An Adventure in Two Parts: Part 1 The Great Debacle

Eric and I headed to North Georgia. Pertinent information: We needed to be at a storage unit near Eric’s father’s (Mr. Fred) house because the community that his father lives in does not allow motorcycles. Mr. Fred was kind enough to find us a place to park, which was a storage unit. The storage unit facility has a fence around the perimeter that the owners lock up at 6 p.m. It isn't a fancy place with a coded entry so that you can get in at any time, like most storage units. We had to leave very early and on time to ensure that we could make it to the storage unit before it closed down for the night.

100,000 Miles Achieved

There are many adjectives that one could use to describe me, but I think disorganized ranks the highest (maybe forgetful is tied for most relevant). I often work very hard organizing my life, but I have more often than not failed at organizing. 

December has been a roller coaster of a month for personal and work related reasons. I will preface in saying that I’m not excusing my disorganization and general forgetfulness; rather, I’m detailing how I folly. The week leading into my trip, I had an explosion of work, personal fun, and endeavors. I wanted to leave New Orleans and head towards Baton Rouge around 5:30 p.m., but through timing, last minute cleaning and packing I didn’t leave until 7:30 p.m. 

I had all the items I needed for the trip organized on my chair. I began loading up my car, and on the second trip of lugging the luggage to my car, I thought, “You got everything now get moving!” I closed my trunk, hopped in my car, and was off to visit with my brother for 30 minutes.

Pleasantries provided and back in my car head to Baton Rouge to start another adventure! About 30 seconds from Eric’s house, I think, “Did I pack my riding pants?” The reassuring part of my brain said, “You are just being paranoid. You never forget the important gear, the necessary gear.” Wrong. The part of your brain that reminds you of things was, as usual, two hours late in reminding me to do one last check of my apartment to see if I forgot anything. Stupid brain. I forgot my pants. I could ride in jeans, but for maximum protection my pants are needed.

When Eric and I see each other just before the trip we turn into two teenage girls. “I packed this and this I was going to pack this did you see the route I haven’t decided what way is the best did you get the maps this is going to be so much fun.” It is a series of run-on sentences between the two of us. In the midst of overlapping talking at each other, I mentioned my pants failure. In true Eric fashion, “O.K., we can leave 30 minutes earlier to go to New Orleans so you can get your pants.” Instead, of dwelling on the problem, he is always trying to “re-route” and find a solution. 

This is the tip of the debacle iceberg.

I woke up at 4:45 a.m. in a panic. I’ve been having problems with my motorcycle battery, due to some wiring issue that I need a mechanic to check. I haven’t had any problems since I changed the battery several months back. However, that same delayed brainnag prompted me to check if my motorcycle would start. I went outside put in the key, and the lights turned on, meters where reading all the techno stuff, I hit the starter button, and . . . I hear the painful sound of click, click, click, the sound of a low battery, not the glorious roar of riding possibilities. Facepalm. Playing musical cars, I move my car next to my bike and charge up the bike’s battery. I pack up my motorcycle, start getting dressed, then notice something vitally important missing from my luggage. I turn to Eric, and asked, “What is the one thing that a motorcyclist has to have above everything else?” 

His face turns ashen and a look of disappointment/frustration/worry travels across his eyes, and replies, “A helmet. . . You forgot your helmet. . .? 

Eyes cast down, “Yeah.”

“Of all the things to forget.”

“I know.”

“You can grab my extra helmet.”

“I also forgot my gloves.”

“Really!? Anything else?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

“. . .”

Things were rapidly going downhill and the depth of this debacle were beginning to show itself, but it was not over. 

My motorcycle started up fine once I charged it up, and I was feeling confident that it just needed a little juice (that is the technical term, right?), and now it was fully charged up. I pulled it out next to Eric’s in the driveway and turned it off to finish getting ready.

Gear loaded, gear on, and on time. We were going to make our estimated leave time! I turn my key, all looks to be working. I hit the start button and. . . click,click,click. &*%$^#$@#*!!!!!!!! Fill in the blanks as you will because I’m sure you can figure out what was rolling off my tongue.

I look to Eric and it takes him a moment to realize what is going on. Eric’s car is closer, so I run into his house, grab his car key, and move the car close to my motorcycle. Eric runs to the gas station to put air in his tires, and I set about starting my motorcycle. While he is gone, I cannot find the battery in his car. He has a Mini Cooper, and the battery is not evident. I’m becoming more flustered. Eric pulls up, and I ask him where is the battery. He doesn’t know. I say, “Screw it, I’ll just pull up my car.”

In that moment, the mother of Eric’s daughter calls. Eric forgot to pack his daughter’s medication, and she needs it. I wish I was making all of this up. 

He needs to travel a little out of the way, but needs to leave right at that moment to get the medication to her. I tell him to go on, and we can meet at the Clearview Mall in an attempt to make up time. 

It starts drizzling, but my motorcycle started within seconds of me connecting the jumper cables and starting my car. I know the battery will get recharged on the journey, so I am not worried. As I was removing the cables, I forgot to stop the car, and burned my thumb. Haste creates injuries.

Not caring, I put my seat back on, played musical cars, and hopped on to my BMW R1200 GS- my favorite toy ever. I was finally on the road. There was no rain on the interstate, just directly over Eric’s house as I’m trying to jump my motorcycle and leave. The Universe uses me to get a laugh. 

