Monthly Archives: March 2010

Oh Man.

I’m a turd.

Not only is it tax time, when every government- local, state, and federal want to take everything left after you’ve paid local, state, and federal taxes, but Miss Carol’s pissed at me too.

When we have dinner late I generally do the dishes and the only thing I want is to have music blaring.

Makes it like a party, ya know?

But. Tonight was f**cking American mother f**cking Idol f**cking night.

Something I hate and something Miss Carol somehow some kinda way has to absorb.

So I cranked up some music and Miss Carol cranked up f**cking Idol, so to teach her a lesson I turned my music OFF.

And then she decided to teach me a lesson and turned Idol OFF.

And then she stomped off to the bedroom to watch it up there.

So I decided to teach her a super-duper lesson by washing the dishes in silence.

That’ll show her.

I hate it when Miss Carol’s mad at me.

Resume.

I had to do some weird stuff on Sunday.

I had to write a resume.

I know there’s probably a bunch of folks that read this drivel that have their resume constantly updated and locked and loaded for their next employment opportunity. And those folks are probably pretty smart.

But I’m not. And I haven’t had to submit a resume in, like, forever?

Through a strange confluence of events and lifestyle I’ve been fortunate enough to swing from job to job over the years without having to endure the dreaded paperwork and interviews.

This week, however, after a two-year non-compete which just ended, I’m hoping my company will be able to sub-contract for a firm here at the Beach. And the first thing they asked for was my resume.

Like I had it somewhere nurturing in a corner under warm lights.

Panicky, I asked Miss Carol to bring home some of the resumes she’s received recently so that I could, you know, um, like, copy the format?

Seeing as how it was a forgotten skill and all.

So she did and I did and after a couple of hours and a few beers I’d squeezed out something eerily similar to a REAL resume.

How weird is that?

Extremists.

Somewhere, at some point, I’d read that fanaticism of any kind is a bad thing. I hadn’t really given it much thought until last weekend. Now I’m thinkin’ that maybe extremism of any kind is probably a bad thing too.

Case in point- Felix Baumgartner is planning on being the first person ever to sky-dive from inner space (23 miles up) and go supersonic for 10 seconds or more. No one knows what supersonic speed will do to the human body. There appears to be some concern that parts of his body will go supersonic and other parts won’t.

Call me silly, but that can’t be a good thing.

Then, there’s this- last weekend a local guy Matt Shepherd and two of his kayaking buddies chartered a Hatteras 50 sportfisher to run them out of Teach’s Lair to the Gulf Stream so that they could fish for bluefin tuna in their kayaks.

Let me write that again.

Fishin’ for bluefin tuna in KAYAKS.

And Matt hooked up with a 166 pound tuna that dragged him for 90 minutes and several miles before he was able to get it to the surface and gaff it.

I’ve caught tuna. In the big boat. Normally what you’re catchin’ are 30 pound footballs of pure muscle that’ll fight you every inch. A 166 pounder is like hauling up a school bus. I can’t even imagine trying to catch one in a kayak.

Nor can I imagine sky-diving from inner space.

But then again my idea of really letting it all hang is eating TWO of Miss Carol’s hot ass fish tacos.

What’s the matter with these guys?

Can’t they just test themselves like I do with a really spicy dinner and call it a day?

I mean, really?

Dos Losers.

I don’t think I’m askin’ too much.

I’ve written about this before.

All I want is for Cutter and Tug to come when they’re called. Hang out, run the beach, check out all the newbie smells, poop and pee EVERYWHERE, but just come when they’re called.

(Actually more than that. When we call ’em I want them to freeze, see their ears perk up and watch, arms crossed,┬ácontentedly, admiringly, as they haul ass back to us slavishly yearning to please.)

But they don’t.

And they didn’t again this weekend. While we walking the beach, Tug went loping away and Cutter ambled after him pretty innocently enough heading for Florida and totally ignoring my plaintive calls and whistles and promises of biscuits.

Fuckers.

