Wasting time

I'd like to apologize for the lack of blog posts recently. But, for one, I don't think there are any readers to this thing, and secondly, it's been a little hectic here. For any pitiful soul who does read this blog, don't worry, for I have not one, but two almost finished blog posts waiting in the wings for me to finish them. I'll get to them as soon as I finish ordering books for school, buying tools, finding a place to live for the next year, getting a new job, going to school (which starts Monday AAHHH!), and all the rest of life's little annoyances. Why didn't I do these things like a month ago, instead of waiting for the last minute? Come to think of it, why aren't I doing these things now? Instead of posting a blog post of about the stuff I need to do? *bangs head against wall* GAHHH!

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Excerpts of my (partially) drunken weekend festivities

First off, I'd like to apologize about not post a new blog entry for a while. It's been a little hectic here with work, trying to find a new car, registering for tech school, and getting ready for last weekend.
As you may or may not, and most likely don't, know was that last weekend was possibly the most righteous of all weekend celebrations in these parts. It is Toqua Tenneial Days, a weekend long drunken party to celebrate my proclaimed home town's founding. In the past, I've always looked forward to this event, but not so much this time. That is because, this weekend I had to work at the bar co-hosting this wickedly good time (which pretty much means feeding my friends drinks while not being able to indulge myself).
Luckily, Friday night didn't turn out as bad as I thought it would be, partly due to the fact that we had people set up outside. Inside the bar, it remained about as dead as it would have been on a Monday night. That is, until sundown. Right around ten o clock people began seeping in and it was a little busy for the next two hours. At that point my shift ended and I schmoozed with a few friends before heading to my apartment to sip a drink and play a little guitar. An hour later I decided to check out an after party a friend had mentioned. After a short walk, I discovered that the party had never kicked off, and proceeded for home, taking my time to admire the star filled sky.
To be have it, an old friend named George was sitting on the apartment steps. After some small talk and a splurge of my private stock of whiskey, we crashed a get-together down the hall. It didn't take long before the owner kicked out everyone who wasn't sleeping or dead out of there. During this time I figured I'd call a friend and see what he was up to. After a few minutes of trying to talk him out of crashing his truck into a tree (I'm glad he didn't), I got restless and headed out again. Stepping outside, I heard the winds whisper my name, and followed them down the road. Down the road, I head some load music and shouting, so I checked it out, thinking it was a roaring party. But, upon entering the trailer house, I discovered just a couple of dudes hell-bent on destroying the place and left.
So, I headed westward, recalling another friend talking about a party out at the gun club. Let me tell you, that was a bit of a jaunt. But even with the sky's filling with clouds heavy with rain that had been crystal clear an hour before, I reached my destination. There was a handful of people dancing to some tunes produced by a professional D.J., which seemed a bit over the top for an after party. But again, it didn't take long before a half dozen of us came to the conclusion to check out a party rumored to be cranking out at the campgrounds on the other side of the lake.
Now, granted, Toqua Lake is quite small, being roughly 1.5 miles across and 3 around, but that is a long trek on hoof. For some moronic reason unbeknown to me, we decided to travel the longer stretch around to the other shore (the gun club is about 3/4 mile around the western edge). Before we even made it a 100 yards, we spotted a set of flashing lights coming from town. Fearing that it may be the cops (some of us weren't on legal drinking age), we hid in some brush next to the lake shore, were we acquired a new traveling companion, a turtle named Snapper(though I'm quite sure it was a painted turtle). The lights turned out to be from a fire truck, so we pressed on. Somehow, I got elected to haul the cooler and we made it less than a hundred feet before we dashed for the shelter of the shoreline from flashing lights. In my haste, I promptly spilled the cooler's contents and we spent a few minutes pulling bottles, cans, and cash from the rocks.
Luckily, we got hold of one of my fellow traveler's parents and hitched a ride, making short work of our trip. Once there, we found the park as quiet as a grave, and hoped into a camper. After some time laughing at some male-on-male sexual innuendo and my first direct encounter with a PS3, the winds called my name once more. My wandering spirit set north and walked back into town in the pre-dawn hours. Back at my bungalow, I promptly scarfed down some food(mmmm, beef strogenof) and went to bed at quarter to six.

