Sounds of the Road

           White lines. Yellow lines. No lines. I follow the roads west. West! Down highways, byways, and thoroughfares. West! Down frontage roads, forgotten routes, and small town Main Streets. West! The most optimistic of all directions. West! Because that’s where the sun sets. Where stars are born. Where rebels, jokers, wildcards, and misfits search for a bigger, brighter, and bolder tomorrow. West! Into the glare. Against the wind. Towards the unknown. West! Because, where else is there to go?

            I’m searching for something. Something that I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe peace? Maybe quiet? Maybe peace and quiet. And I take to the roads to find it. Always skirting the cities when I can. I stay away from those racket factories, with their squeals and screeches and crashers and clamor. Those noise machines, with their rattles and rumbles and clinkers and clanks. Those quiet killers, who are persistently polluting the air with their blasts and bangs and bursts and blows…

            And so, I stick to the country roads, rural and empty, oftentimes forgotten, the lonelier the better. I ride through a land they call Montana, where the sky is big, and the mountains tear out of the earth, sharp and jagged, like sharks’ teeth. I can see them in the distance, a day away, the sun sinking behind their crooked peaks. But for now, the land is flat, as flat as land can be. And I pedal hard, with rock n roll rhythms streaming through the small speakers tucked in close to the drums of my ears. When I’m lucky, classic road tunes dance across the air waves. “Born to Run,” “Bat out of Hell,” “Radar Love.” But as I travel further from civilization, the stations fade, and so I scan and sometimes find a country station with just the right twang and the perfect Western lyrics that epitomize rubber “on the road again. I just can’t wait to get on the road again…”

But out here, way out here, in the desolate flatlands, badlands, of nowhere America, even the country stations come to an end, leaving me only with local talk, a man selling a refrigerator over the airwaves, a woman hoping to trade a washing machine for a dishwasher. A dry voice tells me that the prices of soy are down, but the prices of beef are up, which makes my mind wander to a simpler place where one farmer is cursing and kicking dust while another is smiling from ear to ear as he drives a bolt into the head of an unsuspecting steer…

And speaking of steer, they line the roads, dozens upon dozens, and perfect timing, because my radio loses all signals, and I find entertainment in screaming at the top of my lungs. STAMPEDE!!! And the cows take notice. They obey my orders. They run at my side. The only thing between me and them, three strands of wire, barbed, nine-gauged and streaming with electricity. A hundred or more hooves hitting the ground in unison, causing the Earth to tremble, creating a minor earthquake that only I can feel. Rumble! Rattle! Shake! Sometimes we need to make our own rock n roll…

But the field comes to an end and thus does my fun. No more cows to keep me company, no more stampedes to satisfy my soul. So I ride and I listen, to the  c-c-c-c-c-c-clanking of the chain, until my back wheel begins to drag and hiss-s-s-s-s-s-s-s. “Fuck!” A flat. I pull off to the side of the road only to realize there is no sound. Nothing. Not a peep. I have finally found my peace and quiet, which suddenly scares the hell out of me. Because there can’t be nothing. There’s always something. Listen! It’s the wind gently blowing, rustling the rye in the fields. But then the wind dies down and again, nothing. And the fear returns. But then I remember to breathe, which I can barely hear, but it’s there, until I decide to hold my breath…

Is this what peace and quiet sounds like? But it’s not entirely quiet. It’s not. I can hear something in my chest. Bum-bum. Bum-bum. Bum-bum. And in this instance I realize that there is no such thing as pure silence. There is no such thing as quiet. Half of what I thought I was looking for doesn’t even exist. But the other half! The other half is more than real. The other half has infiltrated every bone in my body. Every molecule in my mind. Never have I found more peace in a single moment.

Hog-Tied

           Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop!

