The way I communicate has been a topic of conversation recently. Someone whose opinion I care about, besides my own, said I was articulate in my feelings, and that I should write more poetry. Another person said I'm very analytical and observant. The same person also caught me using one-liners, though I'm not sure what I said. Yet another person described me as being laconic.
Now I will get this part wrong, and the girl will rag me about it later, but in a recent phone interview, I was given an example of how I write. Instead of saying, "a woman walked into the room," I would have described the woman and then point out how her green clothing brought out the color of her eyes.
(I just realized that this entry will be completely disjointed. Too bad. Deal.)
I tend to see myself as a left brained author. It might seem like I'm being creative and right brained, but I think it just looks that way. I mean, I know some literary devices, and if it feels like a logical place to use one, I just do it. It's like playing Tetris with words.
For example, while some more creative people would describe rainbows by how it makes them feel, I would try to find an original way to describe them. So in the end, a rainbow would be: a technicolor brow across the blue sky forehead.
(Yeah, this is gonna be a really sloppy entry. I should be working, not writing.)
You know, I wished I wrote down some of my so called one-liners. Apparently I said a few things before Indian Girl left that was amusing. Too bad beer does not aid the memory.
I do remember calling my UK friend an "other worlder". I was just thinking about how we Americans view the world in a USA-centric point of view. Everything is either American, or Other-Than-American. Thus, other worlder.
And there was this one time where I was completely at a loss for words. I blame a girl though. "Now I understand what it means to be lost in someones eyes." But sometimes it may be a good thing. The more I talk, the dumber the world becomes.
I did manage to spell the word "vagina" during a game of Scrabble. But my vocabulary is still stunted by living out in the middle of Nowhereville, Hawaii.
Now a friend made an observation that I tend to be patient and quiet, even about my feelings, or even when I have something to say. I think it has to do with my upbringing. I've never really sat and talked about my feelings with family. Maybe that's why I feel like writing sometimes?
That could be a reason why I seem to prefer female friends over male friends. Females communicate better... sometimes. Sometimes they're speaking on two different levels, and if my double entendre radar is off, I completely miss the meaning of what is said. But it is easier to talk to females about feelings. With guys, you appear less alpha if you talk about feelings. With guys, it's all about sex, ball scratching, and adrenaline bs.
OK, done. I should get back to work. And if this post makes no sense... err... sorry?
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
Jane, Get Me Off This Crazy Thing!
I haven't cried. Indian Girl has moved away and I haven't cried. She cried. Machu Pichu cried. I still haven't cried. Weird. And I don't know why.
I've been feeling drained this last week. Sure as shit, life has been giving me the roller coaster. MP said a good cry would do wonders, but what can you do if you can't cry? I guess normally that is when you would turn to a good friend. Ironically, the good friend leaving is causing some depression that would require a good friend. Damn catch 22.
Indian Girl was a major catalyst in my life. I guess the fact that she knew she would only be here for 3 months made her take full advantage of every minute. To an outsider, it would have looked like she was burning the candle at both ends. However, I think she just compressed into 3 months what some people take 3 years to experience.
Adventuring, exploring, beaches, swimming, snorkeling, hiking, dining, making friends, meeting people, volunteering, playing, doggies, dancing, drinking, partying, relaxing, walking, jogging, romancing, and having sex. That's the kind of stuff IG did. But she didn't do it all herself. She took MP and me along for the ride. And I think I got to experience more in three months than I did in three years.
So today I've been depressed. The sad thing for me is that I'm not the type to go out and share my problems with anyone. Normally IG and MP would pick up that I'm not in a right state of mind, and would offer to talk, cheer me up, or just give me a hug. Stupid catch 22 though. IG isn't here, and if I see MP, it would just be a load that she doesn't need. I think I should have just screamed out, "FUCK!," in my helmet today.
Yeah, I rode my motorcycle today. I think I just wanted some time by myself. Can't get more by myself than in a helmet going 60+ mph. Then I did something I never did before. When I got to the canyon lookout, I got a soda, sat under a tree, and listened to Hallelujah on my mp3 player. Did I feel better? I really don't know. It did make me want to write though. So now I'm writing.
This morning I watched City of Angels again. It's about an angel who becomes human to experience everything human, including love. Then his love dies shortly after they get together. The angel was wracked with depression until another angel asked that if he knew this would happen, would he have become human. He then realizes that even though he was hurting now, what he experienced was worth the world to him, and he was able to begin healing.
So even though it feels like I have a big, empty hole in my heart, that's just an illusion. It's a false pain that will pass. Because the truth is that meeting IG has stuffed my heart with so many good things, my heart is now bigger. And the empty feeling is not really emptiness. It's just my heart waiting to accept more.
And pass me the low-sodium shoyu.
I've been feeling drained this last week. Sure as shit, life has been giving me the roller coaster. MP said a good cry would do wonders, but what can you do if you can't cry? I guess normally that is when you would turn to a good friend. Ironically, the good friend leaving is causing some depression that would require a good friend. Damn catch 22.
Indian Girl was a major catalyst in my life. I guess the fact that she knew she would only be here for 3 months made her take full advantage of every minute. To an outsider, it would have looked like she was burning the candle at both ends. However, I think she just compressed into 3 months what some people take 3 years to experience.
Adventuring, exploring, beaches, swimming, snorkeling, hiking, dining, making friends, meeting people, volunteering, playing, doggies, dancing, drinking, partying, relaxing, walking, jogging, romancing, and having sex. That's the kind of stuff IG did. But she didn't do it all herself. She took MP and me along for the ride. And I think I got to experience more in three months than I did in three years.
So today I've been depressed. The sad thing for me is that I'm not the type to go out and share my problems with anyone. Normally IG and MP would pick up that I'm not in a right state of mind, and would offer to talk, cheer me up, or just give me a hug. Stupid catch 22 though. IG isn't here, and if I see MP, it would just be a load that she doesn't need. I think I should have just screamed out, "FUCK!," in my helmet today.
Yeah, I rode my motorcycle today. I think I just wanted some time by myself. Can't get more by myself than in a helmet going 60+ mph. Then I did something I never did before. When I got to the canyon lookout, I got a soda, sat under a tree, and listened to Hallelujah on my mp3 player. Did I feel better? I really don't know. It did make me want to write though. So now I'm writing.
This morning I watched City of Angels again. It's about an angel who becomes human to experience everything human, including love. Then his love dies shortly after they get together. The angel was wracked with depression until another angel asked that if he knew this would happen, would he have become human. He then realizes that even though he was hurting now, what he experienced was worth the world to him, and he was able to begin healing.
So even though it feels like I have a big, empty hole in my heart, that's just an illusion. It's a false pain that will pass. Because the truth is that meeting IG has stuffed my heart with so many good things, my heart is now bigger. And the empty feeling is not really emptiness. It's just my heart waiting to accept more.
And pass me the low-sodium shoyu.
Friday, March 21, 2008
The Last Supper
***Indian Girl is moving away!***
I met Indian Girl on December 28 or 29. One of those days. She had just moved to the island and was looking for friends to show her around. You see, she has the kind of job that takes her to strange places where she gets really physical with clients, and sometimes even have them naked. So she was going to be here for 3 months and wanted to enjoy herself.
At first I was shy. A bit quiet. But later I started opening up, and we started hitting it off like gangbusters. In fact, we liked each other so much, that we have one of those high school girl-like pacts. If she's not married by 40, I have to inseminate her. Now whether it will be through direct injection or a turkey baster is still up for negotiations.
I've been practically all over the entire island with IG. Tons of beaches, all the tourist spots, several hiking trails, etc. We've also been to many restaurants, to the detriment of my wallet. We're pretty much close enough that we know about each other's sex lives. Heck, she knows, from my experience, not to point a man's loaded weapon at his own face. Dangerous.
But now she's leaving at the end of the month. Machu Pichu and I have been telling her to come back on a new contract. IG has been telling us to go visit her... but I think she's going to end up in Hicksville, Shithole. I think an Asian guy like me would stick out worse than a skinhead in a synagogue.
As part of the events leading up to her departure, IG, Machu Pichu, and I, planned to have dinner at a fancy restaurant. IG was going to get ready at MP's place after work, and I was going to meet them there at 4:30 PM.
At 4:00, I was out of the shower, clean shaven (top and bottom, haha. Don't ask.), and getting dressed, when my phone rings. It was MP on IG's phone. "Hey, we need you to pick up some alcohol on your way over."
I got to the grocery store's booze section and I called MP back. "I'm looking for the Boone's Farm, but I can't find it." MP had me searching high and low, not because she's a control freak, but because I suck at wine selection. I had to read the labels of hundreds of bottles. She ignored me, then randomly chose some brand she heard of. At the checkout, the cashier made the guy in front of me donate to Muscular Dystrophy. When it was my turn, she tried to give me the money. WTF?
I got to MP's place and I found 2 tipsy women. MP poured me a glass of wine in a huge glass meant for lushes. I then had to stand in the bathroom while IG and MP applied makeup. I felt like a Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. I did get to witness a makeup accident that turned MP in to a reverse blackface. Luckily she got it sorted out without taking another shower, which would have taken another hour.
"Just rub it off with a dry towel," IG suggested, "I do it all the time."
"You mean the towel I used to wipe off my naked body last time I was here," I asked.
"EEEEWWWWWWW!"
Yeah, thanks. I get that reaction a lot when women think of my naked body.
So while the girls got ready, and continued boozing (I stopped due to headaches), we just chatted like little girls. We talked about the usual things. You know. Sex, clothes, jobs, that kind of stuff. The two girls were also lamenting the fact that since they got to know each other, they've been gaining weight. They sure as shit did not like it when I explained that since meeting IG, my waist has gone from a 34 to a 31, and my shirt size went from L/XL to M/L. They did say that I better not get too skinny lest I end up looking like Riley. They also said that Riley is kinda cute, but needs to get some kind of personality, and needs to grow a pair so he can actually converse during dinner. I just got my dog's balls removed, so I guess he can have those. They were shocked when I explained that Riley rarely shuts up when he's out with the guys.
"I bet they not going bring my Pepsi. They always forget my Pepsi. You see that? The guy didn't even write it down. They going forget it. I never get my Pepsi," said Riley all through an hour long lunch ad nauseam.
Since I was the one who drank the least, I got chosen as the driver. It was like a scene out of Animal House. We all piled into my Yaris (chicks dig fuel efficiency). I swear I could hear some crazy frat boys yelling, "to the Food King!"
We got to the BeachHouse. It's a restaurant right on the beach in the Poipu area. Decent food with nice atmosphere and an incredible view of the sunset. Since MP was a concierge, she was really on the ball and FAILED TO MAKE RESERVATIONS. But no problem. We got there just a few minutes after they opened for dinner, which means we got one of the few tables that were up for grabs. IG and MP immediately started with the alcohol. I was the tea-totler designated driver, so I had a virgin Lava Flow.
We were drinking and talking, and we took over an hour just to order our food. IG's drink tasted like vomit, so MP, of course, said something to our waitress Christina, and got IG a new drink. When our appetizers arrived, the sun was nearly setting, so we went outside and took a bunch of pictures. We beat the tourists out there since they were waiting for the sun to touch the water. So basically, we kind of looked stupid in front of people we will never see again. Isn't that fun?
Then we went in and started on our appetizers. Then the sun reached the water and we went out again. Sucks for the people by the exit. I think IG actually bumped a guy each time we went in and out.
