Hey, strangers. I have a short, humorless post over at Allie's Answers today, where I should be contributing occasionally but regularly. Allie's site is undergoing some changes of late to become even bigger and badder, so be sure to check it out.
I have not entirely forgotten about my own blog, but the combination of severely limited internet access and out-of-town visitors (and my discovery of Facebook), has meant very little time for the Waitress. I'll get back to it before long, but probably not before the second round of guests, my parents, vacate the valley next week.
And thus concludes my fifteen-minute break. Time to put the hat back on and go gently extract money from foreigners.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
But they don't sell condoms, which doesn't seem right
It’s not often that I find myself in the dollar store, but when I do my cost-value (read: cheap bastard) antennae rise up to twice their usual height and sharpen to twice their usual sensitivity. I have to duck getting through the door. The dollar store might seem like the sort of place a frugal fellow (tightwad) like me could relax, but I see it more as the perfect proving ground for the value-conscious shopper (penny-pinching dumpster diver.)
Everything’s a dollar. The playing field is level. Comparisons are a cinch, and quite ridiculous. Look over there! A broom for a buck! And check that out- one dollar for a can of Vienna sausages!
Broom = Vienna sausages. Value abounds.
But of course at the grocery store the same broom would cost at least a few dollars and that can of processed eyeballs and assholes would set you back only fifty cents. And thus the game is on. Dollar Tree sets the hard line for comparison and it’s up to you to decide on which side each item falls. And it’ll only cost you a buck.
And so it went recently as I picked myself up a mother’s day card (never sent) and a Rubbermaid container, the perfect size for taking soup to work. And at the check-out line, feeling like I had made two excellent and well-informed value-based decisions, feeling victorious, the dollar store turned over its trump card:
A pregnancy test. For one dollar.
Check mate.
My antennae are sending out sparks. There just may be some things in life that are worth spending a little extra cash on in exchange for quality assurance. Like parachutes, for example. And space capsules. Submarine hatches also come to mind.
And pregnancy tests. If I thought I might be knocked up, I’d want the frickin’ gold-plated Rolls-Royce of pee sticks, all burled walnut and chrome, optional in-dash navigation system and DVD player included. Or a doctor. Some things you want to be sure of.
Not to mention if you're picking up your pregnancy tests at the dollar store (or your potted meat, for that matter), we all fervently pray to Allah, Buddha, Jesus and Shiva the Destroyer that that little plastic urine tester turns up negative.
But value is value, so touché, Dollar Tree.
Pregnancy test = Vienna sausages.
Everything’s a dollar. The playing field is level. Comparisons are a cinch, and quite ridiculous. Look over there! A broom for a buck! And check that out- one dollar for a can of Vienna sausages!
Broom = Vienna sausages. Value abounds.
But of course at the grocery store the same broom would cost at least a few dollars and that can of processed eyeballs and assholes would set you back only fifty cents. And thus the game is on. Dollar Tree sets the hard line for comparison and it’s up to you to decide on which side each item falls. And it’ll only cost you a buck.
And so it went recently as I picked myself up a mother’s day card (never sent) and a Rubbermaid container, the perfect size for taking soup to work. And at the check-out line, feeling like I had made two excellent and well-informed value-based decisions, feeling victorious, the dollar store turned over its trump card:
A pregnancy test. For one dollar.
Check mate.
My antennae are sending out sparks. There just may be some things in life that are worth spending a little extra cash on in exchange for quality assurance. Like parachutes, for example. And space capsules. Submarine hatches also come to mind.
And pregnancy tests. If I thought I might be knocked up, I’d want the frickin’ gold-plated Rolls-Royce of pee sticks, all burled walnut and chrome, optional in-dash navigation system and DVD player included. Or a doctor. Some things you want to be sure of.
Not to mention if you're picking up your pregnancy tests at the dollar store (or your potted meat, for that matter), we all fervently pray to Allah, Buddha, Jesus and Shiva the Destroyer that that little plastic urine tester turns up negative.