It makes me nuts. I gnash my teeth and howl and scream for Cutter and Tug to be the kinda dogs’ll hang out on the beach and walk with us smiling and swimming and doing cool dog things and make us look like cool dog owner people.

But they won’t.

Losers.

Nomads.

“….I took pride in being able to carry my worldly possessions and replace them for less than two hundred dollars if necessary.

To wake up by the side of the road somewhere, light a cigarette, and start pondering the decision of whether to set off north, south, east, or west. . .To be sitting in a New York bar and fall prey to a sudden urge to go to Texas, Montana, or Mexico, and be able to leave in the morning without a care-this was my idea of freedom, this was my definition of success in life….”

Wanderlust.

Freedom.

The lure of the open road.

Haven’t we all, at one time or another, dreamed of chucking everything and just going, of seeing the world or maybe just the US, of traveling for the sake of traveling? Of going and never looking back.

That’s the lifestyle that Richard Grant experiences and writes about in his new book. Traveling and living with truckers and road tramps and bullriders and RVers he gets a first hand look at the american nomad. He also delves into some of the history of nomadic travel- you know, Indians and whatnot and while interesting it wasn’t the reason I bought the book.

Originally I was drawn to American Nomads precisely because of it’s promise of living vicariously through some of the uniquely free spirits who choose to call the open road home.

I had thought it was a lifestyle I longed for.

I was wrong.

Maybe I’m too much of a homebody, or maybe, as Richard Grant writes, I just don’t have the personality trait that the wanderers share. Whatever it is, I came away from American Nomads feeling inexplicably sad. Sure, there’s a certain romantic allure to being able to do what you want when you want and go where you want whenever you want.

But.

What they don’t tell you in the glossy dream freedom brochure is how to pay for it and from what I read, unless you’re independently wealthy, or retired and RVing on a budget; life on the road is tough. From road tramps dumpster diving and eating road kill to hoboes riding the rails and stuffing puppies in their sleeping bags to keep warm to bullriders guzzling stolen beer while driving hundreds of miles between rodeos and living in their pickups I found myself having big-time second thoughts about this whole nomadic lifestyle thingie.

So while the book didn’t necessarily tarnish the romantic aspect of being a vagabond, (maybe I just need a sponsor before I go hobo), it provided, for me anyway, an insight that tamped down the allure somewhat.

American Nomads is well worth reading, though. Richard Grant’s great.

Next on oceandoggy’s reading list- Last Night in Twisted River by John Irving.

MR.GREEN.

This is MR.GREEN., our new 2008 Ford F450 diesel duelly crew crab.

Several months ago I started thinking about replacing my current work truck, ol’ Big Black with something newer and more comfortable and while I was at it, something big enough to haul Cutter and Tug on trips longer than 15 minutes.

I think I found it.

Is it stupendously, hugely, overbig? Yup.

Is he diesel guzzle-inly obese? You betcha.

Is he aircraft carrier-like in traffic? Oh yeah, baby.

But.

There’s somethin’ really nice about the feel of a new somethin’ somethin’ wrapped around you. Especially if it’s a BIG somethin’ somethin’

And as I sit in MR.GREEN. in the driveway gazing fondly over my newly tinted landscape and opening and closing the windows and making engine noises with my mouth and wondering how I’ll ever pay for him I look over at Big Black.

Yup. I’m a turd.

After a night spent thrashing and to-ing and fro-ing I called the buyer and told him I just couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t sell my old truck.

So she sits out front. Ready.

Is that a smirk?

396108.

396108 miles.

28293 gallons of gas.

400 quarts of oil.

80 oil filters.

19 tune ups.

7 sets of tires.

10 clutches.

2 transmissions.

21 years.

Whew.

I never thought I’d do it, nor did Miss Carol nor did most of my friends and family, but I did.

I sold Big Black.

And as goofy as it sounds it hurt like losing shit close to you always does.

I don’t know what I was hoping. Maybe that I’d just keep him around? That I could always look out the window and see my old rusting truck sitting and waiting?

Don’t know.

But he’s gone and there’s a hole in my heart.

Fuck.