Our dinners were not bad. My entree came with asparagus. I guess my pee smells bad now. IG had fish. She always has fish. She likes fish. But, is that fish fishy? She doesn't like fishy fish. Her fish needs to not smell fishy. It also has to be really cooked fish. She doesn't like raw fish. Raw fish is too fishy and smells too much like fish. No surprise then that she thinks I'm gross because I like to go down on women.
Dinner was followed up with desert. It was some kind of chocolate soufflé with vanilla ice cream. For some reason, the manager also gave us a chocolate peanut butter ice cream dessert thingy gratis. I think MP must have batted her eyes at the guy. We always seem to get free stuff when she's around. Speaking of free stuff, MP tried to pimp me off to the waitress. Of course, I didn't know what they were talking about at first, and when I did figure out what she was doing, it was too late. Fortunately, for the waitress, she was already married to the manager. Now MP's new plan is for us to hit the bar on the military base to find me a GI Jane.
But back to the dessert. IG and MP both had orgasms from the first bite. That put me last in the race again. Fuck. IG wanted to take one of the desserts under the table. When Christina came around to check on us, the girls were like, "could we be left alone?" "Oh God! Oh God!" "Don't touch me. Don't touch me." I, on the other hand, was just munching away. Sometimes it takes me hours to finish a meal.
After two and a half hours in the restaurant, we were ready to leave. When the valet pulled up with my car, I paid the guy and proceeded to get in. MP stood by the passenger door with her hands on her hips and a big smile on her face. "Um, hello? Door?"
"WTF woman? You think this was a date?"
IG cracked up then kindly opened the door for her date.
The original plan was for us to go to Tree's Lounge. However, that bar was a bit far from where we were, so we went to the jazz bar Stevenson's Library. The jazz bar is located inside the Grand Hyatt, and when we got there, I wondered out loud if my friend Lauren was working at the front desk. This would later bite me in the ass.
The bar was dead, so we just had a beer each, talked a bit, then left. As we were leaving, I was looking at the concierge. I was thinking that MP could try for a job there since she doesn't like where she's working at now. The girls thought I wanted to hit on the concierge. When I tried to explain that I wasn't going to hit on the concierge, they then thought I wanted to hit on the girl at the front desk. Sigh. Women.
Back at MP's place, we downloaded the pictures we took on IG's camera to MP's computer. Of course we were all crowded around this one tiny laptop, like girls at a slumber party, trying to see the pictures. Then we sent them to my email.
Now comes the freaky part. I ended up looking at pictures of cocks with IG and MP. It's not something guys normally do. I mean, if looking at cocks would make my lover (female. Nice try you assholes.) get off, then by all means, I'm for it. But you don't normally look at cocks with your girl friends. And it was all INDIAN GIRL'S fault! Dirty, dirty girl. She told MP about the cock pics on craigslist, so MP wanted to see them.
"See? Have you ever seen a cock that curved down like that," IG asked.
"I have. But this one doesn't look like it's curving like that. It just looks like he isn't fully hard yet," MP replied.
"I don't know. I've never seen one like that. Might be kind of weird," said IG.
"I was with a guy whose cock curved downwards like a C," MP proclaimed.
"How the hell would that work? How would you have sex," IG asked.
"Well, when we had sex normally, it would be pushing into me on the bottom-side. But if I turned around with my ass in his face, it would work better... felt pretty good too," said MP.
"WTF!? Hello? I'm still here. Awkward!," Nonwheezer said with his hands held palm up, shoulder height in the universal WTF pose.
OK, so on to the pictures. My fingers are getting tired of typing. I posted a preview of a few pictures to my nerd group before going to bed and these are the replies I got when I woke up.
Minnesota Girl: Man, Hawaii is beautiful!
Lecherous Old Man: Twin peaks everywhere.
SUX IT Guy: IG could make a good living doing pr0n, IMO.
So here they are. Captions follow the pics.
I just got lei'd! And I didn't have time to finish putting on my pants.
"My drink tastes like vomit," said IG in a cheerful manner.
I came here one time and I ordered this drink and the setting sun shone right through it. It was beautiful. Hic! I think I need another.
Guess what these are. Never leave your camera unattended when you go to the bathroom.
Nonwheezer. "Oh, he looks good in this pic." Thanks girls.
OK, stand there. Now move 6 inches forward. Turn your head to look at me. Now smile. (MP micromanaging IG)
Wait. I think I have the flash setting wrong. Let me try this... click. Oh, hey. It came out pretty cute. (Nonwheezer)
Machu Pichu, Nonwheezer, Indian Girl
IG tends to be prim and proper sometimes. I could have sworn I heard her say, "you touch my ass and I'll kill you."
Contrasted by MP, who tends to have a higher blood alcohol content.
What are you two, on a date?
I met Indian Girl on December 28 or 29. One of those days. She had just moved to the island and was looking for friends to show her around. You see, she has the kind of job that takes her to strange places where she gets really physical with clients, and sometimes even have them naked. So she was going to be here for 3 months and wanted to enjoy herself.
At first I was shy. A bit quiet. But later I started opening up, and we started hitting it off like gangbusters. In fact, we liked each other so much, that we have one of those high school girl-like pacts. If she's not married by 40, I have to inseminate her. Now whether it will be through direct injection or a turkey baster is still up for negotiations.
I've been practically all over the entire island with IG. Tons of beaches, all the tourist spots, several hiking trails, etc. We've also been to many restaurants, to the detriment of my wallet. We're pretty much close enough that we know about each other's sex lives. Heck, she knows, from my experience, not to point a man's loaded weapon at his own face. Dangerous.
But now she's leaving at the end of the month. Machu Pichu and I have been telling her to come back on a new contract. IG has been telling us to go visit her... but I think she's going to end up in Hicksville, Shithole. I think an Asian guy like me would stick out worse than a skinhead in a synagogue.
As part of the events leading up to her departure, IG, Machu Pichu, and I, planned to have dinner at a fancy restaurant. IG was going to get ready at MP's place after work, and I was going to meet them there at 4:30 PM.
At 4:00, I was out of the shower, clean shaven (top and bottom, haha. Don't ask.), and getting dressed, when my phone rings. It was MP on IG's phone. "Hey, we need you to pick up some alcohol on your way over."
I got to the grocery store's booze section and I called MP back. "I'm looking for the Boone's Farm, but I can't find it." MP had me searching high and low, not because she's a control freak, but because I suck at wine selection. I had to read the labels of hundreds of bottles. She ignored me, then randomly chose some brand she heard of. At the checkout, the cashier made the guy in front of me donate to Muscular Dystrophy. When it was my turn, she tried to give me the money. WTF?
I got to MP's place and I found 2 tipsy women. MP poured me a glass of wine in a huge glass meant for lushes. I then had to stand in the bathroom while IG and MP applied makeup. I felt like a Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. I did get to witness a makeup accident that turned MP in to a reverse blackface. Luckily she got it sorted out without taking another shower, which would have taken another hour.
"Just rub it off with a dry towel," IG suggested, "I do it all the time."
"You mean the towel I used to wipe off my naked body last time I was here," I asked.
"EEEEWWWWWWW!"
Yeah, thanks. I get that reaction a lot when women think of my naked body.
So while the girls got ready, and continued boozing (I stopped due to headaches), we just chatted like little girls. We talked about the usual things. You know. Sex, clothes, jobs, that kind of stuff. The two girls were also lamenting the fact that since they got to know each other, they've been gaining weight. They sure as shit did not like it when I explained that since meeting IG, my waist has gone from a 34 to a 31, and my shirt size went from L/XL to M/L. They did say that I better not get too skinny lest I end up looking like Riley. They also said that Riley is kinda cute, but needs to get some kind of personality, and needs to grow a pair so he can actually converse during dinner. I just got my dog's balls removed, so I guess he can have those. They were shocked when I explained that Riley rarely shuts up when he's out with the guys.
"I bet they not going bring my Pepsi. They always forget my Pepsi. You see that? The guy didn't even write it down. They going forget it. I never get my Pepsi," said Riley all through an hour long lunch ad nauseam.
Since I was the one who drank the least, I got chosen as the driver. It was like a scene out of Animal House. We all piled into my Yaris (chicks dig fuel efficiency). I swear I could hear some crazy frat boys yelling, "to the Food King!"
We got to the BeachHouse. It's a restaurant right on the beach in the Poipu area. Decent food with nice atmosphere and an incredible view of the sunset. Since MP was a concierge, she was really on the ball and FAILED TO MAKE RESERVATIONS. But no problem. We got there just a few minutes after they opened for dinner, which means we got one of the few tables that were up for grabs. IG and MP immediately started with the alcohol. I was the tea-totler designated driver, so I had a virgin Lava Flow.
We were drinking and talking, and we took over an hour just to order our food. IG's drink tasted like vomit, so MP, of course, said something to our waitress Christina, and got IG a new drink. When our appetizers arrived, the sun was nearly setting, so we went outside and took a bunch of pictures. We beat the tourists out there since they were waiting for the sun to touch the water. So basically, we kind of looked stupid in front of people we will never see again. Isn't that fun?
Then we went in and started on our appetizers. Then the sun reached the water and we went out again. Sucks for the people by the exit. I think IG actually bumped a guy each time we went in and out.
Our dinners were not bad. My entree came with asparagus. I guess my pee smells bad now. IG had fish. She always has fish. She likes fish. But, is that fish fishy? She doesn't like fishy fish. Her fish needs to not smell fishy. It also has to be really cooked fish. She doesn't like raw fish. Raw fish is too fishy and smells too much like fish. No surprise then that she thinks I'm gross because I like to go down on women.
Dinner was followed up with desert. It was some kind of chocolate soufflé with vanilla ice cream. For some reason, the manager also gave us a chocolate peanut butter ice cream dessert thingy gratis. I think MP must have batted her eyes at the guy. We always seem to get free stuff when she's around. Speaking of free stuff, MP tried to pimp me off to the waitress. Of course, I didn't know what they were talking about at first, and when I did figure out what she was doing, it was too late. Fortunately, for the waitress, she was already married to the manager. Now MP's new plan is for us to hit the bar on the military base to find me a GI Jane.
But back to the dessert. IG and MP both had orgasms from the first bite. That put me last in the race again. Fuck. IG wanted to take one of the desserts under the table. When Christina came around to check on us, the girls were like, "could we be left alone?" "Oh God! Oh God!" "Don't touch me. Don't touch me." I, on the other hand, was just munching away. Sometimes it takes me hours to finish a meal.
After two and a half hours in the restaurant, we were ready to leave. When the valet pulled up with my car, I paid the guy and proceeded to get in. MP stood by the passenger door with her hands on her hips and a big smile on her face. "Um, hello? Door?"
"WTF woman? You think this was a date?"
IG cracked up then kindly opened the door for her date.
The original plan was for us to go to Tree's Lounge. However, that bar was a bit far from where we were, so we went to the jazz bar Stevenson's Library. The jazz bar is located inside the Grand Hyatt, and when we got there, I wondered out loud if my friend Lauren was working at the front desk. This would later bite me in the ass.
The bar was dead, so we just had a beer each, talked a bit, then left. As we were leaving, I was looking at the concierge. I was thinking that MP could try for a job there since she doesn't like where she's working at now. The girls thought I wanted to hit on the concierge. When I tried to explain that I wasn't going to hit on the concierge, they then thought I wanted to hit on the girl at the front desk. Sigh. Women.
Back at MP's place, we downloaded the pictures we took on IG's camera to MP's computer. Of course we were all crowded around this one tiny laptop, like girls at a slumber party, trying to see the pictures. Then we sent them to my email.
