A simple conversation with my brain

A typical conversation with myself……

Me: Hello head.
Head: what do you want, I was busy
Me: Busy with what?
Head: really important stuff
me: no you weren’t
Head: yes I was
Me: no you weren’t. Don’t you think I’d know if my head was doing important stuff
Head: no, you weren’t paying attention so I went and was doing important stuff
Me: you’ve done nothing. You’ve thought of nothing. I should know, I am here and in the present
Head: that’s crap. You’ve been staring at the TV, that great brain dead activity.
Me: TV isn’t a brain dead activity
Head: yes it is
Me: no it’s not, you can learn a lot from some of the channels
Head: not the one’s your watching
Me: shut up stupid brain
Head: you shut up. As a matter of fact I can make you shut up. Hehehehe,
Me: you can shut me up by I can still think the words which is as good as talking as far as you are concerned
Head: you are such an ass
Me: ha, remember Jimmy Carter’s quote about lusting after people. Something about if you think it it’s just as bad as doing it. Guess Slick Willy took him at his word
Head: what the fuck are you talking about. Quit filling my head with useless info
Me: Me! You’re the stupid brain that thinks this shit up
Head: wasn’t me. It must have been your subconscious
Me: what are you talking about it was a conscious thought
Head: blah, blah, blah. You can’t even spell conscious
Me: how is that my fault, you’re my brain
Head: am not
Me: what do you mean, “am not?”
Head: I ain’t your brain
Me: we’ll if you’re not mine, who’s are you and why are you in my head
Head: ahhhh, I’m ah …..it’s top secret
Me: you are so full of crap
Head: okay, so I am your brain. But I am not happy about it, I’d rather be Paris Hilton’s brain
Me: what? That makes no sense
Head: it would definitely be more fun
Me: damn, you are such an idiot
Head: I am not an idiot, you’re the idiot
Me: you can’t call me an idiot without calling yourself an idiot, you idiot
Head: I can do anything I want you idiot, idiot, idiot
Me: you are impossible to argue with
Head: ha, it’s like arguing with yourself
Me: it is arguing with yourself you idiot
Head: fine, keep it up you asshole
Me: you are the one who keeps trying to get the last word in ass bag
Head: ass bag? What the hell is an ass bag?
Me: ha, your an ass bag
Head: keep it up and I’ll make you pee yourself tonight
Me: come on, that is so unfair
Head: go for it, close your eyes and try to sleep. I will fill your head with so many thoughts you’ll be awake till 4am.
Me: that’s just not right. You do that and I’ll wash down a couple Tylenol pm with some bourbon.
Head: try it and you are so waking up in a puddle. Don’t believe me?
Me: stop, that is so mean.
Head: hahahahaha, sleep well mr pissy pants
Me: ughhhhh

The Giant Yellow Street Octopus

Damn dolphins…they always seemed to have a higher porpoise. I wonder if they worship Bob Marley?

You know, for all in tents and porpoise. Or is it intensive purpose. Regardless, the porpoise are key in dealing with the GYSO. What is a GYSO you ask?

I haven’t seen the GYSO in a while. The last time I saw her it was fourth of July weekend and I was bisecting the great state of Vermont on route 100 in search of Americana. Route 100 is a well known habitat for the giant yellow street octopus (GYSO) and Americana – green mountain state flavor. Years ago I remember reading that the Cousteau family may have lost a family member battling the GYSO in central Vermont. Or maybe they simply lost them in Santa’s Land in Putney.

I have a long history with GYSO. Heck, we go back to the late 70′s. I think it was around 1979 when I had my first encounter with GYSO. I was enroute to Hanover NH from Milford CT. I was piloting a vintage Ford Granada but my mind was on dolphins with a porpoise. Not quite sure why dolphins with a porpoise but I remember it quite clearly. Colorful, playful dolphins who made every effort to distract me from the task at hand – piloting the Ford Granada up Rte 91 at the ungodly speed of about 50 miles an hour (it felt like light speed). Any faster and we could have started melting the exterior of the Granada. Shit, as it was I had already melted into watching the road through hood-o-vision and what a vision it was.

So this past fourth of july we were fortunate to have a van load of porpoise with pockets full of synaptic provocateurs. There was no other way to face the GYSO.

Sometime after the bottle of green tea flavored vodka had long expired and the Hill Farmstead tap had run dry, we found a wonderful field for disc throwing, dog running and sky viewing. At that point we had turned the keys over to Bob, yes that same Bob – the miniature, talking elephant who could turn himself invisible when he wanted and the same Bob who had a penchant for tequila, long-legged blondes and driving way to fast.