            That’s all any of the pigs at Uncle Sam’s Animal Ranch ever thought about. Even though the pigs made up a small minority of the animals at the ranch, and even though they already consumed a vast majority of the food, they still wanted more. More slop! And nobody wanted more slop more than Peter Pig and Sammy Swine. It made no difference that they had the most slop already. More slop, in fact, than all the other pigs combined. Still they wanted more. More slop!

            “But how can we possibly get more slop?” Sammy Swine asked.

            “I’ve got an idea,” Peter Pig replied. “We’ll have an election!”

            “An election?”

            “Yes, we will have two of our own run against one another and whoever wins will be in charge of all the pigs in the pen.”

            “But which two?” Sammy Swine wanted to know.

            “How about that orange-tinted one? The one they call Braggadocious. Half the pigs seem to really like him. And for his opponent, how about that grandmother pig, Secretary Smiles. She seems to have quite the following.”

            “But Braggadocious is a racist, sexist, megalomaniac,” Sammy Swine argued. “And Secretary Smiles is a crooked, arrogant, liar.”

            “Perfect!” Peter Pig said. “Don’t you see? The more scandals there are—the more outrageous remarks, the more conspiracy theories—the more divided the pigs will become.”

            “But, I still don’t understand,” Sammy Swine said, “how dividing all the pigs is going to get us more slop?”

            “It’s so very simple,” Peter Pig answered. “While all the pigs in the ranch are so focused on the election, we’ll just slip in and steal all their slop. Hell, they won’t even realize it’s missing.”

            “I see! The election is merely a distraction. But one last question—who do we want to win?”

            “That’s the genius of it all,” Peter Pig said. “It doesn’t matter who wins. Because when all is said and done, everybody loses.”

            “Except us!” Sammy Swine smiled.

            “Exactly!” Peter Pig laughed.

            Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop! Slop!

           

The Colt County Gun Show Incident

        

            “You can take my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.”

            That phrase was all it took to send Sebastian Flint over the edge. Never in his life had he been involved in a gun-related incident; nor had anyone close to him. He had never been in combat and was certainly not disturbed by images of war. Even the upward trend of school shootings did nothing to alter his views on guns. It was a sticker with the above phrase, adhered to the bumper of a 1993 Dodge Dakota that cut him off on a highway in middle-of-nowhere Utah that caught his eye. If people like that couldn’t drive in a safe manner, he thought, how could they be responsible enough to handle firearms? From that moment on, Sebastian Flint understood his calling in life. He was to become an antigun protestor.

            For many in the region, the Colt County Gun Show was the most spectacular event of the year. Everyone who knew anything about firearms within a hundred and fifty mile radius was there. As was Sebastian Flint and the two dozen antigun protestors he led. Flint’s Army, as they would later become known, stood outside the entrance to the Colt County Gun Show, exercising their First Amendment rights. They all dressed as soldiers and carried fake rifles carved out of wood, the end of each one piercing a baby doll, which was naked and covered in fake blood. They held signs that read: “Ignorant,” “Solutions,” “Injure,” “Society;” and chanted those words as the gun lovers who entered the show paid little attention to their antics.

            Inside the Colt County Gun Show, a man named Harrison Guard was demonstrating his new invention, aptly named the “Harrison Guard.” The “Harrison Guard” was an app for one’s Smartphone that allowed its owner to lock or unlock the trigger of their gun with a touch of a button, no matter where the gun’s owner was located—even if he or she was a thousand miles away. The benefit of this new invention, or so Harrison Guard claimed, was to enhance the safety of one’s family when the gun’s owner was away from his firearms. For example, say you were out of town on business with teenagers left in the house; surely you wouldn’t want your firearms getting into the hands of those said teenagers. But, what happens when an intruder breaks in to your house with a weapon of their own; surely you’d want your teenagers to be able to protect themselves. Wouldn’t you? That’s where the “Harrison Guard” comes in handy. The teenagers could simple call you, you could use the app on your phone to unlock the trigger, and the intruder, well let’s just say, he should have paid attention to the sticker on your window that said: “We don’t dial 911.”

