Humiliation

Okay, this is Jimmy. I didn't write this piece. I found it in TommyBoy's blog queue and thought it was pretty good so I'm posting it. Its original date was Nov. 17.

"Being humiliated spurs me on to do great things. You believe that? Then you're a jerk. Being humiliated takes me another step closer to ending my miserable life."

I wonder, have you ever been humiliated? Not just being the butt of the joke, but rather being identified as weak or pathetic or perhaps even as a deviant or a Democrat? Suddenly you're exposed as a middle-aged video gamer or a binge and purge eater or a nose-picker (Yuk!). Maybe you're a masturbater and you got caught rubbing one out over your lunch break.

Oh, you don't stimulate the dragon, eh?

Well then, maybe you got caught taking too many pens at work.

Wow, maybe it's something serious that's wrong with you, like maybe you're a kleptomaniac. Maybe stealing is a sport to you.

Maybe you're a window-peeper. That'll probably make you a trespasser as well.

Maybe you're attracted to "alternative" sex. I know, that covers a lot of territory. Maybe you just require lots of sexual stimulation (actually, I've seen this one used before -- "I can't help myself," they say, "I'm hypersexual." -- sure you are, I say) or plain old adult sex, face-to-face, doesn't do the trick anymore.

Everybody's got a rational explanation for what they're doing wrong. Here's another one: "I was made this way." Then you, my furry friend, are the proverbial lemon straight from the factory.

See? I just did it. I humiliated you. Sorry about that. It's just that, you know, if the act itself wasn't a shameful act, then you wouldn't be humiliated now. You see? It's not really my fault. It's yours, ya little bugger.

The larger point is that there are little humiliations we endure on a regular basis, like your team at work getting you a cake and singing happy birthday. Or your wife revealing your favorite color at the company picnic and getting it wrong. These are not particularly brutal or traumatic, not like getting caught in an affair with your executive assistant by your wife in flagrantis pants-down-around-the-ankles, I-can-explain, who-ya-gonna-believe-me-or-your-lying-eyes transgressive pitfalls of mod life... flash forward to a cheap motel room, empty bottle of Jack, a revolver and lonesome eyes staring at it.

There are degrees of humiliation. Additionally, keep in mind the perception of a thing is all that is required to illicit a response. A word may be all that is needed to destroy a career or tag someone with an epithet. Did you pay your child support? All of it?

The cost of a traumatic humiliation? It is difficult to say. Some people can bear the slings and arrows of life better than others, yet we know damage accumulates even among the stoic.

Words are metaphysical. They can transform a person, make them better or worse, smarter or more stupid; they can encourage, they can denigrate, they can help, and they can hurt. They can pass quickly, but somehow remain in the air.

That's how humiliation works too. It seems to float about the humiliated, like a stink they picked up from their transgressions.

Roses are red,

Free thinkers are few,

If you keep obeying orders,

A chip will be inserted into you.

Guess the Movie and Receive Salvation

 Click for larger view.

This scene comes from what movie?

I'd Make You Mine

I wish I were Jeffrey Epstein,

then I could really fly.

I'd have plenty of girls

at the wink of an eye. 

If I were Jeffrey Epstein

nobody would know me

cause I’ve dyed my hair

and I’ve had plastic surgery. 

I'd make you mine

if I were Jeffrey Epstein.

I'd fly you 'round the world

altho you're just a little girl. 

I'd introduce you

to George and Hillary and Bill

so you could play pattycake

until they've had their fill. 

I would not sell you

to an Arab sheikh;

instead, I'd brand a black heart

on your pretty little cheek. 

On my yacht,

you can entertain my friends

while I get some sun

practicing deep knee bends. 

They’re honoring me today,

I’m going to meet the Pope,

they’ll polish my soul

and give me a cross on a rope. 

My name is Jeffrey Epstein

I cannot tell a lie.

I was murdered in prison

but I did not die.