Saturday, I had planned to do some welding on my old Ford since I had finally got hold of a welder(I would later find out it never got delivered), but due to the fact that I stayed up til dang near sunrise and the heavy rain and winds that pummeled the town all day, I postponed that activity. I had hoped, thanks to the weather, that people would stay away from the bar and that it be a relatively easy night. Wrong! What really happened was that we didn't have anyone outside working, thus making it more busy inside. And busy it was. Luckily, the weather tamed down around 8ish, allowing us to set up outside just as the bar really began to fill. If war was a bar, Saturday night would be not unlike the Battle of Little Bighorn. There were half a dozen bartenders up against the likes of hundreds, if not thousands, of thirsty party goers. The situation seemed hopeless.
Drink after drink after drink was served, but the crowd was unrelentless and roared for more. The owner's daughter was shouting out orders, "We need more Morgan!", "the kegs dry, replace it quick!", "Someone prop those doors open, we need more airflow, stat!", "Dammit, we're out of cups, get some from the back!" It seemed to be on the edge of a riot. The towel dispenser in the bathroom was ripped off the wall. It was utter chaos. Roughly around quarter after eleven, I couldn't take it anymore and fled to the back room. I began to clean up the kitchen and haul out trash. While doing dishes, I caught a whiff of something foul. I soon realized that the stench was coming from me! I had become completely drenched from sweat and beer and overpowered any deodorant I had been wearing.
At one point while hauling out the last of the garbage, I bumped into a friend. "Done with work, Marc?" he asked in a slur. "Almost. Maybe. I think so. I hope so," I replied, my voice thick with despair and insanity. Once back inside, I asked a fellow bartender if they might still need my help. She mumbled something that sounded like having only one hour to go and that it was OK for me to leave. I think that's what she said, anyway. I punched out, walked home, took a quick shower, and collapsed in my recliner. The images of that night shall forever scar my memory, as well as those of my fellow coworkers, and I'll say one last thing.
I never wish to do that again. To make matters worse, the whole weekend only fetched me less than $40 in tips. To put that in perspective, I make over $60 back in March during St. Patricks Day. I got screwed!

A blog post about nothing!

What the heck is up with the weather? We've gotten like a year's worth of rain in the last two weeks. Last Sunday (I think it was Sunday anyway)we had a downpour that dumped half a foot of rain, causing the lake road to overflow and raised the lake quite a lot. I know Dave didn't care for it, (Dave is my tired '76 Dodge van, in case ya didn't know). Due to the fact that I left my window open a hair and the fact that Dave leaks worse than New Orleans during a hurricane, due to the roof vent and broken CB antenna, the interior was sopped. Every right turn caused water to pour off the 'dog house' (vannerism for engine cover) and drench my foot. Then come Saturday, we had a hail storm. It was actually kinda cool since I was at work. Around 7 o' clock the power went out, leaving me cooking by candle light (yeah, I'm a college drop out working in fast food, how clique). It had a really wicked primeval feel to it. Roasting dead animal parts over an open flame in a dark, smokey cave-like room. Almost felt like wearing a leopard hide and banging on a drum....
After about an hour and a half the power came back on, only to go out twice more. Had a good chuckle at my co worker, who was whining about her crummy new Dodge truck getting hailed on. Even got to watch the firetrucks roar down main street because my uncle's tractor caught on fire(curse the Fuhrman luck!). Perhaps it was a good thing that I didn't take the day off to go to the Chokio street dance....

The Maverick, my obsession...

Yep, my first car.

I still remember the day I found her (and yes, I refer to it as her. It's perfectly normal to refer to cars as people, right? ). My father and I had been driving around different car lots looking for my future ride, but I was (and still am) picky about what my first rig would be. I had my heart set on something that was old and cheap, something the average used car lot didn't deal with. The only thing that sparked my interest was a tired AMC Eagle station wagon. Heading back for home, my dad spotted it from the road. She was sitting on a trailer on a farm next to the highway.

A 1974 Ford Maverick 2 door sedan.

At the time she wore a rusty, faded metallic gold paint job with a vinyl roof that had been burned off by the sun. Being equipped with the luxury decor option, there were vinyl filled chrome trim on the sides, color matching hubcaps, and shag carpeting. The interior was quite weathered, headliner falling down, driver seat ripped, dashboard and steering wheel cracked. Time and salty roads had taken their toll on the body, leaving football sized holes in the floor and quarter panels, which provided easy access to the truck. Though disappointing at the time, a 250ci straight six sat under the hood instead of the monstrous V-8 I had been hoping for. Since the keys were in the ignition, I decided to see if see still ran. Though the engine cranked over several times, she was reluctant to start and the battery wore down. After waiting a few moments, I tried once again. This time she sputtered to life with a delightful purr and her signature stutter. It was at that moment I knew this was going to be my car.

Due to the fact that the owner lived out of state(the car was on his parent's place), I had to wait a few weeks to hand over the $250 (one for every cubic inch of motor) to make her mine. My father and I spent the next eight months making her more presentable by curing most of the rust in the fenders, replacing the wheels with some mags, and tuning the engine. During this time, I took her out on numerous "midnight runs", practicing mostly illegal driving maneuvers, such as burnouts and triple digit speed runs(which she could barely muster, topping out at around 102). By the time I turned 16, the old Ford had morphed from Grandma's little runabout into a spiffy, metallic blue, hot rod wannabe.