It was a spectacular summer day. Maybe the best one of the year. The sun was beginning to set and there was a slight chill was in the air. Bob had already thrown on his tie-dye hoodie and was preparing to hit the road.

As darkness fell over central Vermont we began our pilgrimage south. The journey was extraordinary. Town after town welcomed us into their community by splashing rockets red glare and exploding rainbow colored chrysanthemums across the sky like some crazed qualude Lite-Brite orgasm.

We continued south when Bob, deep into another journey inside his mind decided to step out of the role of driver and climb into the back seat as we sped down route 100 at warp factor 7. I reached over, grabbed the wheel and guided us into a rest area on the right side of the road.

The timing was good as it gave us all an opportunity to have a conversation with nature and for the porpoise to clear their blow holes and refill their pockets with synaptic provocateurs in expectation of our confrontation with the GYSO.

Climbing back into our ship I decided to take a turn at the wheel and since Bob was busy licking the window next to him I thought it was better that he didn’t take the helm. Note: I had tried the window earlier and it really didn’t taste great.

We were probably about 5 miles down the road when we came around the corner to find the mother of all GYSO. There she was with miles of long, yellow and orange tentacles trying to draw us into her clutches. Every once in a while we would catch a glimpse of her green eye. That dreaded green eye.

Corner after corner I fought to stay on the road. Mile after mile the GYSO tried to seduce me into navigating into rocks and trees. I slowed our ship down to slow, no real slow. It was then I heard this wild cry and next thing I knew the porpoise were jumping out of the ship. Bob was riding the lead porpoise and yelling out, “follow meeeee, follow meeeeee.” The porpoise took over – as they always do and in a short time Bob and the porpoise had restored order. The next hour or so is a blur. Lots of bright lights, lots of hootin and hollerin. I do remember being really thirsty. All I know is that we ended up at our destination, all hands safe and secure.

Thanks to Bob and the porpoise.

Fat equals Flavor

I am so psyched!  I am now officially overweight per the national BMI standard.  I have moved out of the obese stage and now I am considered simply overweight.  Yee fucking ha. The challenge is that to move out of the overweight stage, once again based on the national BMI standard, I need to weigh about 60 lbs less.  HA!  Yep for my height I should way between 155 and 160 pounds.  No, I am not 4 feet tall.  I am 5’10″.

So what’s the secret?  Duh, burn more calories than you take in.

I’ve started exercising 4 to 5 times a week, practicing portion control and the hardest part – limiting my alcohol intake.

I do have to admit that low fat food sucks.  Low fat equals little taste.  Just like low impact aerobics translates to little effect.

I was at a new bistro in the area the other day.  Did you know that the definition of bistro is small, unpretentious restaurant?  Now that’s a joke.  These days a bistro is the petri dish for pretention.  It’s where value goes to die.

So I sit down and order the burger for $12.  It’s made with meat that comes with one of those grass fed, free range, massaged by loving hands, killed in the most peaceful manner, blah, blah, blah descriptions.  The burger comes out on a cute little roll.  Oops, sorry that should be brioche (bistro speak for a fucking bun).

The burger is cooked perfectly medium-rare and it is topped (for a buck more) with a piece of cheddar cheese.

I bite into the burger and immediately notice that it is devoid of flavor.  Zippo, nadda, not an inkling of flavor.  That’s when I realize that we have it all wrong.

We have all these places who are trying to serve us healthy burgers.  Guess what?  We are ordering a freaking burger, we know that it’s not healthy.  If we wanted healthy we’d order the fucking salad with the bbq tofu wedges.

When we make that choice of a burger we want flavor.  Cooked meat fat flavor.  We want a bun not a brioche.  The bun needs to absorb the juices from the burger and favorite condiments and maybe some bacon and sauteed onion juice.  The bun is the first line of defense, sort of like an edible napkin.

If I want to make the burger healthy I’ll put tomato and lettuce on the damn thing.  I also want the meat to have a least 15% fat.

Folks, fat equals flavor.  Trust me, as I am busting my ass on the street. mountain trail or in the gym it’s not to be able to wear jeans with a 30 inch waist.  It’s so I can enjoy that succulent cheeseburger.

By the way, it should be against the law to label any mass of beans and soy etc….as a “vegetarian” burger.  It’s not a burger. If it is made of hamburger it’s a burger.  It’s a vegetarian sandwich or patty or group or congregation….it’s not a burger.