Now comes the freaky part. I ended up looking at pictures of cocks with IG and MP. It's not something guys normally do. I mean, if looking at cocks would make my lover (female. Nice try you assholes.) get off, then by all means, I'm for it. But you don't normally look at cocks with your girl friends. And it was all INDIAN GIRL'S fault! Dirty, dirty girl. She told MP about the cock pics on craigslist, so MP wanted to see them.
"See? Have you ever seen a cock that curved down like that," IG asked.
"I have. But this one doesn't look like it's curving like that. It just looks like he isn't fully hard yet," MP replied.
"I don't know. I've never seen one like that. Might be kind of weird," said IG.
"I was with a guy whose cock curved downwards like a C," MP proclaimed.
"How the hell would that work? How would you have sex," IG asked.
"Well, when we had sex normally, it would be pushing into me on the bottom-side. But if I turned around with my ass in his face, it would work better... felt pretty good too," said MP.
"WTF!? Hello? I'm still here. Awkward!," Nonwheezer said with his hands held palm up, shoulder height in the universal WTF pose.
OK, so on to the pictures. My fingers are getting tired of typing. I posted a preview of a few pictures to my nerd group before going to bed and these are the replies I got when I woke up.
Minnesota Girl: Man, Hawaii is beautiful!
Lecherous Old Man: Twin peaks everywhere.
SUX IT Guy: IG could make a good living doing pr0n, IMO.
So here they are. Captions follow the pics.
I just got lei'd! And I didn't have time to finish putting on my pants.
"My drink tastes like vomit," said IG in a cheerful manner.
I came here one time and I ordered this drink and the setting sun shone right through it. It was beautiful. Hic! I think I need another.
Guess what these are. Never leave your camera unattended when you go to the bathroom.
Nonwheezer. "Oh, he looks good in this pic." Thanks girls.
OK, stand there. Now move 6 inches forward. Turn your head to look at me. Now smile. (MP micromanaging IG)
Wait. I think I have the flash setting wrong. Let me try this... click. Oh, hey. It came out pretty cute. (Nonwheezer)
Machu Pichu, Nonwheezer, Indian Girl
IG tends to be prim and proper sometimes. I could have sworn I heard her say, "you touch my ass and I'll kill you."
Contrasted by MP, who tends to have a higher blood alcohol content.
What are you two, on a date?
Friday, November 23, 2007
Two Turkeys on a Ride
Squiggy the sex offender flashes for Lauren.
"Great. Now we're trapped in here," said Gsxrgirrrl in a non-ending string of complaints.
Gsxrgirrrl found a dandelion to blow. In a related incident, Squiggy got pelted by dandelion seeds and spittle.
Squiggy still can't wear Women's Small.
"But," he said . . .
Gsxrgirrrl collapses after riding one handed for 20 minutes holding her fairing then wrenching it back on. "My butt looks big," she proclaimed.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
What's In Your Wallet?
"OK. The tip comes out to $4.0125. Rounded off, that makes it $4.01. Now we divide that by three. . ."
Eight minutes later, Biker Teacher found himself at the motel diner's cashier. He handed the cashier his check card and waited while she rang up his tab. Out of the corner of his eye, Biker Teacher spotted a woman approaching him. Fast. He figured that at her elevated rate of speed, if she didn't stop soon, she would collide into him. A klaxon sounded in his head. All hands, brace for impact.
The woman didn't stop. She didn't even slow down.
Bang.
"Biker Teacher, long time no see," the woman said.
"Fearsome Sweetie! Hey, I was wondering who this woman was coming at me at ramming speed," Biker Teacher replied. He turned around for a second to sign his bill, then faced the encroaching female once again.
"I didn't know you were back on the island," Fearsome Sweetie said.
"Been back since 2000." It might have been 1999, but 2000 was an easier number to blurt out without thinking. Biker Teacher hugged Fearsome Sweetie.
"Really? Wow. So what have you been up to?" Fearsome Sweetie asked while keeping her body well within Biker Teacher's personal space.
"I've been teaching at Ass Crack Middle. Can you believe that?"
Fearsome Sweetie laughed. "I can't believe I haven't seen you around."
"I don't drink much, so I don't get out much," Biker Teacher said with a smile.
"I don't drink either. Hey, this is my friend Dar. Dar, this is my classmate, Biker Teacher." Biker Teacher shook Dar's hand while Fearsome Sweetie remain close. "So have you talked to Nicks?"
"Actually, yes. I had both of her kids as students."
"That must have been interesting," Fearsome Sweetie said with a smile. Biker Teacher remembered that during high school, he used to be afraid of Fearsome Sweetie. Now she never did anything to him to deserve that fear. In fact, she was a rather pleasant person. Biker Teacher just developed a sweetie-phobia because Fearsome Sweetie had a very rough exterior. However, her smile today was genuinely pretty.
And that's when Biker Teacher realized that Fearsome Sweetie was well inside his personal bubble, and it made him feel awkward since he was not used to having pretty women so close by. Well, at least not women of legal age anyway.
"You know, if you're going to stand so close to me, I may end up suggesting that we get a room. We are in a motel, after all," Biker Teacher attempted to be funny.
"Oh really?" Fearsome Sweetie laughed.
"Yup. I could just put the room on my credit card and earn airline miles."
"Biker, Biker, Biker. Tsk tsk. Have you forgotten me already?"
"Eh?"
"Biker, if you remembered me," Fearsome Sweetie started giggling, "you would know that I don't give a flying fuck."
Eight minutes later, Biker Teacher found himself at the motel diner's cashier. He handed the cashier his check card and waited while she rang up his tab. Out of the corner of his eye, Biker Teacher spotted a woman approaching him. Fast. He figured that at her elevated rate of speed, if she didn't stop soon, she would collide into him. A klaxon sounded in his head. All hands, brace for impact.
The woman didn't stop. She didn't even slow down.
Bang.
"Biker Teacher, long time no see," the woman said.
"Fearsome Sweetie! Hey, I was wondering who this woman was coming at me at ramming speed," Biker Teacher replied. He turned around for a second to sign his bill, then faced the encroaching female once again.
"I didn't know you were back on the island," Fearsome Sweetie said.
"Been back since 2000." It might have been 1999, but 2000 was an easier number to blurt out without thinking. Biker Teacher hugged Fearsome Sweetie.
"Really? Wow. So what have you been up to?" Fearsome Sweetie asked while keeping her body well within Biker Teacher's personal space.
"I've been teaching at Ass Crack Middle. Can you believe that?"
Fearsome Sweetie laughed. "I can't believe I haven't seen you around."
"I don't drink much, so I don't get out much," Biker Teacher said with a smile.
"I don't drink either. Hey, this is my friend Dar. Dar, this is my classmate, Biker Teacher." Biker Teacher shook Dar's hand while Fearsome Sweetie remain close. "So have you talked to Nicks?"
"Actually, yes. I had both of her kids as students."
"That must have been interesting," Fearsome Sweetie said with a smile. Biker Teacher remembered that during high school, he used to be afraid of Fearsome Sweetie. Now she never did anything to him to deserve that fear. In fact, she was a rather pleasant person. Biker Teacher just developed a sweetie-phobia because Fearsome Sweetie had a very rough exterior. However, her smile today was genuinely pretty.
And that's when Biker Teacher realized that Fearsome Sweetie was well inside his personal bubble, and it made him feel awkward since he was not used to having pretty women so close by. Well, at least not women of legal age anyway.
"You know, if you're going to stand so close to me, I may end up suggesting that we get a room. We are in a motel, after all," Biker Teacher attempted to be funny.
"Oh really?" Fearsome Sweetie laughed.
"Yup. I could just put the room on my credit card and earn airline miles."
"Biker, Biker, Biker. Tsk tsk. Have you forgotten me already?"
"Eh?"
"Biker, if you remembered me," Fearsome Sweetie started giggling, "you would know that I don't give a flying fuck."
Friday, January 12, 2007
$20,000 Pile of Crap Lucky
K: From what it sounds like, someone jumped the gun.
Me: Who?
K: Those guys.
Me: What guys?
K: The other group.
Me: What group?
K: This other group. Some other guys.
Me: What the fuck are you talking about? I have no fucking clue who anyone is.
Gotta love it when people think you know everything that happens in this world.
Anyway... I thought I would talk about financial responsibility and Hilo. Those two topics just go hand in hand like peanut butter and jelly. Or maybe not.
I used to have a friend who often bragged about his awesome Harley. "This bike would be worth over $20,000 and I got it for like 6," he would drone. He would justify spending thousands of dollars on a bike because he was getting a great deal.
This isn't the same kind of Harley that he was talking about, but it doesn't matter. Most Harleys are crap anyway, so any picture would do.
The truth of this $20,000 Harley was that it looked like this:
Yessiree! That pile of crap parts you have laying about in the living room sure looks like twenty-grand. I think he mistook fantasy for reality. The fantasy could be a really kick ass bike. The reality was that he spent a shitload of cash on metallic crap.
It would be like me buying a bunch of art supplies:
Then trying to pass it off as a billion dollar painting.
Knowing my luck, I would probably accidentally punch a hole in it while showing it to friends.
Now this same guy wanted to buy an air compressor to use around the garage. Most normal, sane people would have bought maybe a 3-5 gallon compressor. Maybe even a 10-15 if they were going to use power tools.
Not this guy. He bought something close to 100 gallons. The thing was so big it was lucky he didn't have a laundry dryer. It took up the dryer spot in the laundry room.
His thinking was that it was too good a deal to pass up. I think he got it for about $500, which is a very, very good price. Totally unnecessary though. He could have bought a smaller one for under $200.
The grandiose size of the compressor matched his grandiose dreams. His plan was to have a full set of air tools... impact guns... spray guns... which could still work... with a smaller compressor... sigh...
Fool and his money and all that.
On the other hand, some fools live a charmed life. Another friend arrived home one day with this:
He found it in a surplus store and thought it was hilarious. So he bought it for $10. OK, so ten bucks is a cheap price to pay for some yucks, but did we really need a condom vending machine at home?
After admiring it for an hour, he set to it with some tools. He wanted to see the insides. He found a few condoms.
And about $8 in loose change. The previous owner never bothered to empty the coin receptacle before chucking the vending machine.
I guess it was all ribbed for his pleasure. Lucky fucker.
Me: Who?
K: Those guys.
Me: What guys?
K: The other group.
Me: What group?
K: This other group. Some other guys.
Me: What the fuck are you talking about? I have no fucking clue who anyone is.
Gotta love it when people think you know everything that happens in this world.
Anyway... I thought I would talk about financial responsibility and Hilo. Those two topics just go hand in hand like peanut butter and jelly. Or maybe not.
I used to have a friend who often bragged about his awesome Harley. "This bike would be worth over $20,000 and I got it for like 6," he would drone. He would justify spending thousands of dollars on a bike because he was getting a great deal.
This isn't the same kind of Harley that he was talking about, but it doesn't matter. Most Harleys are crap anyway, so any picture would do.
The truth of this $20,000 Harley was that it looked like this:
Yessiree! That pile of crap parts you have laying about in the living room sure looks like twenty-grand. I think he mistook fantasy for reality. The fantasy could be a really kick ass bike. The reality was that he spent a shitload of cash on metallic crap.
It would be like me buying a bunch of art supplies:
Then trying to pass it off as a billion dollar painting.
Knowing my luck, I would probably accidentally punch a hole in it while showing it to friends.
Now this same guy wanted to buy an air compressor to use around the garage. Most normal, sane people would have bought maybe a 3-5 gallon compressor. Maybe even a 10-15 if they were going to use power tools.