But value is value, so touché, Dollar Tree.
Pregnancy test = Vienna sausages.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
No, it did not throw down a two-handed dunk or try to surf on top of my van.
I typed this post about a month ago, just before my computer's wireless capability crapped out on me, consigning what you see below to the prison of my hard drive. But for all you know, the events described happened yesterday, so just go along with it. On a related note, I'm posting this using our (Courtney has joined me here in the wilds as of two days ago) newly enabled Verizon Mobile Broadband. That's not an endorsement. Yet. We'll see how it goes.
Where I live right now, there are lots of big animals wandering around chewing on things, causing traffic jams and, occasionally, offering rides on their backs to Japanese kids who are experiencing the world beyond Nintendo for the very first time. Be they elk, bison, moose, bighorn sheep, mule deer, pronghorn or the somewhat toothier black and grizzly bears, if you spend any time around here at all you’ll see something large and/or scary on a regular basis. And I’ve seen all of those, many times. Having spent at least part of the year in seven out of the last twelve somewhere in the Yellowstone-Grand Teton region, I’ve had ample opportunities for wildlife sightings. I’ve even seen a wolverine, a reclusive animal that is only spotted, on average, three or four times a year in this area.
The one animal that has consistently eluded me, however, is the wolf. Sure, everyone visiting from out of state wants to see a moose, and if they’re only going to be around for a day or two, they may go home disappointed, but moose generally aren’t too tough to find. Second to the moose in popularity, by my unofficial poll, would be the bears. Most people don’t care either way and couldn’t tell the difference even if they did, but to the discerning the grizz is where it’s at. Maybe it’s because there aren’t as many of them and they tend to avoid areas with lots of people, but probably the attraction with the grizzly is that they are substantially larger than the black bear and dine on humans with much greater frequency. As with our women, we like our wildlife big, bloodthirsty and variably moody.
And bears are cool, to be sure. The true connoisseur, though, is looking for a wolf. In the US there is no more controversial animal than the wolf, and, in the lower 48 at least, it is still a rare sight. Hunted and trapped to near-extinction, wolves were reintroduced to Yellowstone from Canadian stock in the 1990s and have been slowly re-establishing their place in the ecosystem ever since, with much political wrangling over their fate before then, since and presumably well into the future. In the past few years, several wolf packs have established residence in and around Grand Teton National Park, increasing both the species’ range and the possibility of spotting one.
Which brings us nearly to the present. The other night, as I was leaving the town of Jackson heading home, I saw a light-colored shape about 200 yards (or 8,124.2 metres to someone with an accent) up the slope of East Gros Ventre Butte that seemed to have a definite canine profile. It appeared to be sitting at the edge of a bench of land, surveying the Elk Refuge below. Certain of what I had just seen, I sped to the next available turnaround, whipped back the way I had come and pulled off on the side of the road, fumbling for my camera all the while.
Utilizing my 10x zoom, I was all too happy to discover, sitting right in the crosshairs of my Canon…
…the ass-end of some plant-eater. I was too disgusted at my own misplaced exuberance to even notice what it actually was. Probably a bighorn or a deer. Maybe an elk. Ho-hum.
That’s what I get for hoping. The North American wolf is a myth.
The next morning dawned clear and cold, with a fresh dusting of snow on the sage that blankets the valley floor. Driving to work on Highway 89, I was as always wary of the animals that never learned to look both ways before crossing the street.
I’ve heard that humans, predators that we are, have eyes that are attuned to movement. If you want to see an animal, don’t look for it; you’ll catch the movement. Thus it was that I found myself looking at a dark shape, several inches higher than the sage, moving away from the road. I suppose my brain ran down the list of mammals native to this area, checking them off one by one, eliminating them by size or color or shape. In real time, however, I instantly knew it was canine: coyote or wolf. No question.