I race to my apartment, making good time, even though we are starting later than planned. I get to my apartment, put my appropriate gear on, and head back to Clearview Mall to meet up with Eric. The last layer to the overarching debacle is that it took me 15 minutes longer to meet up with him because I got stuck behind the slowest drivers in the world. I think this was a team of record holders following together like a herd of cows.  

We finally head off on our journey at 9:15 a.m., but Eric wanted to be in Mobile, Alabama by 9:30 a.m. So, we were way off time, but we were riding and the frustration slowly languishing away. 

The Parking Spot

Epilogue Bullet Points to Day 1:

-We made up time by staying around 80 m.p.h., and only stopping for gas

-We actually made the 6 p.m. deadline with 25 minutes to spare (see pic above)

-I think Atlanta traffic has by-passed my hatred for Dallas traffic

-My motorcycle reached 100,000 miles on this day.

Until I ramble on again. . .

Finding The Road

On another camping expedition, I find, even in the murkiest of mornings my trusty cup of coffee rolls back the fog in my mind. This camping trip that I went on in November was a group trip. I arrived at the campgrounds via my usually means of transportation- BMW R1200 GS (a beautiful body on two glorious wheels). It was a fun weekend full of good eating, drinking, and boating. A merriment of laughter and relaxation. This is a story of my adventure home.

On Sunday, I packed up my items and set out on a generally direction- south and east. I had the entire day to wind along roads and find roads off the pavemented path. I found a path most amusing.

It started as a small two lane road that ran along a levee. Small, quaint houses where across the road, and it felt like modern America. There was nothing overly distinguishable between the houses, speckled with small boats. Only the trees gave off an character, or acknowledgment of where in America I was currently located.

As I was traveling, I came to an incline with a sign at the top that stated, "Pavement Ends Here," which is probably my favorite street sign that has ever existed. Without any sign that says, "No Trespassing" or the ilk, I forged forward with a enormous grin across my face (I suspect).

The road was large, but littered with ruts that took a small amount of skill to traverse them. It was great fun! I found another path that headed in the right direction- south and east. I took a moment, consulting my GPS, and took a quick shot of the road ahead of me.

The road was more narrow, I had plenty of gas, GPS, a full belly, and time. I continued onward at a careful speed as to not hit any deep ruts obscured by the grass. Time was passing by and I was excitement was carrying me forward. My GPS was still acknowledging this as a "road," but it doesn't differentiate between a paved, dirt, or set of tracks. My mind was focused on the challenge at hand, when I noticed that the road had changed width and apparent use. Glancing down at my GPS, it assured me that my growing sense of disbelief in the validity that I was on a road was invalid. 

Standing on my pegs and maneuvering my way through the trail that was not much larger than two set of tracks, I came to a point of the road that showed the lunacy of trusting a machine. Unless the GPS led me towards this desolate location with the nefarious intent of my destruction. Could it be working in conjunction with some larger silicon-based intelligence to slowly exterminate all carbon-based life? Maybe there was a plan to upgrade me into a more efficient being by wiping away my humanity? Maybe I was too cunning for his/her/its plan. What others would call heedless stupidity could not be taken into account by the pragmatic and logical machines. I'll lay out the facts as succinctly as possible. 

 The "GPS" deemed the "path" in front of me as a "road". It is clearly not a traveled area by any vehicle. There are no marks to show a path. The levee that I had previous been riding next to had returned on my left. This meant that a body of water was surely on the other side. I became a touch worried as to how to get back to a road with some level of validity and reliably get me to a tarmac road. I was getting close to needing gas. I had maybe 60 miles left, and without any knowledge of the area or the nearest gas station, I had to be somewhat conservative. About 6 miles back there was a path that veered west, and I thought about heading back and venturing down its path, but it did not give me any clear indication of how close to a road/town it would lead me. I decided to push forward down the path in front of me.

Before long, I could see a gravel road on the horizon. I became excited. I pushed forward, increasing my speed. There might have been a holler of excitement, but no one was there to prove that it ever happened. Just before I arrived at the road, I noticed a barrier. There was a metal fence that was partially down. This fence blocked my way to the road. Weighing my options, I decided to risk the levee. I knew it was a very small path, but it was only a short ride to get pass the fence. It seemed that the reward out weighed the risk. Up I went, and onto the levee top I rode. Down pass the fence and in the clear I continued.


Until I ramble on again. . .

Recharging: Part 4

This is part 4 of my trip with Eric to Florida. 

After leaving Fort Pickens, we decided to drive into town, grab lunch, and plan dinner. I picked what looked like a little sports bar and grill with a patio. It was a beautiful day, and the prospect of sitting outside was enticing. I'm only telling you about lunch because of Eric. Whenever we travel, Eric likes to banter with strangers. He pretends a stranger is a long awaited friend. One of his favorite shticks is to make a passing comment as though we are a gay couple. This makes me laugh, so of course I play along, nothing over the top, you have to make it believable. At lunch Eric poured it on so thick that it elicited the response from the waitress, "It's alright, I have gay friends." If she would have ventured a look at me instead of staring intently at her pad, she would have seen me barely keeping the laughter bated.

After lunch we ventured on the other side of the bridge to secure provisions for the evening. We decided to take camping to a whole 'nother level. Below you can see we had some choice cut ribeye, corn, and vegetable kebabs. Along with this unquestionable great meal, I procured a bottle of 12 year old Glenfiddich, an affable single malt scotch with a smooth and mellow finish. From previous posts, it is evident that we don't normally travel and eat in this capacity, but sometimes it is nice to treat oneself in a luxurious manner; albeit, with some strain on decorum.