So if you ever happen to be in the happy valley of massatwoshitts I’ll give you a hint.   There’s a great little cafe that for under $5 you can get a cheeseburger special (lettuce, tomato, raw onion and mayo) cooked to order (has to be medium rare)  that is simply the best.  You bite into the burger which is hand-formed out of fresh meat that is so good and addictive it has to be laced with heroin (in a good way).  As you bite into the burger the juice from the meat starts to saturate the hamburger bun (true bun) soon the bun is reduced to four dry spots where your fingers clutch at the burger holding it together.   Note:  you never put the burger down for two reasons:

1.  It will fall apart under the pressure of the meat love juice

2.  For fear that someone at the table that is already finished with their burger will steal the rest of yours

Only when are you done do you pick up that pint of Sierra Nevada.  You break out into a wide grin as you set the half empty pint glass back on the table and you notice your hamburger grease finger prints on the side of the pint glass.  That’s when you lean back and think life is great.

Damn, now I am longing for a burger.  Damn, damn, damn….

Quiet, There be Ham About

I drove by a sign the other day that got the better of me.

The sign read, “ANNUAL SPORTSMAN CLUB HAM SHOOT.”

Ham Shoot, what the hell is a Ham Shoot?

I can see it now……

First….what type of camo-gear do you wear to hunt ham?  Do I dress as some other barnyard animal?  Do I slather myself in honey or mustard and then roll in cloves?  I know, maybe I’ll grab a pineapple or two and secure them to my body.   A ham would never run from a pineapple.  Never.

I grab the Winchester.308 rifle from the secure gun closet, my custom made leather ammo belt with 100 rounds tucked safely into it  and head out to my pickup.

Damn, I forgot, I don’t have a pickup truck.  So I head out and get into my Toyota Prius.  Yes that battery powered wonder car capable of going from zero to sixty in about a week and a half.

I jump in and head off for the Ham Shoot.  As I head down the road I figure I might as well stop and get a coffee and some chew.  I mean, come on, it wouldn’t be a Ham Shoot without some chew.

I pull into the convenience store, run in and grab a black coffee and a tin of shredded beef jerky chew and head back to the Prius.

What?  You have a problem with beef jerky chew?  Sorry but I can’t stand that smokeless tobacco product.  The last time I put a wad of that in my mouth I was dizzy in about 15 minutes and then nauseous the rest of the day.  I figure walking around the woods hunting ham is not a good place to be dizzy.

I arrive at the Sportsman Club thinking this is going to be an interesting day.  Maybe I’ll be hanging out in someone’s tree stand waiting for an unsuspecting ham to wander by or maybe I’ll be tracking the some ham hocks through the denseNew England forest.

I go over to the recon board where this morning’s reports are highlighted.

Damn, there is ham everywhere!

According to the report:

• A large pack of Smithfield’s were spotted about a mile away in a field
• Elusive spiral ham tracks were seen by the river
• There are random sightings of the solitary and vicious or is it viscous canned ham all over the area
• Rare prosciutto were spotted sunning themselves near the mountain
• And last but not lease there is a herd of wild smoked maple hams near the summit of the mountain.

So with my rifle over one shoulder, my custom leather ammo belt around my waist, two fresh pineapples bungeed together and draped around my neck like a fruit lei and a pocketful of synaptic provocateurs, I head off into the woods to get me a ham.  No not Mia Hamm, get me a ham.

 

 

 

Back in the Saddle Again

Back in the saddle again.  Damn its been a long time since my head was able to get around a few letters.  It actually feels good to be able to form a few cogent thoughts.   That is a stretch, I am not sure any of what follows would be characterized as cogent. 

With apologies to Aerosmith, I have hijacked an old song of theirs for the title today. 

I wrote hijacked.  Should I be looking out the window for helicopters?

The Prius is the new Buick! 

Huh? 

It makes me so sad to say that because I was an original Pruis owner in 2001.  Some how the brand has been hijacked (HA, wrote it again) by a tribe of grey pony-tailed, acid flash-back having, baby seal bumper sticker loving nimrods who have the driving skills of, well, drunk howler monkeys.  How else do you explain the black Prius travelling at 55 miles per hour in the center lane of the highway during rush hour when the speed limit is 65 mph and the tolerated speed during rush hour is 75 mph – 80 mph? 

This type of navigational yeast infection historically has been limited to chronologically gifted adults who purchased their Buick Park Avenue sometime during the Reagan presidency.  You know the one.  After thirty some odd years it still has only 18,000 miles on it and has never be driven faster than 50 mph. 

It was so funny.  As I pass the Prius I look over and sure enough, the drunk howler monkey is sitting there, his hands at 10am and 2pm on the steering wheel, just like the driving instruction book says.  His posture is perfect otherwise I wouldn’t see his long grey pony-tail cascading down his back.  He sat there, motoring down the highway, obviously experiencing an acid-flashback because he was totally oblivious to the world around him which is pretty common with the self-centered, tofu snorting, drunk howler monkey way of life.