Any time a visitor to the park tells me they just saw a wolf, I feign excitement and let them tell me the whole story, while in the back of my mind I’m chuckling, saying, “It was a coyote.” No reason to spoil their fun. Everyone wants it to be a wolf.
Now I want it to be a wolf. But it can’t be a wolf. I’ve been hoping for a wolf since 1998. It’s never been a wolf. Plenty of coyotes, and coyotes are pretty cool. Hell, coyotes never needed to be reintroduced to anything, and we did our best to eliminate them, too.
But coyotes don’t come in black. This thing in the sage is near-black and taller than a coyote.
It’s a wolf.
I stop the truck, half on the shoulder, half in the road, digging for my camera once again. The wolf will not wait. It is now at the base of the next bench, a black silhouette against a pure white snow slope. It trots up the incline, pausing right in the middle of this ideal background as if to give me my shot. I’m too slow. I catch it just as it crests the hill back into the mottled green and white of the sage. No matter. I saw a wolf.
Where I live right now, there are lots of big animals wandering around chewing on things, causing traffic jams and, occasionally, offering rides on their backs to Japanese kids who are experiencing the world beyond Nintendo for the very first time. Be they elk, bison, moose, bighorn sheep, mule deer, pronghorn or the somewhat toothier black and grizzly bears, if you spend any time around here at all you’ll see something large and/or scary on a regular basis. And I’ve seen all of those, many times. Having spent at least part of the year in seven out of the last twelve somewhere in the Yellowstone-Grand Teton region, I’ve had ample opportunities for wildlife sightings. I’ve even seen a wolverine, a reclusive animal that is only spotted, on average, three or four times a year in this area.
The one animal that has consistently eluded me, however, is the wolf. Sure, everyone visiting from out of state wants to see a moose, and if they’re only going to be around for a day or two, they may go home disappointed, but moose generally aren’t too tough to find. Second to the moose in popularity, by my unofficial poll, would be the bears. Most people don’t care either way and couldn’t tell the difference even if they did, but to the discerning the grizz is where it’s at. Maybe it’s because there aren’t as many of them and they tend to avoid areas with lots of people, but probably the attraction with the grizzly is that they are substantially larger than the black bear and dine on humans with much greater frequency. As with our women, we like our wildlife big, bloodthirsty and variably moody.
And bears are cool, to be sure. The true connoisseur, though, is looking for a wolf. In the US there is no more controversial animal than the wolf, and, in the lower 48 at least, it is still a rare sight. Hunted and trapped to near-extinction, wolves were reintroduced to Yellowstone from Canadian stock in the 1990s and have been slowly re-establishing their place in the ecosystem ever since, with much political wrangling over their fate before then, since and presumably well into the future. In the past few years, several wolf packs have established residence in and around Grand Teton National Park, increasing both the species’ range and the possibility of spotting one.
Which brings us nearly to the present. The other night, as I was leaving the town of Jackson heading home, I saw a light-colored shape about 200 yards (or 8,124.2 metres to someone with an accent) up the slope of East Gros Ventre Butte that seemed to have a definite canine profile. It appeared to be sitting at the edge of a bench of land, surveying the Elk Refuge below. Certain of what I had just seen, I sped to the next available turnaround, whipped back the way I had come and pulled off on the side of the road, fumbling for my camera all the while.
Utilizing my 10x zoom, I was all too happy to discover, sitting right in the crosshairs of my Canon…
…the ass-end of some plant-eater. I was too disgusted at my own misplaced exuberance to even notice what it actually was. Probably a bighorn or a deer. Maybe an elk. Ho-hum.
That’s what I get for hoping. The North American wolf is a myth.
The next morning dawned clear and cold, with a fresh dusting of snow on the sage that blankets the valley floor. Driving to work on Highway 89, I was as always wary of the animals that never learned to look both ways before crossing the street.