That night we slept well, bellies full and senses dulled. Waking up was easy, as it was another beautiful day for riding. We had the necessary java jolt, packed, and on our way. We stopped at Fort Morgan, and had a nice history lesson. I won't bore you with more historical information, since there are some frank similarities between Fort Morgan and Fort Pickens.

Before we could get out of Alabama, the clouds were overcast, and the ride was not beautiful, but we were riding and that is that matters.


Until I ramble on again. . .

Recharging: Part 3

This is about a trip I took in October with my riding Buddy Eric. You can read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

Whenever I go camping, I always talk about the morning coffee. It could be my favorite thing about camping. I know that seems weird, but it is sense memory. Going camping with my dad, uncle,and brother (there were other people that joined at various times, but it was at least the four of us 90% of the time), the smell of coffee was always mingled with the fresh morning dew in the morning. Before, I started drinking coffee, I would sit on the ice chest, pick out a sugary cereal, and enjoy my pick me up as the adults would enjoy there stimulating breakfast. When older, I started partaking in this ritual with coffee. From the time of a small child, you got up, without a sound, enjoyed your stimulus, and felt this sense of calm. It wasn't a calm-before-the-storm feeling, but a feeling of peace. No one really talked, and you would sit in silence allowing the natural beauty of the landscape to hold your attention. Even in large camping areas where the campsites are very close together, I am able to simply enjoy that morning. It is as though the coffee triggers that calm feeling behavioral modified all those years ago.

Here is Eric's view from his tent in the morning and enjoying his coffee.

I had told Eric that there was a path not far from our campsite to the beach on the bay side of the peninsula. After the ceremonial coffee, we decided to stroll along the beach. Actually, I took a cup with me for good measure. With the tide, many jelly fish ended a washed on the beach. They were huge.

Here is a picture of me walking across a "bridge" back to the campsite.

When we arrived back at our campsite, a Park Ranger swung by and told us to go make sure we register and pay our fee. It was pushing on 10 a.m. We put on our gear and headed to the station. I'm not sure if some one had reserved the space prior, or we waited so long to register, but the site that we were currently in was not available for another night. After a few minutes of finding spot from a poorly hand-drawn map, we picked a spot not far from where our current was located. It made the move very easy.

After moving, we headed to actual Fort Pickens. If you don't enjoy your history, you might want to scroll down. Also, for brevity, I'm going to refer to certain people and elements in there American colloquial form. 

Some quick facts about Fort Pickens:

-It was started in 1829 and completed in 1834

-It is the largest of the four forts built in the area to defend the bay/naval yard

-It took 21.5 million bricks and a plethora of slaves. 

- It was named in honor of Major General Andrew Pickens, a Revolutionary War Hero, who was referred to by Cherokees as "Wizard Owl" (I think they were making fun of him because owls are stupid, nocturnal creatures).

-Designed by French Engineer Simon Bernard

-Helped create wicked kill zones with Fort McRee and Fort Barrancas

-Imprisoned many Native Americans from varying tribes in the area, but most notably it imprisoned Apache leader Geronimo from October 1886 to May 1887.

I am not familiar with Military history, but other cultures in relation to historical context is interesting. I have mentioned in previous posts, that I had a real fascination with Native American culture. One of the things that interested me while meandering around Fort Pickens was that Geronimo (his Chiricahau name has been written as Goyahla, Goyathly, or Goyaale) who was born in the Southwest (present day New Mexico), was a prisoner at Fort Pickens for a period of time. This had me wondering, "Why would they bring Native Americans from the west to the east? Weren't European settlers pushing the native tribes onto reservations and westward?" I did a touch of surface research, and did not find a direct answer, but drew my own conclusions. A note: this is not real in-depth research. This is some Google searches and reading a couple of passages from some books. 

Fort Pickens was a fort that had been out of use from about 1850 (after Mexican-American War) until 1861 when the Union saw it as a highly defensible post during the U.S. Civil War. For about 10 years, the fort was neglected. When it was once again put in use it was reported to be dilapidated, but still a better position than the other two forts in the area. Then came the fighting with confederate soldiers. I'm sure this created more damage to the unkempt fort. 

It is difficult to summarize Geronimo's place in history. He fought against the encroaching Mexican and American armies respectively. He helped to create treaties that would be later ignored by Americans. He was a fierce warrior. He became the most famous Native American of his time due to eluding capture. There is controversy over Geronimo's surrender. I won't go into all of that, but Geronimo surrendered to the US army on September 4, 1886. He stayed at Fort Sam Houston for 6 weeks before being shipped to Fort Pickens with other Apache "prisoner's of war." This is twenty years after the end of the US Civil War. 

My supposition is that the US used Native Americans that were deemed "war criminals" and turned them into slave labors to fix, update, and renovate Fort Pickens with minimal cost. I think it probably took longer to repair after the US Civil War because the fort was in dilapidated conditions before the bombardment. During that period of time there were improvements and more batteries installed with larger cannons as seen above with Eric. Slave labor is really cheap- just food to keep them going. Geronimo stated in his autobiography, "Here [Fort Pickens] they put me to sawing large logs. For nearly two year we were kept at hard labor in this place and did not see our families until May, 1887." The 'we' that Geronimo referred to was other Apaches, but I wonder if there were other Native Americans from that area 'helping' with upkeep and continuous restoration.

The minimal research that I have done does not state directly my thoughts on the use of Native Americans as slave labor, but there are a lot of indications that they were. I think it is important to take a critical look at how the actions of European settlers shaped our current cultural climate, and for us to recognize that our ancestors (those of us of European descent) were not always wonderful or great people. They did some horrible things, and to lose site of that is to lose site of making things better for everyone from all walks of life today.