            “Can I try it out?” a woman in the crowd asked.

            “Of course you can,” Harrison Guard proclaimed excitedly. He handed the woman a pistol that he had brought for this very occasion. “Point it at me,” he said.

            The woman pointed the gun at Harrison Guard.

            “Okay, now,” Harrison held up his Smartphone and pressed a button, “pull the trigger.”

            What Harrison Guard hadn’t considered was that the app symbol for the “Harrison Guard” looked strikingly similar to another app on his phone, one that immediately called the nearest law enforcement agency to alert them of criminal activity. Unfortunately for Harrison Guard, he pressed the wrong button. As the bullet slammed into his chest, a loud blast echoed through the convention center.

            Seeing a woman across the aisle shoot a man in broad daylight, Arnie Shaver, owner of Shaver’s Guns and Ammo, immediately raised a rifle and shot the woman in her head. Having witnessed Arnie Shaver, of Shaver’s Guns and Ammo, kill a woman in cold blood, Gus Hart, of Gus’s Hartillery and Knife, raised a rifle of his own and shot Arnie Shaver in the gut. Marsha Valdez, proprietor or Big Martha’s Guns for Girls, instantly raised a pistol and took out Gus Hart, of Gus’s Hartillery and Knife. Within a few seconds, bullets were flying everywhere. Between the blasts of gunshots, people could be heard screaming phrases such as: “God bless America,” “Guns don’t kill people, I kill people,” and “This is the greatest day of my life!”

            Outside the Colt County Gun Show, Flint’s Army didn’t think anything of the deafening sound of gunshots coming from inside; they assumed that’s what gun shows were supposed to sound like. In fact, they didn’t take any notice of the incident until several cars full of law enforcement pulled up in front of them.

            The Colt County Police Department, having received an urgent alert from Harrison Guard’s phone, arrived at the Colt County Gun Show in full force and immediately determined that it was Flint’s Army that was causing the mayhem. After all, they were dressed as soldiers, they were carrying guns (piercing dead babies), and they were holding up signs that read:

 Ignorant

 Solutions

                               Injure

Society

            Believing that they were fighting a homegrown terrorist cell, the Colt County Police Department opened fire on the defenseless protestors. The protestors, having no way to fight back, or even protect themselves for that matter, rushed through the entrance of the Colt County Convention Center, where they were surprised to find hundreds of lifeless bodies covered in an unprecedented amount of blood. In order to defend themselves against the onslaught of police officers that had followed them inside, they immediately went for the guns.

            A shootout ensued, and Flint’s Army, having no concept on how to properly use firearms, quickly found their numbers depleting, until, eventually, only one of their own was left standing. The last survivor, knowing there was no chance for escape, rose from behind a pile of dead bodies and pointed a revolver at a legion of Colt County Police Officers.

As they riddled his body with bullets, the last thing that crossed Sebastian Flint’s mind was, “You can take my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.”

The Old Wives’ Tails Club

            The last time Mrs. Getty could remember her palms so sweaty, bell-bottoms and disco afros were all the rage. She longed for those days now. Days when her nerves were frazzled for good reason. Days when sweaty palms and dry mouth were reserved for only the most significant of events: realizing that she was a week late, waiting on that second pink line that refused to reveal itself, having her lover take her to an abortion clinic two towns over, praying that her husband didn’t find out. Things like that. Real. Life. Problems. Now she seemed to be nervous over nothing. So, it was her first day at a new meeting. So, she hadn’t ventured out in public—besides her biweekly trip to Kmart—in almost a decade. So, she was ten minutes late…

            Shit! She scurried down the long hallway of the Senior Citizens Center. What a horrendous way to make a first impression! She turned the handle on a door that had a single sheet of paper taped to it, with the words, written in permanent black marker: THE OLD WIVES’ TAILS CLUB.