I’ve heard that humans, predators that we are, have eyes that are attuned to movement. If you want to see an animal, don’t look for it; you’ll catch the movement. Thus it was that I found myself looking at a dark shape, several inches higher than the sage, moving away from the road. I suppose my brain ran down the list of mammals native to this area, checking them off one by one, eliminating them by size or color or shape. In real time, however, I instantly knew it was canine: coyote or wolf. No question.
Any time a visitor to the park tells me they just saw a wolf, I feign excitement and let them tell me the whole story, while in the back of my mind I’m chuckling, saying, “It was a coyote.” No reason to spoil their fun. Everyone wants it to be a wolf.
Now I want it to be a wolf. But it can’t be a wolf. I’ve been hoping for a wolf since 1998. It’s never been a wolf. Plenty of coyotes, and coyotes are pretty cool. Hell, coyotes never needed to be reintroduced to anything, and we did our best to eliminate them, too.
But coyotes don’t come in black. This thing in the sage is near-black and taller than a coyote.
It’s a wolf.
I stop the truck, half on the shoulder, half in the road, digging for my camera once again. The wolf will not wait. It is now at the base of the next bench, a black silhouette against a pure white snow slope. It trots up the incline, pausing right in the middle of this ideal background as if to give me my shot. I’m too slow. I catch it just as it crests the hill back into the mottled green and white of the sage. No matter. I saw a wolf.
UPDATE: After typing this up and leaving work, I saw a beautiful, well-fed coyote trotting down the bicycle path next to the road. I then went and contributed to the traffic jam at Jackson Lake Junction that a grizzly had been causing all day as he dug along the shoulder of the highway. If you show up here mid-summer complaining that there aren’t any animals, I’ll tell you that you should have been here in the spring.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Did I really leave a post about Rage Against the Machine up for two weeks?
Okay, folks- the Gods of Blog are conspiring against me. It's hard enough to post (and read) regularly when you live in a cabin in Wyoming that isn't wired for telephone or cable, but lately I haven't even had much internet time at work. On top of that, my laptop decided quite out of the blue that it no longer has any interest in connecting wirelessly to anything at all. It's as if I'm suddenly back in my dorm room, circa 1997, staring at the monitor of my unconnected Gateway, a cut-off island in the nascent World Wide Web, dividing my time between Microsoft Works and SimCity2000. Of course my laptop is far more portable than that old dinosaur was, but I would have had just as much luck hauling that monster into the library the other week as I did with my lightweight year-old Compaq. That is to say none, although at least carrying a mid-90s desktop around would have given me some real exercise.
And it really sucks because I actually have been writing posts and I even made another (completely awesome) video. I can't upload any of it, though, until I can get my computer to once again realize its own wireless potential. And the government prohibits me from plugging a flash drive into the unit I'm currently typing on, so I'm not left with many options. This is the first shift I've had in two weeks in which I've had the luxury of an hour here or there to sit down and bang out this sorry excuse for a post about making sorry excuses. Damn it!
But Courtney has been pushing me to explore our internet options at our rather remote residence because once she arrives (one week!), chica's gonna want some net. There are options, the primary one being mobile broadband from Verizon, but I'm not a big fan of signing a two- or even one-year contract, and not a cheap one at that, for something we'll only need for five months. And it probably wouldn't even work all that great.
But hey- I've been getting into the mountains a little bit and the weather is finally looking up. It stopped snowing! I'm in short sleeves at work! The sun glints blindingly off the highest snowfields with the brilliant fluorescence of a thousand angels!
Sorry. It got away from me a bit there.
Point is, I miss reading all of you and I'm doing everything in my power to get the situation under control. Until then, I'm going climbing.
And it really sucks because I actually have been writing posts and I even made another (completely awesome) video. I can't upload any of it, though, until I can get my computer to once again realize its own wireless potential. And the government prohibits me from plugging a flash drive into the unit I'm currently typing on, so I'm not left with many options. This is the first shift I've had in two weeks in which I've had the luxury of an hour here or there to sit down and bang out this sorry excuse for a post about making sorry excuses. Damn it!