THUS ENDS THE HISTORY PORTION

I honestly, enjoyed roaming around fort and learning more about a history that I am not as well versed. There is more to come concerning this day of leisure and fun, but this post is getting long, and I will save the rest for later.

More to come.

Until I ramble on again. . . 

Recharging: Part 2

This is about a weekend trip I took with my riding buddy Eric in October. You can read Part 1 here.

Once in Mississippi, we exited within mile two, and headed towards Highway 90. Once over Bay St. Louis, you are riding right next to the beach. As mentioned before, we had wonderful weather, and riding next to the beach was sublime. There was no feeling to ride fast or find winding roads. The bright sandy beach mingled with a relatively calm ocean juxtaposed with the steady rhythm of riding on a motorcycle was settling any lingering thoughts on previous stressful events. Traffic on Friday morning was limited and made for steady driving.

Around Long Beach, we happened upon a large group of motorcyclist out for a ride. Instead of by-passing, we joined in with this large group. First time riding with a large group of people. Eric attempted to find out where they were going, but couldn't understand due to helmets, ear plugs, and age (cheap shot). After riding with the group (I noticed a variety of different plates from the southeast), we had to make pit stop, and lost the group afterwards. It was nice while it lasted.

Once in Alabama, we took Highways 188 to 193 heading towards Dauphin Island. We found some curves to have touch of the adrenaline. For some reason, Eric and I like to ride ferries [insert inappropriate joke here]. So, part of the planning was to take the ferry from Dauphin Island to Fort Morgan, and check out Fort Morgan. I think we have ridden the majority of current operating ferries in Louisiana, and feel like we have ridden 1 or 2 more in other states. I should keep better track of our journeys. Here we are waiting for the ferry.

The ferry ride was about 35 minutes. There are observational decks on the boat to enjoy the view, but I was too busy admiring myself and my bike.

The waves were a touch choppy, and our bikes rocked back and forth. We were a little nervous they might fall over, and lifting those bikes is not fun. Although we do riding off road and there is a greater chance of dropping your bike, we try to avoid from picking them up as much as possible. However, the suspension held and no bikes fell.

On the other side was Fort Morgan, and part of the initial planning was to stop there and have a look around. With the days getting shorter, we decided to visit on our way back to ensure that we have enough time to wander around and get our history on.

The drive through the rest of Alabama and into Florida was in a single word- sublime. Clear skies, cool breeze, and pulchritudinous scenery provided a relaxing and refreshing ride.On a side note the GPS ( a favorite rider of ours refers to his as Doofus/Dingus), took us oddly through downtown Gulf Breeze. It was unnecessary, but the GPS doesn't know better. The many times that I have passed through that area, and I have never seen the quaint downtown area.

We arrived at Fort Pickens with a couple hours left of daylight. The place was packed! There were a few spots open, and it seemed everyone was getting in there last bit of camping before the temperatures really went south. Although that night, the temperatures were in the high 40s, but I love the cold.

After setting up camp, instead of forging for our own wood, we decided to purchase pre-cut wood at the little story very close to the campsite. How to you transport wood on a motorcycle? Stacking and bungee cords- that's how. However, on previous trips, I have used duct tape.

The first night of camping we consumed some dried backpacking food. On a previous trip, Eric and I found out that one of these packs of food is enough for two people. We figured it out as we were both eating our own bags and became full with plenty left in the bag. Using our higher level skills of cognition ( we both have Master level degrees), we were able to deduce (read) that the packs clearly stated that it contains two 14 oz serving sizes. These are made for people that are exerting a lot of energy, and are very filling. I can eat a lot (I once ate 5 omelettes with 4 eggs per omelette and wanted more, but was forcible cut off), and have been called Mikey or Trash Compactor to give you an idea of my ability to consume large quantities of food per sitting. I was only able to eat half of one of those bags after a very full day of riding. With this previously found information of quantity, we shared a single bag of Kathamandu Curry with a glass of scotch per usual celebration.

Here is Eric prepping the meal.  

Catching some great shows on Caveman TV:

More to come.

Until I ramble on again. . . 

Recharging: Part 1

Where to begin a story can be difficult. Do I start this tale from when Eric's girlfriend (the fabulous Brandy) sent me a text (because he was driving) about having a motorcycle trip weekend? Do I start from the preparations of the trip and why we chose the direction to head? Do I start from the day of the trip? Do I start from the end and work my way backwards? Do I go Memento style and jump around?

I'll start here:

Combining an old love with a new love has proven to be an experience that proverbial recharges my batteries. I know you wonder, "Rob, why do you need to recharge your batteries so often. I mean I don't get to, and I have more headaches than you- you bum." My response is everyone needs to engage in self care on a regular and basis, and I'm sorry you don't get to as often due to responsibilities. Make a concerted effort to take care of yourself so the everyday stressors are set to 5 instead of 11. My juvenile response is, "Don't be jealous!"

 I have been camping from a very young age, and it is one of my favorite things to do. There is nothing like sitting around the fire (also known as Caveman TV) and oscillating between conversations and comfortable silence. Even large national campgrounds, there is a sense of privacy and respect for the natural beauty, which equates to people actually being respectful of their neighbors. The infinity of the sky is awe inspiring. I'm not much of an astronomer, but outer space is cool. Also, coffee never taste better than when it is brewed after a night in the sleeping bag.

 I find complete tranquility in the late evenings and early mornings of camping. I believe this is a perfect counterbalance to riding a motorcycle.

