Whiskey Dreams, Part Two

Part 2 of a fiction series.  Part 1 is here.

The best way to avoid being called on is to always give the impression that you are paying attention, but don't quite understand. You want to understand; the teacher can tell by your focused and dedicated stare, but unfortunately, you wont be able to come up with the answer this time.  This is obvious from your furrowed brow & confused (but determined!) appearance.


The teacher can sense that here, finally, is a pupil that actually cares. He may not be the most talented student, but that is less important than desire and ambition.  Such a hunger must not be discouraged by repeated failure, but carefully nurtured.  The best way to help this individual learn would be to call on some more naturally intelligent student this time.  When your peer gives the answer, squint for a moment as you work your way through the complex process. Allow your eyes to widen with sudden understanding. You may even nod your head and make a silent "oh," followed by a triumphant smile.  That's if you really want to milk it, but be careful not to overplay your hand. Trust me, this works every time. After a bit of practice, you can go through the entire act without conscious thought.  This leaves your brain free to focus on more interesting subjects.  For me, this usually consisted of the lacy tease of Elena Goodman's thong, peeking out from the top of her low-cut jeans two desks in front of me.  I made it from freshman year of high school through college like this.

Now, the first few weeks of a semester is always a crapshoot.  You may get called on by the teacher as often as anyone else, as he or she has not yet been clued in on how you learn most effectively.  Just remember when this happens that what you need to communicate is earnestness, sincerity, and a heart-felt desire to understand. To your dismay and embarassment, you don't quite get it this time. Convey these qualities in your looks and words, and the situation will work itself out quickly.

Whiskey Dreams

Things could be worse. My neck is so stiff that I have to turn my whole body to look in either direction.  The palms of both hands are ripped across the meaty part, open and festering wounds where callouses and blisters had proven themselves insufficient to the the task of protection.  I haven't had a good nights sleep in weeks, making due with snack-sized portions of rest when both time and inclination allow.  The problem seems to be that these twin forces rarely come together any more.

I look slowly around the room that has been my home since I set out six weeks ago.  The room usually rents by the hour, by I was able to convince the manager to let me buy my time in bulk.  The one lamp flickers, and I cannot image that the bulb has much life remaining.  There is a large crack running from the door all the way to the kitchen.  I note, with surprise, that there are no cockroaches currently visible.

Still, things could be worse.  I take a sip of stale whiskey, bringing the plastic cup to my lips without moving my head; the better to accommodate my stiffening neck.  The Kentucky Rye came in a mason jar, and tastes about like you'd expect for $5.99.  For a single, bleak second, I crave a few ice cubes, but there is no fridge in the room, let alone a freezer, and there damn sure aint one of those fancy ice dispenser contraptions that they have at the end of the hall in decent places.

Still, things could be worse.  I have to go to work soon, and the responsible thing to do would be to catch some shut-eye, eat something, and maybe even wash one of the two pairs of work clothes that I own.  Anything other than sitting here drinking cheap whiskey and killing cockroaches would be a giant step forward in terms of being responsible.  Of course, the entire point of taking this job and this life was so that I didn't have to do the responsible thing.  The trade-off is that I have the time to think long and deeply about anything and everything.  I mull this over slowly, and stay where I am, and take another long pull.

June Plans

Damn, June already...how is this year almost half over?  In any case, this is the stuff I am working on for June 2010.