But Courtney has been pushing me to explore our internet options at our rather remote residence because once she arrives (one week!), chica's gonna want some net. There are options, the primary one being mobile broadband from Verizon, but I'm not a big fan of signing a two- or even one-year contract, and not a cheap one at that, for something we'll only need for five months. And it probably wouldn't even work all that great.
But hey- I've been getting into the mountains a little bit and the weather is finally looking up. It stopped snowing! I'm in short sleeves at work! The sun glints blindingly off the highest snowfields with the brilliant fluorescence of a thousand angels!
Sorry. It got away from me a bit there.
Point is, I miss reading all of you and I'm doing everything in my power to get the situation under control. Until then, I'm going climbing.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Your anger is a gift
I think a lot about music. In my mind, that’s the difference between someone who merely enjoys music and someone who loves music- thinking about it when you’re not even hearing it. I’m jealous of people who have the ability to actually make music because they almost certainly get more out of music than even I do. And I really love music.
That’s why I’m so disappointed in people who, to my ears, have such vanilla music collections. Sure, there’s nothing wrong with specializing or simply knowing what you like; I’m actually a little embarrassed about the genre column in my own iTunes, straying as little as it does from the words alternative and rock (the only dissidents being metal and the occasional blues and folk; not exactly the United Colors of Benetton here.)
No, what I mean by a vanilla collection of music is that there’s something vital, something virile, missing from it. Their playlist stands on its own, for sure, and is even frequently enjoyable. What’s missing, however, amidst all the Jack Johnson or Norah Jones or Jason Mraz is a certain something, a crucial ingredient, I don’t know, help me out here, maybe, for lack of a better term…
Zack de la Rocha.
That’s right: Zack de la Rocha. And I don’t mean literally, although it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to once again hear Mr. de la Rocha’s vicious scream tearing asunder some pillar of capitalist greed. For the unaware, Zack de la Rocha is the lead singer for Rage Against the Machine, the band with the most transparent name in the history of bands, and the background music to my teenage days of smoking illicit (every kid’s favorite brand) cigarettes and lighting things on fire. What I miss when I’m inadvertently falling asleep to someone else’s novocain CD collection, or listening to the radio for that matter, is that occasional injection of teenage angst, the abject anger of our youth that sure as hell better be bubbling right beneath the surface in all of us, the spirit of outward rebellion that we seem to abandon the very second we get our first real job or begin dreaming about owning our own home or thinking in concrete terms about “the future.”
I feel like people just aren’t pissed off enough, and it shows in the music they listen to. That’s cool if you just want to chill on the beach with your dog and a six pack of Corona Light and wait for the next set of stellar waves, but don’t you want to get up off the sand every once in a while and kick a white person in the nuts? I know I sure as shit do.
Of course I don’t actually do it, but that’s where listening to the kind of music that causes car wrecks comes in. It’s a release. Maybe all you Norah Jones fans have really good drugs or a secret underground fight club that gets the job done for you (or maybe your everyday life is raging enough without your music fueling it further,) but I need music to help me get it all out. Plus, if I’m ever feeling a little too good about things I have Zack de la Rocha or Phil Anselmo* or Jello Biafra** or pre-1990 James Hetfield*** to set me straight by reminding me that there’s a whole lot of shit out there to be pissed off over, so let’s scream about it together.
But no more cigarettes. They’re bad for you.
*Pantera, **Dead Kennedys and ***Metallica.
That’s why I’m so disappointed in people who, to my ears, have such vanilla music collections. Sure, there’s nothing wrong with specializing or simply knowing what you like; I’m actually a little embarrassed about the genre column in my own iTunes, straying as little as it does from the words alternative and rock (the only dissidents being metal and the occasional blues and folk; not exactly the United Colors of Benetton here.)