On top of Gizmo, I have solitude, but feel connected because there is not much between you, the pavement, and cars. Senses tend to run high while maneuvering around turns and the flow of traffic. There is excitement, concentration, and technical challenge while riding a motorcycle. On a side note, I will never understand not wearing full gear and driving reckless. Florida has no helmet laws and we say many people riding topless (top of their head, naughty person). It is infectious riding a motorcycle.

Combining motorcycle riding and camping has the additive effect of minimizing what you can bring. I have side panniers that hold 39L and 25L respectively; plus two waterproof bags that can be strapped down, as noted above. When packing, you have to consider length of stay, weight, bulk, and necessity. It is a big puzzle to work on. Honestly, I'm already planning my next couple of camping trips (the perk of limited responsibilities and attachments).

It had been a tedious period leading up to my weekend getaway, but I was excited. We decide to go to Florida for our trip. Part of the reason is that Florida is a short drive away, there are some beautiful stretches of road, and I had not been to Fort Pickens for camping since 2002 with my brother and dad. The other reason is that after riding in Florida, I had ridden in all the southeastern states on my motorcycle: Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida was last on that list.

We left Baton Rouge in the morning, and we could not have asked for better weather. It was cool with a slight breeze. As previously stated, I ride in full gear all the time, and riding through traffic in summer it can be less fun, but this weather it is no bother to move slow. The first leg of our journey was I-12 (the dreaded tarmac/pavement), which is just straight. Once we hit Mississippi, it was time to get off the interstate and enjoy more picturesque roads.

More to come.

Until I ramble on again. . .

Festivities: New Orleans on Tap

This is the next part of my experience at New Orleans on Tap, which is a fund raiser for the SPCA sponsored by The Bulldog. You don't necessarily need to the previous post, but it helps.

I live roughly 7-10 miles from City Park. I run between 7-10 miles on Saturdays, takes me anywhere from 90-120 minutes in the summer. That seemed like a possibility. However, I didn't want to end up at City Park completely covered in sweat just 65-70% covered, and dehydrated before I started sampling beer. Next thought was riding my bicycle, but same problem just shorter time to get to City Park. Therefore, I needed alternative ways of getting there, and driving was out of the question (over 200 beers to sample). Public transportation was the correct answer.

The way I operate public transportation is based on a simple system- is there an all day pass that allows me to jump on and off as many times I want and which modes will it allow me to utilize said pass? If a city has such a pass, I find the general direction I figure I'm suppose to go and jump on the first line. Once on transportation system, I check to see if I am going in the right direction or on the correct line. If not, jump off and find the right one. It might take longer to get somewhere, but it is way more fun. Recap: 1) Day pass 2) General direction 3) Check once on moving object to ensure you are on the correct route. 4) If not get off and repeat. 5) Find a map later.

New Orleans Regional Transportation Authority have buses and streetcars and an all day pass called the Jazzy Pass, which is three dollars and allows someone to hop on buses and streetcars all day. Perfect. The ancillary beauty of said pass is the fact that I don't have to remember to save coins for the ride home.

So not to bore you too much, I used feet, streetcars, and buses to get to City Park. I think it took about an hour of jumping on and off. It was a bright, sunny day and I was heading towards beertown, so all was right in the world.

I got my tickets to acquire samples and bands: one for being age appropriate and a second to get into the VIP area. My head was spinning with possibilities. I made a round to see all that was available. There were even two sections of homebrews as part of the cornucopia of beer. There were sample sizes (3oz) and for extra tickets a larger size (9oz). Some 3 oz cup beers cost 1-3 tickets, and the 9 oz cups were double whatever the 3 oz cups of beer. I had to plot out a course of action. Furthermore, the VIP section had beers that were not available in the other areas. There was also a selection of food to purchase.

Step 1: I ordered a drunken pig sandwich.
Step 2: Walk to VIP area because there were tables and umbrellas to block the sun.
Step 3: Ordered my first beer in the VIP tent (a 9oz to go with food)
Step 4: Map out beer consumption

The sandwich was really good, and I wish I could remember the people that I bought it from, but apparently beer was the only thing on my mind.

I had a favorite, but I will be reviewing that here.

Here is a list of some of my favorite beers that I enjoyed:

Cellar Door by Stillwater Artisan Ales
Class of '88 Barleywine Ale by Deschutes Brewery
American Wheat with Blueberries by Sweetwater Brewing Company
Ephemere Pomme by Unibroue
Miel Sauvage by Bayou Teche
There were a couple of homebrew that were amazing, but there names fail me.

Over the course of the day, I ran into a couple of people I knew, but without fail I ran into my cousin- Marianne. I really don't know how to describe her other than I can riff with her all night long- often times making me laugh hard enough to have streaming tears. Eight years my junior, but many of the same interest. During the Hurricane Issac last year, we stayed with her mom in Baton Rouge. The night was spent enjoying spirits, playing Cthulhu Gloom, and listening to Buffy the Musical on CD (hers not mine). To some this may seem boring or bizarre, to us it was a great night. Needless to say (but I will anyway), we had a fun during the New Orleans on Tap festivities.

After having many samples of a variety of beers, listening to some music, getting a free 24 oz of Ocktoberfest beer (a wink and flirt can get you so much), and laughing until it hurt it was time to retire. Marianne brought me home, through her own designated driver. We had a short stop for herbal chicken, biscuits, and fries, then it was bed and movies. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday in September. I look forward to next years New Orleans on Tap.

Until I ramble on again. . .