1. Make a corn-cob pipe.  I don't smoke, but they are still awesome, and I want to make one.  I'll probably just sit on my patio and chew on the stem all recession-era style.
2. Start brewing beer again.  Hanley's got all the gear, so I guess I am buying the stuff all over again.  He DID give me a free TV though, so I guess we're all squared away.
3. Start learning Spanish.  Hoping to be able to find a used Rosetta Stone course on the internet universe.
4. Write everyday.  Be it blog posts, fiction, journaling, or the Great American Novel, write everyday.
5. Cut back on internet time.
6. Set limits on work.  Working from home makes it seem like I am always at work, and I act as such.  I need to work on getting everything done well, and then shutting off the computer, closing the door to my office, and doing something else.
7. Say "yes" to more social stuff.
8. Get back to training consistently - Jiu-Jitsu 3x/week, Boxing 2x, Running/Lifting 2x
9. Eat 90% Primal
10. Read - "Vagabonding," "Two Years Before the Mast," and "Enduring Patagonia."
11. Put together the piece of shit, assemble it yourself BBQ grill that I bought at Home Depot.  Pretty janky-looking to me so far...

Beer, Sunshine, and the Shark-Infested Waters of Northern California

Comrades,

As to your inquiries into my recent whereabouts, I can only respond with assurances that all is well in my current place in the world, having returned, bloodied, bruised and triumphant, from a weekend that tested the fortitude of both my stomach and liver.

Responding to the call of other like-minded adventurers, I made the journey from my humble abode to the sun-swept and rugged coastline of Northern California in general, and Santa Cruz in particular, with a heart-felt and sincere desire to make something of both the Memorial Day weekend, of which so many of America's sons and daughters have passed before their time in order to make this a better country for us all, and of course, to make something of myself.

Several important dates, in addition to the aforementioned holiday would must be remembered, honored, and respected, not least of which was the birthdays of close friends and family.  Many animals were slaughtered and consumed, and much drink was passed from friend to friend, culminating in a riotous celebration of life, adventure, and testicular fortitude.

We did not pass through such an event unscathed, as the burnt skin from the hot sun, damage to our individual purifying organs, and sheer exhaustion from lack of sleep would make clear, but true voyagers in this thing called life of course realize that our time here is borrowed, not owned, and that at times, short-term memory loss must be sacrificed for the greater good of long-term memory gain, and scars well-earned from honorable battle are not to be hid, but worn proudly for all to see.  It is not just from the writings or teachings of the elders that we learn, but from our own experiences, struggles, passions and failures.

And while we have all returned to our current places of dutiful employment by now, we are left with the memories of our battle, the peeling skin from our burnt hides, a hangover by which to remember the struggle, and hazy memories dutifully captured by some enterprising and slightly more sober individual who remembered that someone must record this shit-show.

Happy Memorial Day

Moose Drool & Ear-Fuckery

Wild-eyed and confused, we took in our surroundings.  We smelled like sweat, dirt and campfire, with maybe just an undertone of cheap whiskey at the bottom of the potpourri.  We had crossed over from alpine wilderness into the lower-elevation meadows early that morning after a breakfast of teriyaki beef jerky and a half-melted power bar.  We were now being greeted with the large crowds, screaming children, RV campsites and over-flowing ice chests that marked the return to civilization. 

Enjoying the first clearly-marked trail that we had seen in a while, we moved to the side to allow a family of four to pass through.  The Mother and Father carried enough gear to last them a month.  The kids brought up the rear with twin trails of snot dribbling from their noses and matching expressions of boredom, unhappiness, and a plain desire to be anywhere but where they were.

There was a redeeming factor to all of this, and it's name was BEER.  With parched throats but a get-up in our step, we made for the general store.  Steve and I waited while Will went inside to buy a 6-pack.  After days and nights of quiet solitude in the California high country, we could not have been more flustered if we had been deposited on the edge of the 405 freeway during rush hour.

Two kindred souls noticed us and made their way over.

"Weird, isn't it?" the girl said.

We noticed their dirty clothes, sun-burnt faces and bemused features, and we smiled back and nodded. 

Will returned with a sixer of Moose Drool Ale, so we said good-bye to our new friends and found a place to sit and drink.  The beer was ice-cold and delicious, and it soothed our aching muscles, torn blisters and noise-raped eardrums.  I settled my back against a smooth boulder, felt my bare toes on the grass, and took another sip.