Come on, you never experienced the Prius around town that just stops on its own for no reason.  Well, maybe the howler monkey saw a pretty flower on the side of the road.  Or you never experienced the magic Prius that turns without using its turn signal.  It’s all okay because they are the only cars on the road.  I mean come on, it has to always be about drunk howler monkeys. 

My favorite is the drunk howler monkey who decides to pull over and open the Prius door in downtown traffic regardless of any cars coming up on them.  Remember, there are no other cars on the road, just drunk howler monkey operating Prius.

Saddle on up drunk howler monkeys.  I am going out and finding a 1982 Buick with a vinyl roof, old Lark cigarette butts in the ash tray and a working 8-track player.  Then it’s just you and me, drunk howler monkey.

Note:  No howler monkeys were injured or made to ingest alcohol during the creation of this post. 

That said, Bob my miniature, talking, semi-invisible elephant was cocked during the writing of this post and does a pretty good howler monkey impersonation. 

Also, any similarities between the action of humans driving Prius’ and howler monkeys is not intentional and in no way implies that howler monkeys would drive in a similar inane manner.   Howler monkeys in fact use a form of arboreal locomotion called brachiation.

Winky Dink and Wikileak on you.

Ha I said it – Wikileak. Wikileak Wikileak Wikileak Wikileak Wikileak Wikileak Wikileak Wikileak.  Damn there goes that government job.  Funny to see Joe Lieberman rant against Wikileak.  Read that they hacked him and shut down his website.  Come on, what did they prevent…. that one person from accessing the site.  Joe Lieberman, hehehehehehe….wait isn’t he the vice president?  Oops sorry wrong irrelevant Joe.

Hey, it’s not like I took a vow like Seti did in the movie The Ten Commandments, when he vowed never to speak the name of Moses and then on his death-bed he uttered the name Moses.   Hey, did you know Chuck Heston played both Moses and was the voice of God in the movie.  That’s not right, he got to be Moses and God.   Kinda redundant if you ask me.

“Here are the Ten Commandments Moses.”

“Well, no shit God, I just thought of them and since I am who I am, and you are who I am then we are all together cuz I am the eggman,  they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob.”

Mister City Policeman sitting
Pretty little policemen in a row.
See how they fly like Lucy in the Sky, see how they run.
I’m crying, I’m crying.
I’m crying, I’m crying.

Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog’s eye.
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess,
Boy, you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob.

Sitting in an English garden waiting for the sun.
If the sun don’t come, you get a tan
From standing in the English rain.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob.

Expert textpert choking smokers,
Don’t you thing the joker laughs at you?
See how they smile like pigs in a sty,
See how they snied.
I’m crying.

Semolina pilchard, climbing up the Eiffel Tower.
Elementary penguin singing Hari Krishna.
Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob.
Goo goo g’joob g’goo goo g’joob g’goo… (etc.)

Whoa, now that was a tangent of all tangents.  Yikes.

Where was I?  Oh ya,  I kinda like this whole Wikileak thing.  Sort of like an online Robin Hood.

Damn, that traffic jam, damn I hate to be late….

Not today – right on time.

Righteously pozitoodinal.  wicked righteously pozitoodinal.

So my peeps, wassup?

My lighthouse is brighter than it’s been for a long time.  Wicked bright as they say in Massatwoshitts.

Speaking with an old friend I had the opportunity to jump-start my lighthouse and it felt really good.  Sort of like spring cleaning except we’re about two weeks from the start of winter.  It’s freaking 15 degrees outside.  Brrrrrr.  At least according to my smart phone it’s 15 degrees.  How smart is a smart phone?  Is yours smarter than mine?  I bet if we leave both our smart phones on and place them outside over nite they will both get really dumb by morning.

Smartphone – HA, I don’t feel no smarter cuz I got me a smart phone.  Funny, my guess is that if you drink enough by about midnight the phone goes from being a smart phone to being a really stupid, “why did I get this fucking thing, dumb phone.”

So let me get this right:

Charlton Heston was Moses, God, the Eggman and the Walrus?  Is it wrong I capitalized God, Eggman and Walrus?  Wouldn’t it be funny if when that time comes Charlton Heston is standing there checking tickets to get into Heaven?  I can see him standing there checking tickets with the AK-47 slung over his shoulder…..

I am thinking I should go get an NRA membership soon.

Mental note – stop drinking the red Kool-aid.

Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog’s eye.
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess,
Boy, you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob.

I am thinking that there may have been some state of mind altering synaptic provocateurs involved in the creation of the above lyrics…..

cheers