Not this guy. He bought something close to 100 gallons. The thing was so big it was lucky he didn't have a laundry dryer. It took up the dryer spot in the laundry room.
His thinking was that it was too good a deal to pass up. I think he got it for about $500, which is a very, very good price. Totally unnecessary though. He could have bought a smaller one for under $200.
The grandiose size of the compressor matched his grandiose dreams. His plan was to have a full set of air tools... impact guns... spray guns... which could still work... with a smaller compressor... sigh...
Fool and his money and all that.
On the other hand, some fools live a charmed life. Another friend arrived home one day with this:
He found it in a surplus store and thought it was hilarious. So he bought it for $10. OK, so ten bucks is a cheap price to pay for some yucks, but did we really need a condom vending machine at home?
After admiring it for an hour, he set to it with some tools. He wanted to see the insides. He found a few condoms.
And about $8 in loose change. The previous owner never bothered to empty the coin receptacle before chucking the vending machine.
I guess it was all ribbed for his pleasure. Lucky fucker.
Thursday, January 4, 2007
Youth in Asia: Socks and Thongs
The Band Teacher came over for a final visit. She's heading back to Arizona for the next semester of college. She stopped by to chat for a bit and to say goodbye.
In case you forgot, this is the Band Teacher's very fit and very firm body:
When she got here, we started chatting outside. I usually don't feel comfortable with people in my room. I have sweaty mountain bike and motorcycle gear in my closet. If the trade winds blow just right, my room smells like a gym.
I showed her the brand new tires on my bike. She came with me when I ordered them, so I figured I may as well point them out. I also explained that I had a bit more scrubbing of the tires to do to kill off the chicken strips.
"I don't know. I would feel more comfortable being enclosed," she said. "I'm not sure what the thrill is about."
"You never straddled a throbbing V-Twin before?"
"I've never owned one before."
That's when I started staring at her inseam. Of course it was to check her leg length. No, really. I wasn't ogling... much.
Her crotch came up about the height of my crotch, so I told her she should try sitting on my bike. She did so cautiously since she hadn't sat on a motorcycle before. I ran back and forth to both sides of the bike to get her into the proper position and to make sure she didn't scratch herself on my new rearsets. Those things have sharp edges meant to dig into boots.
While behind her, I noticed the top part of her jeans was a bit open. I couldn't resist a peek.
"Hey, I can see inside your pants."
"HEY! I'm wearing a thong you know."
"Really?" And I peeked again. I was playing around though. I didn't really try to look at her thong. I told her that too since I didn't want to be TOO crass.
The Band Teacher hopped off the bike. I hopped on right after her. Although our genitalia are located around the same altitude, it was easier for me to get my feet on the ground. Part of the reason could be her weight. She's only 113 pounds compared to my 200. Troll flesh is made of depleted uranium. Her body could only compress the suspension and seat cushion half as much as the orc.
Another reason was her position on the seat. She sat toward the back of the seat. I sat balls on tank, and I pointed it out to her. Not so much my balls, but the fact that the seat is lower nearer to the tank lets me get my feet down. I told her that her brass balls probably got in the way and she agreed and said she would shift them to the left next time.
Next we played with my dog. The Band Teacher first met my dog when he was about 8 weeks old. He's about 10 months old now and about 50 pounds big.
"He seems happy to see me."
"How do you know?"
"Because... he... is."
"He has a boner?"
"Yeah."
I can't blame the dog. If young women gave me that much attention, I would be sporting wood 24/7.
I played with the dog a bit and he slobbered all over my hands. He has this weird thing where he needs to lick things or put things in his mouth. He doesn't bite my hands. He just coats them with saliva.
"Smell my finger," as I stuck my hand under the Band Teacher's nose. "BTW, you always wear thongs?" I know for a fact I have never seen panty lines on the Band Teacher before.
"Almost always. When it's that time, I don't."
"That time? Oh! That's right, you use pads." I once had to help her shop for pads and depilatory creams. I still don't know why these feminine hygiene products come in strawberry and cream scents. Do women expect someone to eat... oh. Never mind.
"Yeah. I can't use tampons. My vaginal muscles are so well trained that I can tie the string into a bow and eject the tampon 20 feet all while I sleep." (She didn't say this. This is what my male brain heard.)
"I don't believe you without video. Did you try ping pong balls yet?"
Then I took her for a ride in the Yaris.
This car is a total chick magnet. They can't get enough of the spacious interior. The well thought out ergonomics. The energy conserving 1.5 liter four banger. The sensible styling. Bland, yet tasteful.
While in the car, I bemoaned the fact that I lack actors to help me make YouTube videos. I'm as ugly as dog poop, so if I am ever going to make videos, I need human-looking people. Unfortunately, I don't know anyone who both looks good and is willing to help. The Band Teacher said that Hawaii people aren't great actors. She does have a point. Everyone I know either sucks on screen or is too embarrassed to be of use. But then I remembered Mikey Inouye.
Mike Inouye has a very popular video blog on YouTube. I've watched several of his videos and he cracks me up. What makes it even better is that he collaborated with Abbegirl to make a few. Abbe is a pretty blonde.
"There you go with the blondes again. Are you into blondes?"
"I don't think I have a preference. The other day when I was passing the Shrimp Station," I point over my shoulder even though the Shrimp Station is seven miles away, "I saw a pretty black girl. I swear I couldn't stop looking. She was hot."
"Hey, that's cool that you don't care about race."
"Yeah. I think my only real criteria is that the girl has a vagina."
When we got back to my house it was time for the Band Teacher to leave. She wasn't sure if she would be able to return during the summer or if she would have to wait until next winter to come visit.
"The next time I come back, I'll show you another thong."
Me:
*********************
On December 29, I had to say goodbye to a dear companion. We had first met nearly 14 years ago. Back then I was really into rollerblading. It was through rollerblading that we met. Even after I stopped skating and moved on to other activities like diving and drag racing, my companion remained close by. Then when I started riding my motorcycle, my companion came with me on most of my rides.
However, because of age and a hard life, my companion no longer had any strength left. He couldn't stay up and he couldn't support me. I had no choice but to give my companion a dignified end.
Goodbye, socks. I will miss you.
In case you forgot, this is the Band Teacher's very fit and very firm body:
When she got here, we started chatting outside. I usually don't feel comfortable with people in my room. I have sweaty mountain bike and motorcycle gear in my closet. If the trade winds blow just right, my room smells like a gym.
I showed her the brand new tires on my bike. She came with me when I ordered them, so I figured I may as well point them out. I also explained that I had a bit more scrubbing of the tires to do to kill off the chicken strips.
"I don't know. I would feel more comfortable being enclosed," she said. "I'm not sure what the thrill is about."
"You never straddled a throbbing V-Twin before?"
"I've never owned one before."
That's when I started staring at her inseam. Of course it was to check her leg length. No, really. I wasn't ogling... much.
Her crotch came up about the height of my crotch, so I told her she should try sitting on my bike. She did so cautiously since she hadn't sat on a motorcycle before. I ran back and forth to both sides of the bike to get her into the proper position and to make sure she didn't scratch herself on my new rearsets. Those things have sharp edges meant to dig into boots.
While behind her, I noticed the top part of her jeans was a bit open. I couldn't resist a peek.
"Hey, I can see inside your pants."
"HEY! I'm wearing a thong you know."
"Really?" And I peeked again. I was playing around though. I didn't really try to look at her thong. I told her that too since I didn't want to be TOO crass.
The Band Teacher hopped off the bike. I hopped on right after her. Although our genitalia are located around the same altitude, it was easier for me to get my feet on the ground. Part of the reason could be her weight. She's only 113 pounds compared to my 200. Troll flesh is made of depleted uranium. Her body could only compress the suspension and seat cushion half as much as the orc.
Another reason was her position on the seat. She sat toward the back of the seat. I sat balls on tank, and I pointed it out to her. Not so much my balls, but the fact that the seat is lower nearer to the tank lets me get my feet down. I told her that her brass balls probably got in the way and she agreed and said she would shift them to the left next time.
Next we played with my dog. The Band Teacher first met my dog when he was about 8 weeks old. He's about 10 months old now and about 50 pounds big.
"He seems happy to see me."
"How do you know?"
"Because... he... is."
"He has a boner?"
"Yeah."
I can't blame the dog. If young women gave me that much attention, I would be sporting wood 24/7.
I played with the dog a bit and he slobbered all over my hands. He has this weird thing where he needs to lick things or put things in his mouth. He doesn't bite my hands. He just coats them with saliva.
"Smell my finger," as I stuck my hand under the Band Teacher's nose. "BTW, you always wear thongs?" I know for a fact I have never seen panty lines on the Band Teacher before.
"Almost always. When it's that time, I don't."
"That time? Oh! That's right, you use pads." I once had to help her shop for pads and depilatory creams. I still don't know why these feminine hygiene products come in strawberry and cream scents. Do women expect someone to eat... oh. Never mind.
"Yeah. I can't use tampons. My vaginal muscles are so well trained that I can tie the string into a bow and eject the tampon 20 feet all while I sleep." (She didn't say this. This is what my male brain heard.)
"I don't believe you without video. Did you try ping pong balls yet?"
Then I took her for a ride in the Yaris.
This car is a total chick magnet. They can't get enough of the spacious interior. The well thought out ergonomics. The energy conserving 1.5 liter four banger. The sensible styling. Bland, yet tasteful.
While in the car, I bemoaned the fact that I lack actors to help me make YouTube videos. I'm as ugly as dog poop, so if I am ever going to make videos, I need human-looking people. Unfortunately, I don't know anyone who both looks good and is willing to help. The Band Teacher said that Hawaii people aren't great actors. She does have a point. Everyone I know either sucks on screen or is too embarrassed to be of use. But then I remembered Mikey Inouye.
Mike Inouye has a very popular video blog on YouTube. I've watched several of his videos and he cracks me up. What makes it even better is that he collaborated with Abbegirl to make a few. Abbe is a pretty blonde.
"There you go with the blondes again. Are you into blondes?"
"I don't think I have a preference. The other day when I was passing the Shrimp Station," I point over my shoulder even though the Shrimp Station is seven miles away, "I saw a pretty black girl. I swear I couldn't stop looking. She was hot."
"Hey, that's cool that you don't care about race."
"Yeah. I think my only real criteria is that the girl has a vagina."
When we got back to my house it was time for the Band Teacher to leave. She wasn't sure if she would be able to return during the summer or if she would have to wait until next winter to come visit.
"The next time I come back, I'll show you another thong."
Me:
*********************
On December 29, I had to say goodbye to a dear companion. We had first met nearly 14 years ago. Back then I was really into rollerblading. It was through rollerblading that we met. Even after I stopped skating and moved on to other activities like diving and drag racing, my companion remained close by. Then when I started riding my motorcycle, my companion came with me on most of my rides.
However, because of age and a hard life, my companion no longer had any strength left. He couldn't stay up and he couldn't support me. I had no choice but to give my companion a dignified end.
Goodbye, socks. I will miss you.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Ears De Bergerac
"Hey, I was just naked, rubbing myself, when I thought of you. No, I was in the shower."
Ever answer a phone like that?
Today's topic is a play called Cyrano de Bergerac. Not many people around these parts have heard of it, so I figured I would give it some airtime on this unread blog. For the sake of those with goldfish attention spans, I'll use the Steve Martin Roxanne version. It's a modern retelling.
CD Barns (nice initials) is a quiet town fireman. He's smart, well read, clever, and an all-around nice guy. However, he has a huge nose.
Roxanne is an astronomer that comes to town. CD is smitten with her, but he doesn't disclose this fact because of his big nose.