Stop Bullying- The Ostrich Story

*Steps on Soap Box*

Today is National Stop Bullying Day or Anti-Bullying Day (http://www.stompoutbullying.org/) and I have been reading some of the accounts that people experienced as children. I was bullied at times. The worst was during my junior high years. I was spit on, threatened, and pushed around by another kid. It stopped when I went to high school away from him. Otherwise, I have a knack for anonymity- like Buster Bluth. However, this story is not about being bullied or the bully.

This story took place when I was in elementary school (mid to late eighties). There was a kid in my class that was brown (I honestly can't remember his ethnic background, but this fact is important to the story). We would hang out at recess and play or talk about things that interested us. We talked about video games, Star Wars, superheroes, and other vital important topics to kids our age. I remember he was funny and we had a good time together. He didn't play sports and I was mediocre at best, so it was more fun to discuss the the latest GI Joe episode.

Let's draw some connections now. I went to a private, predominately white school, the kid I was friends with was brown, and I'm talking about bullying. Yes, two plus two does equal mistreatment. I remember one of the "popular" kids coming around and making fun of my friend. I can't remember what exactly was said, probably something about my friend smelling bad (which he didn't). He began taunting my friend, which created a crowd to fuel the bully fire. My friend was being picked on because he wasn't white. It is about picking on the "other". That was obvious to me even then. I did something worse than joining in the bullying like the other kids- I hide from it like an Ostrich with its head in the sand. I took the coward's way. I ran away. More accurately, I slowly crept away when the attention was not focused on me. I blended into the crowd and headed to the bathroom to escape the situation.

I knew what they were doing was wrong, but instead of joining forces with my friend, I slowly backed away from a hostile situation. I didn't want to get in the crossfire, nor did I want to engage. Not only did I not help with the taunting, but I did not even notify the teachers of the situation. Maybe I couldn't have stopped it. Maybe I would have been bullied more. Yet, maybe he wouldn't have been bullied as much because I was taking on some of that energy from the bullies. Maybe with my voice added to his, we could have convinced the teachers to stop the bullying instead of telling my friend that he was a tattletale. By doing nothing, I was perpetuating the bullying, which continued for years.

My friendship ended soon after the bullying began because I did nothing. I honestly regret not doing anything. I do not know the outcomes of the young men that was bullied or did the bullying. I moved away a few years later and experienced my own intense bullying. Sometimes we need to add volume to the voice of those that are mistreated. Even if we did not engage in the bullying outright, we are part of the problem not the solution. Stand up for yourself and help others stand up for themselves. We don't always have to lead the fight or act like the White Knight, but we can lend our voice to counter the negative outburst of the ignorant. Don't act like the Metaphorical Ostrich and believe it will all go away.We are all "other" to another.

*Steps off Soap Box*

Until I ramble on again. . .

Festivities: Origin Story

This is part 1 of this series.

I know I have been neglectful of this blog. Instead of indulging my inane need to vindicate myself, I'm going to jump right into it.

This story starts over two year ago. While visiting my parents, I went for a run in their neighborhood. It is quaint area with large pine trees (not as many as pre-Katrina) obscuring the houses, styles of houses that I do not care about, and tucked away from busy streets. On this particular run, I wanted to decided to extend my distance by running towards a dead end that would give me the there and back mileage I needed. As I ran closer to the end, I noticed two large dogs. These dogs did not have the look of "wild" dogs- no matted hair, looks of desperation. They seemed like two well kept dogs out on a stroll; buddies lounging around no cares in the world. Obviously, these were "good" dogs because their owners did not care to fence them in or provide a restraint on their daily dalliances. However, as I ran past them, I could feel the air change around me, and knew that my previous perception was misleading (stupid endorphin).

Sensing something amiss, I turned around and head backed towards the direction I had come from, but these two dogs blocked my path with malice on their faces. I stopped in my tracks and let out a loud, "Come on!" I felt like I was back in grade schools with two bullies, but these bullies had sharper teeth and quicker. An initial shout to shore up Alpha male status was met with sneers and growls. I even get emasculated by animals that enjoy sniffing each other privates as a form of flirting. Fearful of getting gnawed on by two Cujos, which was escalated by reading about a severe dog attack on a runner, I jumped into the nearby ditch, grabbed a large branch, and swung it at the dogs. This causes them to back up slightly and look for an opening to cut one of my hamstrings (this is what was going through my mind- don't judge). Using a tactic that I call brush-brush-scoot, I was able to get around the dogs and ran back to my parents house (I was like the Flash).

This encounter was a catalyst to me believing I needed a dog to run with me. In my mind the dog would deter potential threats, and push my to run often. I researched potential 'running' dogs, but saw how much they cost, and quickly decided to got the adoption route. I signed up for the SPCA newsletter, while I was rummaging through their website (http://www.la-spca.org/). Although I saw some dogs to potentially adopt, I thought better of the idea, and a can of mace is much cheaper.

After reading this, you may be wondering what this has to do with festivities? Things are tenuously connected, but connected nonetheless. I still get newsletter updates from the Louisiana SPCA (which are about once a month), and a few weeks back, I received one that was announcing "Jump the Line at New Orleans on Tap." This was a charity event for the SPCA that was taking place in City Park, where you could sample over 200 types of beer. I purchased tickets (needed for sampling beer) and a VIP pass immediately. Supporting a good cause and drinking beer- fantastic. You get to feel warm and smug on two levels.

Moral of the story: dogs wanting to kill you can lead you supporting displaced animals and beer.