            “…I’m telling you, the kid wouldn’t stop fiddling with the gosh-darn thing. Drove him blind by nineteen.”

            “And his palms?”

            “Covered in hair. Saw so myself.”

            All of the women in the small circle individually clinched their lips together, shook their heads full of grayish-blue hair, and made a distinct sound—a soft reverberation of the letter M, expressed in descending tetrachord in the modern B Locrian (Mmm-Mmm-Mmm-Mmm)—as if to convey not only their disappointment but also a collective sense of I told you so! in one quasi-theatrical act.

The scene was broken when one of the women noticed the newcomer carefully slither through an opening in the doorway that was only a mere millimeter or so wider than her body. “And you must be Mrs. Getty.”

Mrs. Getty froze like a jackalope in headlights. “Sorry if I’m interrupting…”

“Oh stop it!” The woman waved Mrs. Getty into the room. “Grab a seat.” She pointed at the only empty chair in the circle. “I’m Mrs. Arthur. From the emails. And this is Mrs. White.” She nodded her head at the woman to her left and then continued around the circle. “Mrs. McClanahan. Mrs. Greene. And Mrs. Wyllie. And I’m Mrs. Arthur.”

“You already said that,” Mrs. McClanahan chimed in.

“Grab a seat. Grab a seat,” Mrs. Arthur echoed. “Now, where were we? Mrs. Greene, you were telling us about your great nephew…”

“My second cousin’s grandson,” Mrs. Greene corrected. “But enough of that already. Did I ever tell you about my neighbor Steve’s nephew, from when I used to live in Biloxi? Well, the kid ate half a pizza and only waited eighteen minutes before jumping in the pool, and you can imagine how this ends. A shame. A real shame…”

“You think that’s bad?” Mrs. White interrupted. “My boy Carl, his old boss’s granddaughter, she was foolin’ around, crossing her eyes, fell down some stairs, well, her eyes have been crossed ever since. Poor girl. Imagine trying to find a good man with a pair of crossed eyes?”

It wasn’t long before most everyone in the room was bickering, voices straining to be heard over others, clusters of words echoing off the walls, tenses bouncing between the floor and ceiling, fragmented sentences whipping around in circles, all blending together into a hurricane of vocabulary.  “…the cemetery was just too long. Who could expect to hold their breath the entire way…I told him not to shave so much. Everybody knows it only grows back thicker…he shouldn’t have swallowed so much dang gum. Stays in your stomach for seven years, you know…of course he’s a short man. He drank so much coffee growing up…shouldn’t have stepped on a crack…should’ve knocked on wood…shouldn’t have cracked his knuckles…”

Even over all the racket, Mrs. Arthur detected the door closing. After glancing around the circle and noticing that Mrs. Getty was no longer there, she quickly headed out to the hallway after her. “Mrs. Getty!” She said as she hobbled across the linoleum. “Mrs. Getty! What’s wrong? Why are you leaving us so soon?”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Arthur. It’s just that I misunderstood what kind of club this was.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

Nervous as she had ever been in her entire life, Mrs. Getty leaned over and whispered a few sentences into Mrs. Arthur’s ear.

Mrs. Arthur couldn’t help but break into laughter. “Mrs. Getty,” she laughed. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Follow me. I want to show you something.”

Mrs. Getty followed Mrs. Arthur back into the room, which fell silent as soon as they entered. “Ladies,” Mrs. Arthur addressed the members of the club, “Mrs. Getty here doesn’t feel very welcome. Let’s make her feel welcome.” With those words she slowly turned around and lifted the back of her skirt to reveal a small tail, much like a squirrel would have. One at a time, each woman stood up and did the same, Mrs. White presenting her raccoon tail, Mrs. McClanahan, a monkey tail, Mrs. Greene, a skunk, and Mrs. Wyllie, a horse.

“But why…” Mrs. Getty wanted to know as she showed off her armadillo tail.