Chris is a professional fireman the town hires to help out the volunteer squad. He's described as a handsome viking. He's as bright as a burnt match.
Roxanne is attracted to Chris' good looks, but she wants the brains to go with that. Greedy witch. So Chris enlists CD to be his writer. CD complies and eventually wins Roxanne's heart... for Chris.
Roxanne later finds out, arguments ensue, and then all is well at the end of the movie.
The funny thing is that I'm currently living a similar situation. Let me explain.
Ears is a college graduate and currently a middle school teacher. He writes pointless blogs. He's also ugly as sin.
Roxanne is a college student with an hourglass figure. She does not have a fat ass.
Rat is a guy who remains rather speechless around women, but is an all-around nice guy.
Now Rat and Roxanne has been corresponding via the intraweb for 279 days before they finally met face to face. The first meeting had Ear's helping hand. Starting to see the similarities?
One is loud and obnoxious. Conversation consists of stringing random words together and saying them loudly.
The other is a wallflower. Shy and demure.
Now if I can succeed in bringing them together and getting them to be good friends, then my mtb group can get a new person and my sportbike group can get a new person. We can all be one big happy family.
Some people reading this may think I'm meddling in the affairs of others. I'll have you know that it's true. heh.
Ever answer a phone like that?
Today's topic is a play called Cyrano de Bergerac. Not many people around these parts have heard of it, so I figured I would give it some airtime on this unread blog. For the sake of those with goldfish attention spans, I'll use the Steve Martin Roxanne version. It's a modern retelling.
CD Barns (nice initials) is a quiet town fireman. He's smart, well read, clever, and an all-around nice guy. However, he has a huge nose.
Roxanne is an astronomer that comes to town. CD is smitten with her, but he doesn't disclose this fact because of his big nose.
Chris is a professional fireman the town hires to help out the volunteer squad. He's described as a handsome viking. He's as bright as a burnt match.
Roxanne is attracted to Chris' good looks, but she wants the brains to go with that. Greedy witch. So Chris enlists CD to be his writer. CD complies and eventually wins Roxanne's heart... for Chris.
Roxanne later finds out, arguments ensue, and then all is well at the end of the movie.
The funny thing is that I'm currently living a similar situation. Let me explain.
Ears is a college graduate and currently a middle school teacher. He writes pointless blogs. He's also ugly as sin.
Roxanne is a college student with an hourglass figure. She does not have a fat ass.
Rat is a guy who remains rather speechless around women, but is an all-around nice guy.
Now Rat and Roxanne has been corresponding via the intraweb for 279 days before they finally met face to face. The first meeting had Ear's helping hand. Starting to see the similarities?
One is loud and obnoxious. Conversation consists of stringing random words together and saying them loudly.
The other is a wallflower. Shy and demure.
Now if I can succeed in bringing them together and getting them to be good friends, then my mtb group can get a new person and my sportbike group can get a new person. We can all be one big happy family.
Some people reading this may think I'm meddling in the affairs of others. I'll have you know that it's true. heh.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Twilight
Created a new sportbike video with Lorn, Lauren, and Fonto. I had originally planned to use Brimful of Asha for the soundtrack, but when I viewed the clips I had, I thought it went better to ELO's Twilight.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
The Authority Song
It’s been observed about me many times by many people that I have a problem with authority. However it’s only one problem and it was aptly summed up by my father. He said to me, “Son, you’re only problem with authority is its existence.” That pretty well says it all. The existence of authority bothers me.
Now I’m not a total anarchist. I recognize what I consider to be legitimate authorities. For example I still recognize my parent’s authority and my wife’s authority. As for the rest of it, however, it is subject to my scrutiny. In other words if I agree, I’ll submit. If I don’t, authority can go take a flying leap and I’ll tell authority as much.
This attitude has bought me some trouble in my life. It’s caused me to fight a few fights I probably should have just passed on, but it’s also put me in the right more often than not. I wouldn’t change it though. In my mind if I don’t question and challenge authority then I’m no better than another sheep with his head down following the herd.
It wasn’t always so. While I was growing up I was a follow the rules kind of guy. If I was told to do it by someone in authority I did it and I kept my mouth shut about it. Even if I knew something was stupid or foolish, it would never occur to me to say anything about it because they were authority and I wasn’t. That’s kind of sad eh? Well my friends that is exactly how ninety eight percent of the people live their lives; lives of quiet desperation as Thoreau put it. In fact it probably would not have changed for me if I hadn’t been blessed with a light at the end of the long tunnel, as it were.
Those of you who are long time readers can probably tell this is going to be an Uncle Scott story. For those of you who don’t know Uncle Scott is my one and only sibling. He got the moniker “Uncle Scott” when my first son was born and it fit so well it stuck. Uncle Scott is two years younger than me and he is as big and effervescent a personality as you’ll ever meet. Along with the devil’s own wit, charisma and charm came a mind that would make Socrates green with envy. As we were growing up if anyone wanted a thrill, a blast or a flat out good time, Uncle Scott was the guy to see. From sun up to sun down Uncle Scott was usually up to something fun and mischievous.
Authority never bothered Uncle Scott. In truth authority always seemed to be a good three steps behind him. If there was a rule he broke it. If something was forbidden he’d try it. If there was a limit he exceeded it. If there was a sacred cow he ate it. If there was an authority figure, he thumbed his nose at it. If someone baked cookies and said, “Don’t touch those” Uncle Scott would hook a cookie as soon as the person turned around. If they caught him taking it he’d tell them with a straight face that it fell off the plate and he was putting it back. The higher the pile of evidence against him the more insistent he got that he was wrongly accused. I swear even when he got punished the people who punished him were apologizing to him as they did it because he’d have them almost believing that they were making a mistake. Uncle Scott had a Teflon coating on him that would have made Bill Clinton proud.
It used to piss me off royal that my brother was just totally above authority. I would be there scrubbing behind my ears and cleaning my plate and it seemed like no matter what I did I always had trouble from authority. Uncle Scott openly flouted authority and was completely unconcerned with it. He just didn’t care what the neighbors thought. People had to beg him to follow the rules and when he did they would fall all over themselves to thank him and it no sooner came out of their mouths than he was once again telling them to kiss his hinder.
Let me stop here and get two things straight for the record. First there was no malice in my brother’s approach to life. He wasn’t out to be mean and he didn’t really have a purpose beyond having a good time. He honestly couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. If he dug it he did it and if he really dug it he did it twice. That’s all there ever was to it.
Second I confess that I was awfully jealous of him and his ability to do as he pleased whenever he wanted. In a lot of ways I still am jealous of him for that. However that doesn’t mean I didn’t love him or that I didn’t want to hang around him as much as possible. We had a great rapport and we were brothers, partners and friends to the end. Enough so that I even asked him once why he hated authority so much. Uncle Scott looked at me like I was crazy when I asked that question.
“I LOVE authority,” he told me earnestly. “It’s so predictable. It does exactly what I tell it to do. What’s not to love?”
I can’t say I understood what the hell he meant by that at the time. Truth be told if it wasn’t for the little incident that I’m about to relate to you I’d probably never have understood what he meant and been doomed to a life of quiet desperation. However thanks to the Great Fishing Hole Scam of 1989 all that changed for the better.
To say Uncle Scott and I lived different kinds of lives was a bit of an understatement. I was a nerd and Uncle Scott was as cool as the in crowd could come. However Uncle Scott never shied away from his nerdy older brother. In fact he went out of his way to confirm our relationship from time to time.
For instance until he moved away for school Uncle Scott always made it a point to go trout fishing with me on opening day of trout season every year. It was something we inherited from our father and his brother and we always went alone. After we fished we’d go get breakfast and just hang out together for the rest of the day. It was one of Uncle Scott’s public confirmation of the fact that we were brothers and he didn’t care who knew it. It seems Uncle Scott’s disregard for authority knew no bounds even to the point of being seen publicly enjoying himself with the uncool. He just didn’t care what his cool kid friends thought even when they were practically begging him to take them fishing instead of me. When they accused him of doing it just because we were brothers, he’d always laugh at them and tell them that they had me all wrong. I know from time to time it must have frustrated him that someone as cool as he was had such a decidedly uncool geek for an older brother, but he never rubbed my nose in it. Instead he just confined himself to every once in awhile asking me to lighten up a little. To this day it is still one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.
So every year we’d take our fishing trip and I was looking forward to the one in 1989. I was looking forward to it because that year I had found the best fishing hole in the state. I’d gotten some inside dope from a friend about where fish were stocked for the coming trout season and I’d located the perfect fishing hole not ten yards from one of the stocking spots. Uncle Scott and I were both almost guaranteed to catch our limit of five trout each before we had time to get cold. We were both excited.
Opening day came and we headed out to our fishing hole before dawn. We got in position, baited our hooks and waited for the sun to come up. Once the cold New England sun peeked over the horizon we both commenced casting and on the third cast Uncle Scott landed the first rainbow trout of the day. As he strung it on his stringer Uncle Scott and I were both smiling broadly knowing that the day’s catch would be epic.
Just about that time we got a nasty surprise. Another fisherman in chest waders came sloshing down the stream and wound up standing right in the middle of our carefully scouted fishing hole. Once he parked himself he quickly caught a fish. However due to his position in the middle of the small pool the stream formed, we couldn’t cast our lines or we’d hook him.
Now there is a bit of etiquette when it comes to small stream trout fishing. The first rule is be quiet or you’ll scare the fish. The second rule is whoever is at the spot first gets to fish there. The third rule is do not disturb your fellow fisherman’s fishing by wading in their pool. None of these rules are written down, but every angling sportsman is aware of them and for the most part abides by them. All except for this guy, it would seem.
Well sometimes a friendly reminder is all that is required. With that in mind Uncle Scott spoke up.
“Hey buddy,” he whispered over the stream. “Think you could move upstream or downstream just a bit? Just give us a little room to cast.”
The other fisherman reeled in another trout and snapped it to his stringer. Then he snapped his stringer to a tree branch that was dangling over the stream and cast his line again. He didn’t seem to hear Uncle Scott.
“Hey buddy,” Uncle Scott whispered a bit louder, but still keeping his voice down so as not to scare the fish. “Can you give us a little room to cast here?”
The other fisherman hauled in another fish and as he snapped it to his stringer he glared at Uncle Scott. Obviously he heard Uncle Scott, but maybe he didn’t understand.
“Hey buddy,” Uncle Scott began a third time, just a touch louder.
“Screw you, bub,” came the answer before Uncle Scott could repeat his question.
Uncle Scott, much to his credit, kept his cool in the face of this slightly rude response. He tried tact again, this time appealing to the guy’s sense of fair play.
“Bud, we were here first, but we don’t mind sharing. Just give us a little room.”
The other fisherman hauled in another trout and snapped it to his stringer pausing just long enough to give us the finger. Apparently he didn’t care what we thought.
“Come on now,” continued Uncle Scott. “That’s not called for. Just give us a break.”
“Why don’t you guys f*** off?” said the fisherman getting indignant. “Whatcha gonna do? Call a cop?”
At this time I was pretty much resigned to the fact that our fishing trip was pretty much ruined. This guy wasn’t moving for anything and once he caught his limit he’d wade out taking care to scare off all the fish remaining. I was pissed, but what was there to do? I reeled in my line and sat down on the bank dejectedly.
“Let’s go,” I whispered to Uncle Scott. “Got to be more fishing holes around here somewhere.”
Uncle Scott kept his eyes on the other fisherman.
“Just a few more casts,” Uncle Scott whispered back.