There is more to this tale. Come back and find out how I take the long way round to get to the event.

Until I ramble on again. . .  

The Naming of Gizmo

I've always had a fascination with naming things. Whether it is a nickname or given name, it is interesting how one arrives at a name. According to my mom, the names that my parents had picked out for me were Elizabeth or Jay depending on gender (obviously). In a moment of genius, my dad suggested 'Robert' to my mom and she readily agreed because she had been in labor for about 20+ hours. I dodged a bullet there. The reason he named me 'Robert' is that it is his father's name (my grandfather). My dad could be nostalgic and sentimental, for he was named after his grandfather as well. I was 'Robert' until I went to college. It was there that I started introducing myself as 'Rob'.

I introduced myself as 'Rob' because it didn't feel like I was saying my own name. 'Rob' was somebody different and I didn't feel like I was talking about myself. It was a weird self-conscious thing about saying my own name. Also, college is a huge shift, and I felt changing my name would be a way to reinvent myself. Nope. Still the fool.

During college I took up the moniker of Mitch Moon for my college radio station. I play the drums, and I named myself after Mitch Mitchell and Keith Moon. Most of my friends from college were DJs, and we still call each other by our chosen nicknames- except me. Maybe it doesn't role off the tongue or fit me. Maybe if I called myself 'Jester' that would have stuck.

From previous positing about my adventures (if you haven't read about them, start here), you know I named my motorcycle Simone. This is not her original name. I originally named her 'Helga' because she is German (BMW) and there is something hefty about her.When I hear the name 'Helga" I think a hearty woman. As I rode her more and more, I realized there was a beauty to her that left me enamored. I met a beautiful German girl named Simone years ago (10 years in December), and she left me enamored. I didn't name my motorcycle after the girl. I'm just alluding to her- it is an association thing. Stop judging. However, after testing the waters with a couple of different name, I have finally found the perfect name- Gizmo III.

My grandfather had a boat called Gizmo. Then there was another boat called Gizmo II, which is the source of one of  my favorite stories concerning my dad and uncle. My dad and uncle were in their 20's and just the two of them took Gizmo to go water skiing. My dad's version was that he was on the skies and my uncle was driving, sitting on the side, while steering. My uncle hit a wave and it through him out of the boat. My dad fell of the skies. My uncle claims that he was skiing and my dad was driving. However, what happened next they both agreed on.

The boat started going in circles with no captain. As the boat was circling, my uncle grabbed on to the ski rope and tried to pull himself to the ladder to get on the boat. This is very dangerous because of the boat propeller. As my uncle got closer, the force push of the propeller took my uncle's bathing suit clean off him. He let go and tried to find his swimming suit to no avail. Dejected, my dad and uncle waded in the water as the boat just circled around until the ski rope tangled up in the propeller and stalled the engine. They swam to the boat and drove back in to the boat launch. However, the two young guys in their infinite, youthful wisdom did not bring a towel or extra clothing. The only bit of clothing was my uncle's shirt. He wrapped it around his waist to cover his naked half, hoping not to offend too many people. Fortune was not on their side as the boat launch was crowded. My uncle had to dock and help load up Gizmo on a trailer in nothing but a shirt wrapped around his waist. In my mind's eye, he has it wrapped like a diaper because that makes me laugh.

I came to Gizmo III as a remembrance of my deceased ad and grandfather, and the many adventures they had in those boats. I'm having my own adventures just on land- so it is Gizmo III

Gizmo III and Rob(ert)

Until I ramble on again. . .

Community

This is truly a disjointed ramble. There are nuggets of thought tenuously strung together. I think each section is its own thought. However, the string that holds them together is social interactions. I think I could have fleshed out each paragraph into its own post, but I like the idea of being able to read a post out of order. 

Moving back to New Orleans, I have been told that I HAVE to follow Saints football. If I don't, it is like I have leprosy and will be ostracized from the city. When I was younger, I followed football to a certain extent, even had my picture taken with Dalton Hillard in Schwegmann's Supermarket (how is that for Saints cred?).  I have not followed the Saints or any football team since junior high age (maybe younger). The only sports event I follow is the World Cup, but only while it is going on. I don't follow futbol (soccer) year-round, but once the World Cup starts up, I get very enthusiastic. This has only occurred for the past 2 World Cups (since it happens once every four years). The camaraderie that sports brings has me thinking about community and how it helps create a language for people to engage socially.

I was in a story recently, and a young man was trying to create idle talk by stating, "You gunna watch the Saints game?" Fear of an inappropriate response, I said, "Yea?" To my dismay, this furthered the conversation with his retort of, "So whatdya think the score is gunna be?" In my complete lack of even knowing whom the Saints were playing, I found a nugget of information that I learned from some movie or book. Thus responded with, "Don't know the spread. Do you?" What am I, a bookie? This halted the conversation in its tracks, and I practically ran away fully aware of my social awkwardness. This young man was attempting to make a connection. It is a store that I frequent weekly, and maybe he recognized me and was making a connection- bringing me into the community. Now I can never go there again.

Our first community is our family. I am fortunate that my father was an odd duck- his favorite movie was The Jerk. While driving, he would, to no one in particular, sing-talk, "Hello. Good-bye." He would sing, "Fritz the cat-dog. He's a cat." at random intervals. He even made a joke that is still used among some close friends about being "sluggish." I could list many more examples, but I believe you get the picture. I also have cousins that have odd humor and this brings about only a modicum of feeling peculiar in your own family. My older cousins are, well, older so it was not until I was older that a bounding began to form. I felt like a nuisance around my older cousins, whether they felt that way or not- I did.