No, what I mean by a vanilla collection of music is that there’s something vital, something virile, missing from it. Their playlist stands on its own, for sure, and is even frequently enjoyable. What’s missing, however, amidst all the Jack Johnson or Norah Jones or Jason Mraz is a certain something, a crucial ingredient, I don’t know, help me out here, maybe, for lack of a better term…
Zack de la Rocha.
That’s right: Zack de la Rocha. And I don’t mean literally, although it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to once again hear Mr. de la Rocha’s vicious scream tearing asunder some pillar of capitalist greed. For the unaware, Zack de la Rocha is the lead singer for Rage Against the Machine, the band with the most transparent name in the history of bands, and the background music to my teenage days of smoking illicit (every kid’s favorite brand) cigarettes and lighting things on fire. What I miss when I’m inadvertently falling asleep to someone else’s novocain CD collection, or listening to the radio for that matter, is that occasional injection of teenage angst, the abject anger of our youth that sure as hell better be bubbling right beneath the surface in all of us, the spirit of outward rebellion that we seem to abandon the very second we get our first real job or begin dreaming about owning our own home or thinking in concrete terms about “the future.”
I feel like people just aren’t pissed off enough, and it shows in the music they listen to. That’s cool if you just want to chill on the beach with your dog and a six pack of Corona Light and wait for the next set of stellar waves, but don’t you want to get up off the sand every once in a while and kick a white person in the nuts? I know I sure as shit do.
Of course I don’t actually do it, but that’s where listening to the kind of music that causes car wrecks comes in. It’s a release. Maybe all you Norah Jones fans have really good drugs or a secret underground fight club that gets the job done for you (or maybe your everyday life is raging enough without your music fueling it further,) but I need music to help me get it all out. Plus, if I’m ever feeling a little too good about things I have Zack de la Rocha or Phil Anselmo* or Jello Biafra** or pre-1990 James Hetfield*** to set me straight by reminding me that there’s a whole lot of shit out there to be pissed off over, so let’s scream about it together.
But no more cigarettes. They’re bad for you.
*Pantera, **Dead Kennedys and ***Metallica.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Wild America: Where YOU are on the menu!
How many of you dodged five moose* and two herds of elk on the way to work this morning?
Oh, really? Well… um… so did I. (I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting any answers in the affirmative there. Kind of took the wind out of my sails. I had no idea Boston or the Hudson Valley or Brooklyn or South Georgia or North Georgia or the Twin Cities or Southwestern Kentucky or Knoxville or Rochester or Adelaide or Capetown had such an abundance of large ungulates.) (And I’m clearly counting on someone in each of those localities to actually be reading this - wishful thinking, I’m sure.) (And I apologize if I left anyone out. Tell me about it in the comments. De-lurk, if you must.)
You might expect a photo of a moose or an elk at this point, but I wasn’t about to stop on the shoulder of the highway in my full park service regalia and whip out a camera like a giddy German** tourist. Besides, there will be plenty of time for wildlife photography when I’m dressed more anonymously.
Speaking of wildlife, I keep talking myself out of an evening run due to all the grizzly bear activity around where I live. Normally when a person is jogging down a designated US highway with a posted speed limit of 55, they are primarily concerned with four-wheeled traffic. Last week when I hit the pavement for a short out-and-back I was instead scanning side to side for traffic of the four-legged variety, which tends to weigh slightly less than the wheeled kind (but not by much,) although the ones with wheels don’t possess free will and seldom view a guy in Adidas runners as an hors d’oeuvre.
But bears come with the territory, so if I’m going to keep up the running, I’ll have to take my turn, sprinting down the roadway like it’s a human buffet line while ursus horribilis waits in the trees, sharpening his claws, ready to spring on me from some dark place before I can clear the gauntlet.
Or I could buy a treadmill.