I shrugged. It wasn’t any use with the guy standing in the middle of the pool, but it was Uncle Scott’s prerogative if he didn’t want to give up. I lay back on the bank, pillowed my head on my hands and stared up at the cold pale blue spring sky while I waited.
A few minutes went by. I can’t be sure how long because I dozed off. I woke up to a gentle nudge from the toe of Uncle Scott’s boot.
“I hooked something on the other side of the creek,” Uncle Scott whispered to me. “Hold my rod while I go across and get it loose. I don’t want to lose that spoon.”
I stood up and held Uncle Scott’s fishing pole. This didn’t strike me as odd. Uncle Scott favored expensive Rooster Tail lures and didn’t like to lose them. Uncle Scott headed upstream to a road bridge running over the stream so he could cross the stream without getting wet. Meanwhile I kept staring up at the sky and waiting. After a few minutes I heard Uncle Scott calling me from the other side of the stream.
“I think it’s loose,” he whispered to me.
I tugged a bit, but the line didn’t move. I put a little more tension on the line, but nothing happened.
“Just give it a good yank,” Uncle Scott whispered.
I shrugged, put my pole down on the bank and proceeded to give Uncle Scott’s line a sharp tug. The lure broke loose from whatever was holding it and came sailing back towards me landing sedately on the tip of my boot. It was then I noticed that the hook had a rather large patch of green rubber on it. I had just enough time to think to myself.
“Hey, that looks like …”
“WHAT THE F*** ARE YOU DOING?”
I looked up from my boot and there in the middle of the stream with a look on his face that would kill was the other fisherman.
“YOU LITTLE BAST ...!” he sputtered with rage. “YOU JUST TORE A CHUNK OUT OF MY WADERS!”
Now I freely admit that when he said this I burst out laughing. I don’t know why. It just came out. Maybe it was nervous laughter, but something about the situation was just so comical that I couldn’t stop from laughing out loud. Something about the idea that his waders were now filling up with water due to the hole in them was funny to me, especially since it was a nice chilly spring day in New England. Perhaps it was just my innate sense of poetic justice.
“I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS!” roared the fisherman and he began to gamely slog towards the bank dragging his right leg due to the added weight of water pouring into that side of his waders.
I burst out with renewed laughter as he staggered towards me. It was easy to see he was pissed enough to try and whip me, but it was also easy to see he’d never catch me with his boots full of water. Still the practical side of me determined that it was time to get lost rather than find out if this guy could fight with limited mobility. I scooped up my fishing pole and took off running down the bank still giggling like a hyena although I still couldn’t tell you why I was laughing. This guy obviously intended to try and beat my ass if he could catch me. I decided not to take a chance and got up a good stride towards the car. I figured Uncle Scott would meet me there and we’d leave old one step to rage at the tail lights.
I was just about back to the car when I got a second nasty surprise. I ran smack into a game warden that was headed the other direction. For those of you who don’t know a game warden is like a police officer for hunters and fishermen. The game warden enforces the written rules regarding fishing such as bag limits and hunting hours. Run afoul of the gaming laws and Mr. Game Warden will show up and write you a big fat ticket. I slowed down hoping he didn’t see me, but he did.
“Hold on there, son,” he called to me. “Where you going in such a hurry?”
I froze in place pondering just what to say. How was I going to explain that I’d just ripped a chunk out of another fisherman’s waders and I was running away? I was pretty sure hooking someone else’s waders wasn’t a crime, but it would probably get me thrown out of this particular stretch of stream for a long time just to keep the peace. However I had to answer. So I did what every law abiding citizen does when confronted by authority. I stuttered.
“Well I was … ummmm … you see … I was … ummmmm.”
The game warden looked at me intently. I could tell he was thinking, “This should be good” as he took out his ticket book. I continued to fumble around for a start to my story and the game warden waited patiently. Just then the other fisherman burst into the clearing.
“THERE YOU ARE!” he roared at me.
Both the game warden and I turned to look at him and I burst out laughing once again. The other fisherman was standing there panting with rage and exhaustion having chased me up the bank and water was spouting out of an inch wide hole in his right wader boot. Once again I’m not sure why I was laughing but something about it was just damn funny at that time. The game warden shot me a curious glance and that made me laugh even harder. I felt a tear of mirth roll out of my right eye, and no matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t quit laughing. The game warden opened his mouth to speak again and that’s when the next surprise happened.
Uncle Scott burst into the clearing holding up a stringer with six fish on it. He glanced at me quizzically because I was still laughing uncontrollably and then Uncle Scott unleashed a masterpiece.
“Officer, I’m glad you’re here!” began Uncle Scott earnestly. “My brother and I were fishing down there and this guy here (Uncle Scott pointed at the other fisherman like he was something that crawled out of a sewer pipe) was bragging how he was catching so many fish and that he was going to take more than his limit! Look at his stringer! It’s got six fish on it and we’re only allowed to take five!”
Uncle Scott paused while the game warden stared at the stringer of six fish. Then Uncle Scott pointed at me.
“My brother said he was going to tell a game warden and this guy started chasing him and said he was going to beat my brother up if he told! That’s why my brother was running!”
For a few seconds the game warden only stared, and then he turned to me.
“Is that so?”
Immediately I stopped laughing. I was being questioned by authority and that meant I had to respond and respond with the truth. My mouth opened automatically.
“Well ….”
I looked around for the next words. As I did my eyes locked with Uncle Scott’s and I saw him plead with me to lighten up, just for once.
“Yes sir, that’s just what happened.”
For a moment everyone just stared at me. Uncle Scott’s mouth opened, probably in amazement, and then he closed it as I went on.
“Yeah, I saw him catch about eight fish, officer. He was catching them and measuring them and throwing the smallest ones away. Then he just said, ‘Aww screw it. I’ll just keep them all. Who will know anyway?’ That’s when I told him that I’d report him and he threatened to kick my ass if I told. He even started towards me and that’s why I ran.”
I stole a glance at Uncle Scott and I could see a small smile stealing across his face.
“WHAT?” screamed the other fisherman indignantly. “HE MADE THAT UP!”
“No I didn’t!” I shot back vehemently. “Ask him if that’s his stringer, officer! Ask him!”
The game warden obliged.
“Is this your stringer?”
The other fisherman stared for a minute. Before he could answer I held up my empty stringer to show him that the one my brother held wasn’t mine. Following my lead Uncle Scott held up his stringer … which was now empty of fish. I stumbled for a moment recalling my brother snapping our lone fish on his stringer, but then I got my balance back.
“Admit that’s your stringer!” I yelled at the now red faced fisherman. “Admit it!”
The fisherman stood stock still for a minute.
“Well that’s my stringer, but I only caught five fish!” He protested. “I only took the limit!”
The game warden’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Your stringer has six fish on it, sir,” he told the fisherman matter of factly.
The fisherman was rocked but played his best card.
“THAT LITTLE PUNK HOOKED MY WADER AND TORE A CHUNK OUT OF IT! LOOK! THEY MADE ALL THIS UP BECAUSE THEY WANTED TO FISH IN MY PLACE AND I TOLD THEM NO!”
Everyone looked at the hole in the fisherman’s wader. All of the water had drained from his boot now and the inch wide hole was there for everyone to see.
“Oh, you ripped your waders jumping that barbed wire fence back there when you said you’d beat me up!” I countered quickly. “And we didn’t make this up! Your stringer has six fish on it! How else could six fish get on your stringer if you didn’t put them there?”
“He must have done it!” the fisherman spat pointing at Uncle Scott. “He must have put another fish on there!”
“Are you calling my brother a liar?” I snarled taking a step towards the fisherman. “Because that’s what it sounds like to me! You’ve got six fish and you got caught by the game warden with six fish on your stringer and now you’re making up stories to try and get out of trouble!”
The fisherman opened his mouth, but the game warden seemed to have heard enough.
“I’ll need to see your fishing license and your driver’s license, sir,” the game warden told the fisherman flipping open his ticket book. “I hope you like that sixth fish because it’s going to cost you about two hundred and fifty dollars.”
Then the game warden turned and looked at me.
“So help me God, that’s what happened, Officer. All I want to do is help enforce the gaming laws. Those laws are in place for a good reason.”
The game warden stared for a minute and then nodded a small smirk at me.
“Sure. Say, why don’t you and your brother get on out of here. Maybe get some breakfast. Just take it slow and have a nice day.
“You too, officer.”
My brother and I walked quickly to the car and stowed our fishing tackle in the trunk. Then we piled in the car and I fired up the engine, shifted into drive and started us on down the road towards a diner for breakfast. My brother took a good solid look at me and a smile played on his lips.
“What?” I asked him innocently.
“Didn’t know you had that much bull in you,” he said and his eyes showed a new bit of respect. “You were lying like a carpet. I gave you the ball and you scored a BS touchdown.”
I looked at my brother incredulously and then I smirked.
“I told that officer the honest to goodness truth! One hundred and ten percent pure and unadulterated! I’m offended my own brother would ever question my integrity like that! By the way brother of mine, where is your fish anyway?”
Now it was Uncle Scott’s turn to smirk.
“Oh, I turned him loose. He looked too boney.”
“Oh, really?”
“I smiled at my brother. Uncle Scott smiled back and held up two fingers.
“Scout’s honor.”
That, my friends, is the story of the Great Fishing Hole Scam of 1989 and the start of my little problem with authority. To my brother I give the famous wink with a nod that has passed between us more times than I could count as a sign of our bond of brotherhood and friendship. To the fisherman I say karma is a fish, so be careful about what you reel in. And to authority I say, “they went that-a-way.”
Now I’m not a total anarchist. I recognize what I consider to be legitimate authorities. For example I still recognize my parent’s authority and my wife’s authority. As for the rest of it, however, it is subject to my scrutiny. In other words if I agree, I’ll submit. If I don’t, authority can go take a flying leap and I’ll tell authority as much.
This attitude has bought me some trouble in my life. It’s caused me to fight a few fights I probably should have just passed on, but it’s also put me in the right more often than not. I wouldn’t change it though. In my mind if I don’t question and challenge authority then I’m no better than another sheep with his head down following the herd.
It wasn’t always so. While I was growing up I was a follow the rules kind of guy. If I was told to do it by someone in authority I did it and I kept my mouth shut about it. Even if I knew something was stupid or foolish, it would never occur to me to say anything about it because they were authority and I wasn’t. That’s kind of sad eh? Well my friends that is exactly how ninety eight percent of the people live their lives; lives of quiet desperation as Thoreau put it. In fact it probably would not have changed for me if I hadn’t been blessed with a light at the end of the long tunnel, as it were.
Those of you who are long time readers can probably tell this is going to be an Uncle Scott story. For those of you who don’t know Uncle Scott is my one and only sibling. He got the moniker “Uncle Scott” when my first son was born and it fit so well it stuck. Uncle Scott is two years younger than me and he is as big and effervescent a personality as you’ll ever meet. Along with the devil’s own wit, charisma and charm came a mind that would make Socrates green with envy. As we were growing up if anyone wanted a thrill, a blast or a flat out good time, Uncle Scott was the guy to see. From sun up to sun down Uncle Scott was usually up to something fun and mischievous.
Authority never bothered Uncle Scott. In truth authority always seemed to be a good three steps behind him. If there was a rule he broke it. If something was forbidden he’d try it. If there was a limit he exceeded it. If there was a sacred cow he ate it. If there was an authority figure, he thumbed his nose at it. If someone baked cookies and said, “Don’t touch those” Uncle Scott would hook a cookie as soon as the person turned around. If they caught him taking it he’d tell them with a straight face that it fell off the plate and he was putting it back. The higher the pile of evidence against him the more insistent he got that he was wrongly accused. I swear even when he got punished the people who punished him were apologizing to him as they did it because he’d have them almost believing that they were making a mistake. Uncle Scott had a Teflon coating on him that would have made Bill Clinton proud.
