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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?

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?

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, contentedly, 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.

“….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.

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 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.

Ya know.

There’s times when you can just pull the warm blankie of life up around your neck and snuggle in. All is soooo good that you just wanta hunker down and be glad with the universe.

That’s the way this weekend was-just coolie-o perfect and just right.

But, damn, a couple a cases of beer, a half dozen bottles of red wine, some shots, and two hangovers later, it’s over. My brother and his little cupcake saddled up and left yesterday morning taking with them tons of fun and laughter and leaving behind a quiet vacuum.

Back story time baby.

My brother and I have always been close but for many years our relationship suffered because of his marriage. Wait. Not suffered- was put on hold. His soon-to-be-ex never cared much for our family, and so kept him and his kids and herself away from us. I might see my brother at Christmas, maybe, but that was about it. We’d talk all the time but it’s not the same.

All that started changing  a year ago at Thanksgiving.

Miss Carol and me had invited my entire family down for the holiday and we had rented the house across the street for the long weekend. We knew my sisters and their families and Mom would be down, but we didn’t hold out much hope for my brother.

About a week before Thanksgiving all of us received an e-mail saying that he was coming down with someone else and wasn’t bringing his wife or kids and if anyone had a problem with it, he’d just stay away.

We’re hard-headed like that.

But we’re all also really close, so he came down and we met his little cupcake and fell in love with her. She is the best thing ever for my brother and, while I feel bad for all the divorce stuff he’s having to endure, man am I glad they found one another.

Not only is he happier than I’ve seen him in a decade, he’s able to visit and attend family stuff with his kids that he’d of missed just a few short years ago.

And hey, I get to see him more.

Snuggin’ up the warm blankie of the universe I am.

My brother and his little cupcake rolled into town yesterday afternoon for a couple a days. If past visits are any indication, and believe you me they are, Miss Carol and me are in for one rockin’ weekend.

So in anticipation I stocked up and now I’m locked and loaded and packed to the gills.

Epic beer abuse is cresting the horizon and I am sooooo ready for it.

This book makes Tug a little wary. And well it should. Apocalypse 2012 is chock-a-block full of reasons to start stockpiling survival gear.

Or exhausting all your savings and maxing out your credit cards, ’cause you might as well party hardy for our final two years of civilization.

If you buy into it, that is.

If you drink that particular kinda kool-aid, that is.

Author Lawrence E. Joseph’s premise that civilization ends in 2012 is based on the fact that the ancient Mayan calendar inexplicably stops in 2012. (Actually, 12/21/12 to be precise, which is 13.0.0.0.0 in the Mayan Long Count calendar-whatever the F that is.)

Then Mr. Joseph spends 237 pages examining scenarios and building rationale to support this end-of-it-all date.

Didn’t we just go through this in 2000?

(Oh wait. Larry debunks the Y2K comparison early on by calling it “nothing but a transition from a digitally unremarkable number to a nice big round one.”-  hey, we can’t have old doom and gloom challenging the creds of his new doom and gloom, now can we?)

So anyway.

From overdue mass extinction to increasing sunspot activity to a crack in the earth’s magnetic field to a supervolcano under Yellowstone Park getting ready to blow to the interstellar energy cloud that our solar system is getting ready to enter, Larry presents argument after argument that 2012 is going to be one wild ride.

But ya know what? Maybe because I’m intellectually impotent and not that smart, I’m not so sure.

It just seems that, like so many books of this genre, there appears to be an over abundance of author supported data and a suspicious lack of contradictory theory and facts.

Which is fine.

But add to that the fact that Larry claims in his own introduction that he himself doesn’t think that December 21, 2012 will mark the end of the world and that all he’s trying to do is present the facts and you get the feeling that maybe all he’s really trying to do is sell books.

Which is fine too.

So. When all’s said and done, Apocalypse 2012 is interesting in all the ways that strangely, weirdly coincidental stuff is always strangely and weirdly interesting, but I’m not gonna be stockpiling beer and dog food just yet.

Next up- American Nomads by Richard Grant

So this is how it goes.

Ya wanta write somethin’ upliftingly worth reading, worth the 10-15 seconds spent cruising through.

But ya can’t. It’s maybe not worth the effort or maybe you’re drunk or maybe tired.

But you try.

You turn up the music thinking that’ll help and ya force it, squinting and pushing until you give up and give birth to a lame-o post and a picture of Cutter and Tug looking longlingly for yet another biscuit.

And you slink away, covering your head in shame like a cop-killer after sentencing.