“Why are we sitting around gossiping?” Mrs. Arthur said, finishing her question. “We’re old women. That’s just what old women do when they get together!”

           

           

Welcome to Adventuregramland: How Social Media is Contributing to the Destruction of our Natural Areas

            The video shows the incident as clear as day: three men push on a sandstone rock pedestal—known to locals as the “Duckbill”—until it collapses to the ground in pieces. The footage instantly went viral and the men were just as fast labeled vandals, criminals, jackasses. The court of public opinion found them solely responsible for the Duckbill’s destruction. But perhaps the blame should be shared. Perhaps the true cause of the destruction is much larger, more complex, than anyone wants to admit. Perhaps social media should share some of the blame.

            After the video of the Duckbill’s destruction went viral, more pictures of the iconic rock began popping up all over the Internet. Most of these photos were posted as a sort of “in memoriam” of the rock and depicted people climbing, standing, doing yoga poses, etc. on the rock. Now, before we go any further, let’s make it clear that this rock was situated on a portion of the Oregon Coast that was not supposed to be visited by human beings, made obvious by not only signs, but an actual fence, that one would have to climb over or go around to enter the restricted area. So, what I can’t wrap my head around, is how you can memorialize a fallen piece of nature by publicly sharing photos of yourself personally molesting that very piece of nature. If you can’t see the hypocrisy in that, then it’s not even worth my time to explain.

            Unfortunately, the destruction of Duckbill Rock is merely the tip of a seemingly ever-growing iceberg. Over the past few years, a new culture has evolved due entirely to a handful of social media websites (Instagram and Facebook bear the most responsibility); a culture of “adventure photography” that has grown dangerous at an exceedingly fast rate. Without making it too complicated, here’s the simple gist: people take photos of themselves doing “adventurous” activities, they post these pictures on social media, suddenly their friends need to replicate the photograph and post it themselves, suddenly their friends need to replicate the photograph and post it themselves, suddenly their friends need to…before you know it, the Duckbill Rock is destroyed.

            This culture of social media adventuring has lead to the assumption that our wild areas are nothing more than natural amusement parks. Over the past several months, I have seen this phenomenon in both the media and in person. On the news: a visitor at Yellowstone falls into a hot spring 200 yards off the main trail while trying to take a selfie; the water was so hot that the park officials said there would be no recovery because there was nothing left to recover…And, in real life: last weekend I went hiking in the Columbia River Gorge Scenic Area (pay particular attention to the word “Scenic”), where I viewed people swimming underneath waterfalls, jumping from the tops of waterfalls, and exploring areas off the trail, making so much noise that you would have thought you were at Disney World. The common bond among these “adventurers”? They all had their cameras out, no doubt taking pictures of their “adventures” to share on social media. As I was leaving, a woman in the parking lot asked me if the trail was wide enough to take her newborn in a stroller. “These are the woods!!!” I desperately wanted to yell. “There are 100 foot drop-offs around every bend! There are wild animals that will eat your baby! There are drunk hipsters jumping off waterfalls!!” In the end, I simply advised her against it.

            And this new culture goes way beyond mere individuals; if there’s a dollar to be made…A few weeks ago I attended the first ever “Adventure Expo!” which should have been more appropriately called “Nothing I would Ever Need to go on an Adventure Expo!” The entire exposition revolved around nothing but branding: T-shirts, hats, buttons, stickers, blankets, beer koozies; all with company logos plastered all over them. Now, how do logos pertain to adventure? Well, won’t they look “cool” and “hip” in your social media adventure photographs? But what does “adventure” even mean? According to Dictionary.com: “A very exciting or unusual experience.” Now, let’s pinpoint that word “unusual.” What is so unusual about taking photographs of yourself doing things that you already saw other people doing on the Internet? Aren’t the true adventurers those who posted the photos originally? I can think of a better word for what all these social media “adventurers” really are: Posers. The Dictionary.com definition for “poser”: A person who poses; especially a person who is trendy and fashionable in a superficial way. Sounds like a more appropriate word to me.