It used to piss me off royal that my brother was just totally above authority. I would be there scrubbing behind my ears and cleaning my plate and it seemed like no matter what I did I always had trouble from authority. Uncle Scott openly flouted authority and was completely unconcerned with it. He just didn’t care what the neighbors thought. People had to beg him to follow the rules and when he did they would fall all over themselves to thank him and it no sooner came out of their mouths than he was once again telling them to kiss his hinder.
Let me stop here and get two things straight for the record. First there was no malice in my brother’s approach to life. He wasn’t out to be mean and he didn’t really have a purpose beyond having a good time. He honestly couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. If he dug it he did it and if he really dug it he did it twice. That’s all there ever was to it.
Second I confess that I was awfully jealous of him and his ability to do as he pleased whenever he wanted. In a lot of ways I still am jealous of him for that. However that doesn’t mean I didn’t love him or that I didn’t want to hang around him as much as possible. We had a great rapport and we were brothers, partners and friends to the end. Enough so that I even asked him once why he hated authority so much. Uncle Scott looked at me like I was crazy when I asked that question.
“I LOVE authority,” he told me earnestly. “It’s so predictable. It does exactly what I tell it to do. What’s not to love?”
I can’t say I understood what the hell he meant by that at the time. Truth be told if it wasn’t for the little incident that I’m about to relate to you I’d probably never have understood what he meant and been doomed to a life of quiet desperation. However thanks to the Great Fishing Hole Scam of 1989 all that changed for the better.
To say Uncle Scott and I lived different kinds of lives was a bit of an understatement. I was a nerd and Uncle Scott was as cool as the in crowd could come. However Uncle Scott never shied away from his nerdy older brother. In fact he went out of his way to confirm our relationship from time to time.
For instance until he moved away for school Uncle Scott always made it a point to go trout fishing with me on opening day of trout season every year. It was something we inherited from our father and his brother and we always went alone. After we fished we’d go get breakfast and just hang out together for the rest of the day. It was one of Uncle Scott’s public confirmation of the fact that we were brothers and he didn’t care who knew it. It seems Uncle Scott’s disregard for authority knew no bounds even to the point of being seen publicly enjoying himself with the uncool. He just didn’t care what his cool kid friends thought even when they were practically begging him to take them fishing instead of me. When they accused him of doing it just because we were brothers, he’d always laugh at them and tell them that they had me all wrong. I know from time to time it must have frustrated him that someone as cool as he was had such a decidedly uncool geek for an older brother, but he never rubbed my nose in it. Instead he just confined himself to every once in awhile asking me to lighten up a little. To this day it is still one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.
So every year we’d take our fishing trip and I was looking forward to the one in 1989. I was looking forward to it because that year I had found the best fishing hole in the state. I’d gotten some inside dope from a friend about where fish were stocked for the coming trout season and I’d located the perfect fishing hole not ten yards from one of the stocking spots. Uncle Scott and I were both almost guaranteed to catch our limit of five trout each before we had time to get cold. We were both excited.
Opening day came and we headed out to our fishing hole before dawn. We got in position, baited our hooks and waited for the sun to come up. Once the cold New England sun peeked over the horizon we both commenced casting and on the third cast Uncle Scott landed the first rainbow trout of the day. As he strung it on his stringer Uncle Scott and I were both smiling broadly knowing that the day’s catch would be epic.
Just about that time we got a nasty surprise. Another fisherman in chest waders came sloshing down the stream and wound up standing right in the middle of our carefully scouted fishing hole. Once he parked himself he quickly caught a fish. However due to his position in the middle of the small pool the stream formed, we couldn’t cast our lines or we’d hook him.
Now there is a bit of etiquette when it comes to small stream trout fishing. The first rule is be quiet or you’ll scare the fish. The second rule is whoever is at the spot first gets to fish there. The third rule is do not disturb your fellow fisherman’s fishing by wading in their pool. None of these rules are written down, but every angling sportsman is aware of them and for the most part abides by them. All except for this guy, it would seem.
Well sometimes a friendly reminder is all that is required. With that in mind Uncle Scott spoke up.
“Hey buddy,” he whispered over the stream. “Think you could move upstream or downstream just a bit? Just give us a little room to cast.”
The other fisherman reeled in another trout and snapped it to his stringer. Then he snapped his stringer to a tree branch that was dangling over the stream and cast his line again. He didn’t seem to hear Uncle Scott.
“Hey buddy,” Uncle Scott whispered a bit louder, but still keeping his voice down so as not to scare the fish. “Can you give us a little room to cast here?”
The other fisherman hauled in another fish and as he snapped it to his stringer he glared at Uncle Scott. Obviously he heard Uncle Scott, but maybe he didn’t understand.
“Hey buddy,” Uncle Scott began a third time, just a touch louder.
“Screw you, bub,” came the answer before Uncle Scott could repeat his question.
Uncle Scott, much to his credit, kept his cool in the face of this slightly rude response. He tried tact again, this time appealing to the guy’s sense of fair play.
“Bud, we were here first, but we don’t mind sharing. Just give us a little room.”
The other fisherman hauled in another trout and snapped it to his stringer pausing just long enough to give us the finger. Apparently he didn’t care what we thought.
“Come on now,” continued Uncle Scott. “That’s not called for. Just give us a break.”
“Why don’t you guys f*** off?” said the fisherman getting indignant. “Whatcha gonna do? Call a cop?”
At this time I was pretty much resigned to the fact that our fishing trip was pretty much ruined. This guy wasn’t moving for anything and once he caught his limit he’d wade out taking care to scare off all the fish remaining. I was pissed, but what was there to do? I reeled in my line and sat down on the bank dejectedly.
“Let’s go,” I whispered to Uncle Scott. “Got to be more fishing holes around here somewhere.”
Uncle Scott kept his eyes on the other fisherman.
“Just a few more casts,” Uncle Scott whispered back.
I shrugged. It wasn’t any use with the guy standing in the middle of the pool, but it was Uncle Scott’s prerogative if he didn’t want to give up. I lay back on the bank, pillowed my head on my hands and stared up at the cold pale blue spring sky while I waited.
A few minutes went by. I can’t be sure how long because I dozed off. I woke up to a gentle nudge from the toe of Uncle Scott’s boot.
“I hooked something on the other side of the creek,” Uncle Scott whispered to me. “Hold my rod while I go across and get it loose. I don’t want to lose that spoon.”
I stood up and held Uncle Scott’s fishing pole. This didn’t strike me as odd. Uncle Scott favored expensive Rooster Tail lures and didn’t like to lose them. Uncle Scott headed upstream to a road bridge running over the stream so he could cross the stream without getting wet. Meanwhile I kept staring up at the sky and waiting. After a few minutes I heard Uncle Scott calling me from the other side of the stream.
“I think it’s loose,” he whispered to me.
I tugged a bit, but the line didn’t move. I put a little more tension on the line, but nothing happened.
“Just give it a good yank,” Uncle Scott whispered.
I shrugged, put my pole down on the bank and proceeded to give Uncle Scott’s line a sharp tug. The lure broke loose from whatever was holding it and came sailing back towards me landing sedately on the tip of my boot. It was then I noticed that the hook had a rather large patch of green rubber on it. I had just enough time to think to myself.
“Hey, that looks like …”
“WHAT THE F*** ARE YOU DOING?”
I looked up from my boot and there in the middle of the stream with a look on his face that would kill was the other fisherman.
“YOU LITTLE BAST ...!” he sputtered with rage. “YOU JUST TORE A CHUNK OUT OF MY WADERS!”
Now I freely admit that when he said this I burst out laughing. I don’t know why. It just came out. Maybe it was nervous laughter, but something about the situation was just so comical that I couldn’t stop from laughing out loud. Something about the idea that his waders were now filling up with water due to the hole in them was funny to me, especially since it was a nice chilly spring day in New England. Perhaps it was just my innate sense of poetic justice.
“I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS!” roared the fisherman and he began to gamely slog towards the bank dragging his right leg due to the added weight of water pouring into that side of his waders.
I burst out with renewed laughter as he staggered towards me. It was easy to see he was pissed enough to try and whip me, but it was also easy to see he’d never catch me with his boots full of water. Still the practical side of me determined that it was time to get lost rather than find out if this guy could fight with limited mobility. I scooped up my fishing pole and took off running down the bank still giggling like a hyena although I still couldn’t tell you why I was laughing. This guy obviously intended to try and beat my ass if he could catch me. I decided not to take a chance and got up a good stride towards the car. I figured Uncle Scott would meet me there and we’d leave old one step to rage at the tail lights.
I was just about back to the car when I got a second nasty surprise. I ran smack into a game warden that was headed the other direction. For those of you who don’t know a game warden is like a police officer for hunters and fishermen. The game warden enforces the written rules regarding fishing such as bag limits and hunting hours. Run afoul of the gaming laws and Mr. Game Warden will show up and write you a big fat ticket. I slowed down hoping he didn’t see me, but he did.
“Hold on there, son,” he called to me. “Where you going in such a hurry?”
I froze in place pondering just what to say. How was I going to explain that I’d just ripped a chunk out of another fisherman’s waders and I was running away? I was pretty sure hooking someone else’s waders wasn’t a crime, but it would probably get me thrown out of this particular stretch of stream for a long time just to keep the peace. However I had to answer. So I did what every law abiding citizen does when confronted by authority. I stuttered.
“Well I was … ummmm … you see … I was … ummmmm.”
The game warden looked at me intently. I could tell he was thinking, “This should be good” as he took out his ticket book. I continued to fumble around for a start to my story and the game warden waited patiently. Just then the other fisherman burst into the clearing.
“THERE YOU ARE!” he roared at me.
Both the game warden and I turned to look at him and I burst out laughing once again. The other fisherman was standing there panting with rage and exhaustion having chased me up the bank and water was spouting out of an inch wide hole in his right wader boot. Once again I’m not sure why I was laughing but something about it was just damn funny at that time. The game warden shot me a curious glance and that made me laugh even harder. I felt a tear of mirth roll out of my right eye, and no matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t quit laughing. The game warden opened his mouth to speak again and that’s when the next surprise happened.
Uncle Scott burst into the clearing holding up a stringer with six fish on it. He glanced at me quizzically because I was still laughing uncontrollably and then Uncle Scott unleashed a masterpiece.
“Officer, I’m glad you’re here!” began Uncle Scott earnestly. “My brother and I were fishing down there and this guy here (Uncle Scott pointed at the other fisherman like he was something that crawled out of a sewer pipe) was bragging how he was catching so many fish and that he was going to take more than his limit! Look at his stringer! It’s got six fish on it and we’re only allowed to take five!”
Uncle Scott paused while the game warden stared at the stringer of six fish. Then Uncle Scott pointed at me.
“My brother said he was going to tell a game warden and this guy started chasing him and said he was going to beat my brother up if he told! That’s why my brother was running!”
For a few seconds the game warden only stared, and then he turned to me.
“Is that so?”
Immediately I stopped laughing. I was being questioned by authority and that meant I had to respond and respond with the truth. My mouth opened automatically.
“Well ….”
I looked around for the next words. As I did my eyes locked with Uncle Scott’s and I saw him plead with me to lighten up, just for once.
“Yes sir, that’s just what happened.”
For a moment everyone just stared at me. Uncle Scott’s mouth opened, probably in amazement, and then he closed it as I went on.