This old rig has meant a lot to me. As a teenager, being able to drive was like heaven, and the Maverick was ticket to driving nirvana. She's been a (relatively) faithful steed, giving me much joy and many happy memories. But, not unlike a drug, she's been my curse. In the winter, the rusted out floor and ill heater made her quite a frigid bitch to drive, and the lack of an air conditioner caused your skin to melt and stick to the vinyl seats. She's brought me many frustrations, a bad reputation, and is the sole source of my criminal record. But, she seemed to age rather quickly during the time I've owned her, and she is in a dire need for repairs. That's why as of now, she is in pieces in my dad's garage. But, hopefully, by the end of the summer, she will be back terrorizing the road better than ever (especially with the five speed manual transmission and rally-inspired theme I've got planned for her)!

Oh yeah...

Misunderstand your news

I don't know how many of you folks have ever heard of this, but there is a newspaper called the Onion. Now, it's not like your average printed media, it takes the news to the extreme. It's really a joke newspaper. Headlines reading, "Pope Returns To Vatican With Comprehensive Plan to Blow Up United States" and "Man disappears in Mysterious Kansas Rectangle" give a really good look at how they do news. Most of the articles are either really twisted outlooks at real events or made up entirely. Even small stuff such as the horoscopes are amusing, with sayings like, They may think they have you beat, but soon the tables will turn, sending the Scrabble board and all it's wooden tiles onto the floor; this coming week will be influenced by forces outside your control, namely, gravity, linear momentum, and high velocity traction; and the strange men in lab coats, aggravated by your resistance, will turn the dial to 60. They will then repeat their question for the last time. They even have wicked stuff you can buy:
I need this shirt

Check it out at www.theonion.com

Alchohol Story

Alcohol. The substance made from malted cereal grains, yeast, water, and other ingredients, that alter chemicals in one’s body and mind. There’s a few types of alcohol, beer, wine, hard spirits, each with its own subcategories. And I have indulged in most of the over the years, even though technically I’m not considered of age to do so. Unlike the normal person, I don’t black out when I drink; I tend to remember things quite well. Such, for instance, the first time I ever drank alcohol. It was the last weekend in June, the summer between my freshman and sophomore year of high school. I was fifteen at the time.

My friends began experimenting with alcohol the summer prior to this, and had offered my drinks in the past. I always stated I wouldn’t drink until I turned sixteen, so I could ‘legally’ drink and drive. But on this particular night, my friends had acquired a bottle of Captain Morgan Original Spiced Rum. I overheard people claim that this was one of the greatest concoctions created by man, but like Adam and Eve with the forbidden fruit, the temptation to try it was overwhelming. I wouldn’t normally have gone through with the night’s activities otherwise. There were eight of us, or was it nine? I’m not 100 percent sure, my memory fails me. My friends Brady, Phil, my cousin Scott, Greg and his stoner cousin, Renee, and either Meghan or Christa, possibly both. We were walking to Brady’s house, since his parents were out for the evening. On the way, we stopped to check out my newly acquired car, but in reality, it was just a safe place to refill the mixed drinks.

We made it to Brady’s house and retired to the outdoor balcony on the second floor. My throat had grown parched and went to the basement for a soda. Since I had intended to drink some of the rum, I had hoped for Coke Cola, the prime mixer of choice for Morgan. But alas, all there was were Mountain Dew and root beer. I chose the root beer, going on the concept of dark drink, dark soda. I sipped on the pop and waited ‘til the sky grew dark before I asked, “Could I have some of that stuff there?” referring to the spirit. My friends, astounded and amazed, congratulated me on lasting this long and welcomed me to the ‘dark side’. I topped off my soda with the rum, roughly filling one third of the can. I put it to my lips and let the liquid flow into my mouth. For as long as I walk the Earth, I will never forget the sensation. The flavor, the feeling is hard to describe. There was this sweetness, but more noticeable was the burn, the beautiful fiery burn. It was like I had swallowed liquid hot magma, but it was pleasurable. When I exhaled, I felt a similar feeling one gets from eating something with cinnamon and mint, but more intense. I enjoyed the rest of the night, socializing with my friends and feeling the alcohol’s effects.

Later in the night, I experienced another first. We ordered a pizza from the local bar, which had been recently purchased by my cousins. I had never had the pizza my friends ordered, but they insisted. Pepperoni and hot cheese. Oh, it was glorious. The rum’s effect on taste and fiery burn coupled nicely with the spice of the pizza. Wonderful…And that was just the beginning of my on going relationship with alcohol.