            Now, I’m not saying that people shouldn’t go on adventures (I am an adventure writer after all, who has undoubtedly inspired others to go on their own adventures), but I think people need to go on adventures for the right reasons. Do you actually enjoy bold, risky, hazardous undertakings? Or is that merely a public perception that you are trying to convey via social media? There is a real simple way to figure out your true intentions. The next time you decide to go on an adventure, just ask yourself: “Would I still be doing this if there were no photographs involved?” Think about it—if not for the sake of our natural areas, then for your own safety—that’s all I ask.

A Brief Afterward: If three men could so easily push over the Duckbill Rock at Cape Kiwanda, then you can imagine how close it was to ultimately falling over, and when it did eventually happen, there’s a pretty good chance that somebody would of have been climbing on it at the time (in order to take an adventurous selfie?), thus resulting in serious injury, or even death. So, even though these guys are most likely some of the biggest douchebag bros out there, (and in no way am I justifying their actions) they may have saved a life in the long run. Just something to think about…

The Bigger the Truck

I’ll show ‘em…just wait and see…I’ll get myself a sports car, something bright, so you can’t miss it, something in red or yellow, maybe with racing stripes…and it’s gonna be real fast, and low to the ground, something that’ll do zero to a hundred in three seconds flat…no, never mind, come to think of it, I could never afford something like that…but what I can afford…yeah, that’ll show ‘em, that’ll show ‘em all…I’ll get myself a truck, a big truck, no, a real big truck…something so big that you’ll have to use a step ladder just to get into the cab…and it’ll have huge mud tires even though I’ll never take it off road…and the engine will be all souped-up, like a V-12 or maybe even bigger…yeah, that’ll show ‘em…and one of those mufflers that’s extra loud, so everybody knows I’m coming from a mile away…and that black cloud of smoke that bellows out of the exhaust every time I gun the gas pedal…yeah, that’ll really show ‘em…and a Confederate flag hanging off the back of the cab…and some decals on the rear window, something that’s both clever and inappropriate at the same time…something like “Ram the Daughter, Dodge the Father”…that’ll show ‘em…and maybe one of those stickers, the one with the little blond-haired boy urinating on the symbol of a rival auto maker…and how about some bumper stickers that say things about issues that I don’t really care about, but will be sure to piss off large portions of the general public…yeah, that’ll show ‘em…that’ll show ‘em real good…nobody will ever laugh at my tiny penis again!!!

The Grind, The Groove, and The Goal (All Covered in Rust)

           Wow! It’s been nearly two months since I’ve written anything. (I apologize in advance for any rustiness. Is ‘rustiness’ even a word? According to my computer’s spell-check it is.) Actually, I take that back; it’s been nearly two months since I’ve written anything significant, for over the past eight weeks I have written partial lyrics to about a dozen songs that will certainly not be recorded by any major or minor artists anytime soon. The last time I went this long without writing, I was helping to power a canoe down the Mississippi River. This time I was walking down the Oregon Coast. (Which you will hopefully get the chance to read about next year when I publish my much anticipated adventure travel book: A Long Walk on the Beach: 420 Miles on the Oregon Coast Trail.)

            [What a dreadful opening paragraph! Hopefully by the end of whatever this is, I’ll have gotten the rust out of my literary joints…]

             I want to talk about The Grind, The Groove, and The Goals, but not necessarily in that particular order. “The Goal” was to complete the Oregon Coast Trail—in which I succeeded—but The Goal was so much more than a simple achievement; it was the end destination of a journey that began long before I ever started walking. I was in “The Groove”: I had a job, a savings account, a place to lay my head, food on the table, etc., etc., etc…But, boy, could I feel “The Grind”: having to wake up each day to go to a job I despised, to put money in a savings account that I obviously didn’t need, to lay my head in the same place day in and day out, to put food on the table that was only making me fatter and lazier, etc., etc., etc… I was living, for lack of a better term, THE AMERICAN DREAM! But, unfortunately, not MY American Dream. And that’s why I needed a goal. Any goal.