“Yeah, I saw him catch about eight fish, officer. He was catching them and measuring them and throwing the smallest ones away. Then he just said, ‘Aww screw it. I’ll just keep them all. Who will know anyway?’ That’s when I told him that I’d report him and he threatened to kick my ass if I told. He even started towards me and that’s why I ran.”
I stole a glance at Uncle Scott and I could see a small smile stealing across his face.
“WHAT?” screamed the other fisherman indignantly. “HE MADE THAT UP!”
“No I didn’t!” I shot back vehemently. “Ask him if that’s his stringer, officer! Ask him!”
The game warden obliged.
“Is this your stringer?”
The other fisherman stared for a minute. Before he could answer I held up my empty stringer to show him that the one my brother held wasn’t mine. Following my lead Uncle Scott held up his stringer … which was now empty of fish. I stumbled for a moment recalling my brother snapping our lone fish on his stringer, but then I got my balance back.
“Admit that’s your stringer!” I yelled at the now red faced fisherman. “Admit it!”
The fisherman stood stock still for a minute.
“Well that’s my stringer, but I only caught five fish!” He protested. “I only took the limit!”
The game warden’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Your stringer has six fish on it, sir,” he told the fisherman matter of factly.
The fisherman was rocked but played his best card.
“THAT LITTLE PUNK HOOKED MY WADER AND TORE A CHUNK OUT OF IT! LOOK! THEY MADE ALL THIS UP BECAUSE THEY WANTED TO FISH IN MY PLACE AND I TOLD THEM NO!”
Everyone looked at the hole in the fisherman’s wader. All of the water had drained from his boot now and the inch wide hole was there for everyone to see.
“Oh, you ripped your waders jumping that barbed wire fence back there when you said you’d beat me up!” I countered quickly. “And we didn’t make this up! Your stringer has six fish on it! How else could six fish get on your stringer if you didn’t put them there?”
“He must have done it!” the fisherman spat pointing at Uncle Scott. “He must have put another fish on there!”
“Are you calling my brother a liar?” I snarled taking a step towards the fisherman. “Because that’s what it sounds like to me! You’ve got six fish and you got caught by the game warden with six fish on your stringer and now you’re making up stories to try and get out of trouble!”
The fisherman opened his mouth, but the game warden seemed to have heard enough.
“I’ll need to see your fishing license and your driver’s license, sir,” the game warden told the fisherman flipping open his ticket book. “I hope you like that sixth fish because it’s going to cost you about two hundred and fifty dollars.”
Then the game warden turned and looked at me.
“So help me God, that’s what happened, Officer. All I want to do is help enforce the gaming laws. Those laws are in place for a good reason.”
The game warden stared for a minute and then nodded a small smirk at me.
“Sure. Say, why don’t you and your brother get on out of here. Maybe get some breakfast. Just take it slow and have a nice day.
“You too, officer.”
My brother and I walked quickly to the car and stowed our fishing tackle in the trunk. Then we piled in the car and I fired up the engine, shifted into drive and started us on down the road towards a diner for breakfast. My brother took a good solid look at me and a smile played on his lips.
“What?” I asked him innocently.
“Didn’t know you had that much bull in you,” he said and his eyes showed a new bit of respect. “You were lying like a carpet. I gave you the ball and you scored a BS touchdown.”
I looked at my brother incredulously and then I smirked.
“I told that officer the honest to goodness truth! One hundred and ten percent pure and unadulterated! I’m offended my own brother would ever question my integrity like that! By the way brother of mine, where is your fish anyway?”
Now it was Uncle Scott’s turn to smirk.
“Oh, I turned him loose. He looked too boney.”
“Oh, really?”
“I smiled at my brother. Uncle Scott smiled back and held up two fingers.
“Scout’s honor.”
That, my friends, is the story of the Great Fishing Hole Scam of 1989 and the start of my little problem with authority. To my brother I give the famous wink with a nod that has passed between us more times than I could count as a sign of our bond of brotherhood and friendship. To the fisherman I say karma is a fish, so be careful about what you reel in. And to authority I say, “they went that-a-way.”
Saturday, December 2, 2006
V: The Eastern Unintelligentsia
I was driving home after a bike ride and out of the blue, I remembered V.
V might be considered one of the early unintelligentsia. I met her when I was in college in Hilo.
This girl was a major firecracker.
Not only was she really good looking, but she was also funny, and had
great self esteem. She did what she felt like doing and if people
didn't like it, too bad. I don't recall her ever saying anything
negative about another person other than those who tried to make fun of
her. Instead of getting you to laugh at people, she made you laugh with
her. This made her immensely likable, and we used to look forward to
her visits.
She loved acting. I guess it comes naturally when
one is an extrovert. However, she really did enjoy it. She used to try
and get us to go watch her in various plays, but since we were "above"
going to plays, I never did get to see her act. I kick myself now.
Now because she loved acting, she loved being on film. One day she came over and we did an impromptu photo shoot. My roommate put her in various wrestling holds while I snapped off a few shots. It's frikking hilarious when your 6 foot tall roommate has a 5 foot tall girl in a headlock or in a suplex.
And the girl played along and loved it. Unfortunately I don't have
those pictures anymore. They were stored on 3.5" floppy disks. Remember
those?
V was also generous with her things. She once let my roommate her car for a day. It was an older Nissan Sentra
(but it wasn't old back then), filled with the requisite items of the
typical female car. She had two pairs of shoes, several shirts, a
couple of shorts, and an odd number of socks. My memory is fuzzy, but I
think I remember something like panties or bikinis.
So my roomie left for the day. V came over in the evening, and my roomie returned. V went outside to get in her car...
"How did my four door become a two door?"
My roommate was the stereotypical clueless surfer dude. He just hopped in the first Sentra
that looked like V's car and drove off. The weird thing was that the
key actually worked! They returned the car to a bewildered parking lot
wanderer.
Like some other unintelligentsia, V would take breaks
from hair removal duties. She too would allow her legs to grow a fine
coat. Even worse, V would take it one step further. Not only would she
show her prickly legs to us, but she would insist, nay force, us to
touch them. Touch them we did. We were forced into running our hands
across her stubbled shins and calves. It was an experience on the order
of a car wreck. We knew it was bad and disgusting, but we could not
stop from getting more.
Now V wasn't just all humor and
acting. She could give a guy a major case of blue-balls if she wanted.
Like the time she came to visit wearing some loose fitting soccer
shorts. She sprawled out on the couch and discussed her underwear
habits. Mainly, how she rarely wore them. Those satineque shorts
revealed a lot, but not enough. I'm sure it was obvious where our eyes
were, but V didn't care. That's just how she was. She knew college guys
want to look, and she just saw it as a fact of life. Not a huge
production for her.
And don't get me started on AOL. AOL used to be the number one internet
craze at the time. I had an account, and V wanted to try out the chat.
Of course, with V, nothing was normal. Imagine being a college male
with a hot female seated right next to you. Now imagine the female is
online describing her fellatio techniques. Yeah, you get the picture.
But even V sometimes needed help. There was one night when it was raining cats and dogs, which is normal for Hilo,
when she called asking for a ride. My roommate was either too drunk or
stoned to comprehend the message, so I hopped in my truck to go pick
her up. When I found her at the 7-11, she was soaked to the bone. She
had an argument with her boyfriend, and he kicked her out of his house.
She had to walk several blocks through the downpour to the payphone to
call for a ride. This was the era before the widespread use of
cellphones. I don't think she let the breakup set her back though. She
was back on her feet in a few days. She always had a tough personality.
I do thank Hilo for being cold enough to prevent any thoughts of sleeping in the nude. On more than one occasion,
V burst into my room before noon to wake me up. What was a surprising
and funny situation could have easily become a source embarrassment. I wasn't used to locking my room door when the house doors were locked.
So V, thanks for being one hell of an entertaining human being. You made some otherwise boring college days a bit more fun.
V might be considered one of the early unintelligentsia. I met her when I was in college in Hilo.
This girl was a major firecracker.
Not only was she really good looking, but she was also funny, and had
great self esteem. She did what she felt like doing and if people
didn't like it, too bad. I don't recall her ever saying anything
negative about another person other than those who tried to make fun of
her. Instead of getting you to laugh at people, she made you laugh with
her. This made her immensely likable, and we used to look forward to
her visits.
She loved acting. I guess it comes naturally when
one is an extrovert. However, she really did enjoy it. She used to try
and get us to go watch her in various plays, but since we were "above"
going to plays, I never did get to see her act. I kick myself now.
Now because she loved acting, she loved being on film. One day she came over and we did an impromptu photo shoot. My roommate put her in various wrestling holds while I snapped off a few shots. It's frikking hilarious when your 6 foot tall roommate has a 5 foot tall girl in a headlock or in a suplex.
And the girl played along and loved it. Unfortunately I don't have
those pictures anymore. They were stored on 3.5" floppy disks. Remember
those?
V was also generous with her things. She once let my roommate her car for a day. It was an older Nissan Sentra
(but it wasn't old back then), filled with the requisite items of the
typical female car. She had two pairs of shoes, several shirts, a
couple of shorts, and an odd number of socks. My memory is fuzzy, but I
think I remember something like panties or bikinis.
So my roomie left for the day. V came over in the evening, and my roomie returned. V went outside to get in her car...
"How did my four door become a two door?"
My roommate was the stereotypical clueless surfer dude. He just hopped in the first Sentra
that looked like V's car and drove off. The weird thing was that the
key actually worked! They returned the car to a bewildered parking lot
wanderer.
Like some other unintelligentsia, V would take breaks
from hair removal duties. She too would allow her legs to grow a fine
coat. Even worse, V would take it one step further. Not only would she
show her prickly legs to us, but she would insist, nay force, us to
touch them. Touch them we did. We were forced into running our hands
across her stubbled shins and calves. It was an experience on the order
of a car wreck. We knew it was bad and disgusting, but we could not
stop from getting more.
Now V wasn't just all humor and
acting. She could give a guy a major case of blue-balls if she wanted.
Like the time she came to visit wearing some loose fitting soccer
shorts. She sprawled out on the couch and discussed her underwear
habits. Mainly, how she rarely wore them. Those satineque shorts
revealed a lot, but not enough. I'm sure it was obvious where our eyes
were, but V didn't care. That's just how she was. She knew college guys
want to look, and she just saw it as a fact of life. Not a huge
production for her.
And don't get me started on AOL. AOL used to be the number one internet
craze at the time. I had an account, and V wanted to try out the chat.
Of course, with V, nothing was normal. Imagine being a college male
with a hot female seated right next to you. Now imagine the female is
online describing her fellatio techniques. Yeah, you get the picture.
But even V sometimes needed help. There was one night when it was raining cats and dogs, which is normal for Hilo,
when she called asking for a ride. My roommate was either too drunk or
stoned to comprehend the message, so I hopped in my truck to go pick
her up. When I found her at the 7-11, she was soaked to the bone. She
had an argument with her boyfriend, and he kicked her out of his house.
She had to walk several blocks through the downpour to the payphone to
call for a ride. This was the era before the widespread use of
cellphones. I don't think she let the breakup set her back though. She
was back on her feet in a few days. She always had a tough personality.
I do thank Hilo for being cold enough to prevent any thoughts of sleeping in the nude. On more than one occasion,
V burst into my room before noon to wake me up. What was a surprising
and funny situation could have easily become a source embarrassment. I wasn't used to locking my room door when the house doors were locked.
So V, thanks for being one hell of an entertaining human being. You made some otherwise boring college days a bit more fun.
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