Actually, just an hour or so ago there was a bear about a mile from my residence that attracted a crowd and ended up bluff-charging someone. Probably a German tourist. Or maybe some Quebecois. They can’t drive either.
*Anyone who uses the non-word meese in the comments will be immediately and unceremoniously kicked off my sidebar. And if you’re not in my sidebar I will instead put a voodoo hex on you, malady to be determined (but probably involving parasitic infestation of the small intestine and/or an eruption of coarse, uncontrollable ear hair.)
**I’m giving the Japanese a break. At least the Germans know how to drive. Stereotype? Yes. Racism? No. Residents of Tokyo are just like Manhattanites: they don’t know how to drive because they don’t own a car. Hertz and Avis don’t seem to care either way.
Oh, really? Well… um… so did I. (I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting any answers in the affirmative there. Kind of took the wind out of my sails. I had no idea Boston or the Hudson Valley or Brooklyn or South Georgia or North Georgia or the Twin Cities or Southwestern Kentucky or Knoxville or Rochester or Adelaide or Capetown had such an abundance of large ungulates.) (And I’m clearly counting on someone in each of those localities to actually be reading this - wishful thinking, I’m sure.) (And I apologize if I left anyone out. Tell me about it in the comments. De-lurk, if you must.)
You might expect a photo of a moose or an elk at this point, but I wasn’t about to stop on the shoulder of the highway in my full park service regalia and whip out a camera like a giddy German** tourist. Besides, there will be plenty of time for wildlife photography when I’m dressed more anonymously.
Speaking of wildlife, I keep talking myself out of an evening run due to all the grizzly bear activity around where I live. Normally when a person is jogging down a designated US highway with a posted speed limit of 55, they are primarily concerned with four-wheeled traffic. Last week when I hit the pavement for a short out-and-back I was instead scanning side to side for traffic of the four-legged variety, which tends to weigh slightly less than the wheeled kind (but not by much,) although the ones with wheels don’t possess free will and seldom view a guy in Adidas runners as an hors d’oeuvre.
But bears come with the territory, so if I’m going to keep up the running, I’ll have to take my turn, sprinting down the roadway like it’s a human buffet line while ursus horribilis waits in the trees, sharpening his claws, ready to spring on me from some dark place before I can clear the gauntlet.
Or I could buy a treadmill.
Actually, just an hour or so ago there was a bear about a mile from my residence that attracted a crowd and ended up bluff-charging someone. Probably a German tourist. Or maybe some Quebecois. They can’t drive either.
*Anyone who uses the non-word meese in the comments will be immediately and unceremoniously kicked off my sidebar. And if you’re not in my sidebar I will instead put a voodoo hex on you, malady to be determined (but probably involving parasitic infestation of the small intestine and/or an eruption of coarse, uncontrollable ear hair.)
**I’m giving the Japanese a break. At least the Germans know how to drive. Stereotype? Yes. Racism? No. Residents of Tokyo are just like Manhattanites: they don’t know how to drive because they don’t own a car. Hertz and Avis don’t seem to care either way.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Moving Pictures (actual moving pictures, not the Rush album of the same name)
Behold my latest and greatest video creation! The last of the Utah trinity (see my Vimeo page for the rest)!
White Rim Trail from dennyswaitress on Vimeo.
Remember when I used to write in this space? Me neither.
Tomorrow, I'm going to cover myself in GoreTex and employ lots of pointy metal things (along with some legs and lungs) to try to get up some snowy mountains. We'll see how that goes.
In the meantime, here's what the entirety of my drive to work looks like:
White Rim Trail from dennyswaitress on Vimeo.
Remember when I used to write in this space? Me neither.
Tomorrow, I'm going to cover myself in GoreTex and employ lots of pointy metal things (along with some legs and lungs) to try to get up some snowy mountains. We'll see how that goes.
In the meantime, here's what the entirety of my drive to work looks like:
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