            [Okay, that paragraph was a bit better, but I still think I can do better…]

            It was around New Year’s that I asked my girlfriend, “Say, do you want to hike the Oregon Coast Trail this sum…”

            “Yes!” she said before I could finish the question.

            I suddenly had a goal, and that simple goal, that derived from that unfinished question, was enough to make The Grind worthwhile; enough to justify living in The Groove. The job I despised suddenly had meaning (even if I knew that I would be quitting it soon enough), there was a good reason for that money I was saving, the food that was making me fatter was providing me with much needed calories to burn later, etc., etc., etc… That prepackaged American Dream finally had a purpose: it allowed me to follow My American Dream.

            And for six weeks, that’s precisely what I did: I followed My American Dream. And I’m aware that six weeks may not seem like a long time to most hard working adults, but when you’re traveling substantial miles on foot, hours suddenly feel like days, days feel like weeks, and weeks feel like months. All that Grind, all that time stuck in The Groove, it all finally seemed worthwhile because I was following The Goal. And a funny thing happened when I was on that journey: The Goal began to multiply. I don’t know if it was the adrenaline, or a feeling of purpose, or having nowhere to go but forward, but before I knew it, I was making lists, developing numerous goals, things I told myself I would accomplish as soon I got back in the groove, things like: finish editing my novel, write 1,000 words a day, exercise more, watch less TV, read more books, find a job that I didn’t despise, learn a foreign language, etc., etc., etc… until that list seemed so good and perfect and promising, that I couldn’t wait for the current Goal to be accomplished so I could get back into The Groove and go after them. I only forgot about one little detail—THE MOTHERFUCKING GRIND!

            [Slowly but surely, the rusty parts are being oiled…]

            I couldn’t wait to get home. I couldn’t wait to get back in the groove. My feet hurt, I was drinking entirely too much, and I was downright sick of walking ALL THE TIME! But The Grind had other ideas. My first day home I threw my back out. Throughout the entire hike, my lower lumbar had felt better than it had in years, so, boy, was it a surprise when I plugged my computer into an outlet and it felt like somebody stabbed my in the spine with a broken beer bottle. So, I spend a few days on the couch, “taking it easy,” watching the Olympics, and accomplishing nothing. By the time it’s healed, it’s time to go back to work, back to a job I despise, because often times Goals have a funny way of causing your savings account to bottom out. And after working all week in 100+ degree temperatures, I want nothing more than an ice cold beer, which quickly turns into a three day bender, because after all, I have friends I haven’t seen in two months that are more than happy to hear about my adventures over a drink or ten, and then all that booze weakens my immune system and out of nowhere I’m struck with the flu. And I know what you’re thinking: Who the hell gets the flu in the middle of summer? My thoughts exactly!!! And before I know it, two weeks have gone by since I accomplished that original Goal and I haven’t even begun to tackle a single one of my new goals. FUCKING GRIND!

            But it’s okay, because I know I’m not alone. Because if you’re not in the Grind, then you’re not really living. And without the Grind, the Groove would be too easy, and the Goal wouldn’t seem as sweet. I just need to get back in the Groove. These thousand words are a good start, (even if they are covered in rust). And when I’m done typing this, maybe I’ll go for a run, start in on a new book, edit some of my novel, practicar algun espanol, etc., etc., etc…[and hopefully work some more of this rust off…]

            Oh, Yes! About those song lyrics. I’d hate to be a tease, so here is small sample:

Go ahead and judge my worn-out soles

And eye me like I’m filled with sin

But I’d rather walk these lonely roads

Than hide my head in your crowded inn

And, yes, most of the lyrics deal with walking…go figure.