I think books were my first foray into escapism. I used them as a means to deflect any social interactions. If you are reading a book in public, most likely no one will bother you or attempt conversation. On the other hand, if someone asks what you are reading, then you can discuss something that is fresh in your mind. On the other, other hand, that person can quickly display the thought, "I've made a terrible mistake," in a non-verbal communication, which is often loss on me.

Until I ramble on again . . .

Poetry?

Time, although only a continuos set of intervals, flew by this week. As I have about ten different thoughts, activities to do, I thought a nice change of pace would be to regal you with some of my bloody awful poetry. This is actually a reaction to me finding some of my old poetry and reading. My kindle broke, and I decided to whip out my Norton Anthologies (I have several of them from my time as an English major in undergraduate school) and re-read some pieces that I haven't read in about ten years. I have read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Beowulf,  and am currently reading Paradise Lost. My poems are nothing so intense or good for that matter. The first one, I think was me trying to be silly and playing with in a certain form. Although, I can't remember the form. It just made me laugh a little at my bravado. The other two are in the form of poetry that sounds like a sneeze- haiku.

Apples Teach

How do apples taste?

Can words decribe its essence?

Experience it!

Live

Hold a cup of tea.

Set down your stored anger.

Enjoy the moment.

The Nut Bomber

On bench do I intend my spot to watch 

A creature most peculiar bounding above.

I take a walk knowing his eyes are searching.

Someone will be target for his pecan.

His cute and surprised looks are deceiving.

Those evil eyes filled with dark intent and pain.

Lurking, hiding in shades above our heads.

On bench do I intend my spot to watch

A creature most peculiar bounding above.

He vaults from limbs with a malicious sense.

Watch the mischievous design develop.

A human is walking not aware of it,

The bomber calculating trajectory.

With a sinister smile the bomb is dropped- Hit!

Ouch! Stunned! quick, look up for the evil culprit.

But a rustle of branches is all he sees.

On bench do I intend my spot to watch

A creature most peculiar bounding above.

Searching towards the branches, but not a crackle

From above. I give a grin as he is searching

For that elusive creature who dropped its nuts

On him. I had my fun today, I walk

Away mindful of any rustle over my head.

I Found Myself at a Bar . . .

This is part 2 of 2. You can read part 1 of 2 here. 

Where was I, oh yes. You liked the cliffhanger? I actually, emphatically, asked the cab driver to let me out in front of the the pub, which is way more boring than Action Rob, so a little embellishment is good for entertainment sake.

Scientific fact: one that is inebriated misjudges distance in all circumstances, from throwing paper in waste basket to the distance from local pub to home. This fact is the impetus for me asking the cab driver to pull over at a pub that I believed was not far from my apartment. Furthermore, I had ran over 7 miles that morning so feeling like a little walk would be nothing to me.

I fall in line, show my I.D., and I'm in the pub. Much to my surprise, the pub had a beer that I have been wanting to try: Stone Farking Wheaton W00tstock. This is a collaboration between Stone Brewery owner Greg Koch, Farking.com creator Drew Curtis, and Wil Wheaton. It is an imperial stout style, with a subtle 65 IBUs, and 13% ABV (this beer geek speak). This beer was so fancy it was put into a snifer glass.

Snifer Glasses

I was feeling good. Had some laughs with cousin and her friend, played The Simpsons arcade, and ending the night with a strong, delicious beer. My luck was multiplying as a group left right when I got my beer and a table was available. Solo sitting is an art that I am well versed in and often enjoy it. Sitting at the table, probably twitting accolades over the beer, a young lady asked if her and her friends could sit there with me. I said, "Sure," with an open smile. She calls over two guys and two more ladies. My smile slipped slightly, but not for the reason you are thinking, but the guys were spiky hair, Ed Hardy wearing guys. A certain Garfunkel and Oates song started playing in my head.

One of the girls was asking me questions, being polite, but one of the guys was, I think, sniffing her. It definitely seemed like he was sniffing her. He could have been marking his territory. I was in Robtopia at this point, a far away place in my mind that is serene. One day I'll fully describe Robtopia to you, gentle reader, but for now it is happy place I drift towards. 

I just wanted to enjoy my drink, people watch, and leave. The lady asking me questions, got to, "What do you do?" Pro tip: Never tell someone that you are a psychotherapist. A glow must have enveloped me, and a proverbial de-suctioning occurred from sniffing boy. This did not please sniffing boy. He attempted physical menacing.  I am not proud of what occurred next. Something clicked in my head, maybe spending too much time around doctors, and I grabbed my glass, placing the stem between my ring and middle finger. Lounging back in my chair as though I no care in the world I stated, "I can make you cry in a matter of moments."

He replied, "You threatening me? Think you can take me?"

"I don't mean physical harm; rather, I can peel back your bravado revealing a scared, little boy with a few simple words."   I incited him (which to be fair helped create an air surrounding me of a punchable person), but the girl (I'm the damsel that doesn't know she is in anger) grabbed him by the arm and removed him from the table. This was lucky for me. An awkward silence fell over the table. I swirled my drink, drank the last bit, said (I wish this wasn't true of what I said), "My work here is done," and stumbled out of the bar.

Thus my  trek began. It is approximately 3.3 miles from the pub to my apartment (I looked this up later). What I believed was going to be about a twenty minute walk turned into an hour long trudge. Here proving the scientific fact of inebriation causes spacial disharmony. I made my way home without any problems and learned some valuable lessons.

1) If you are taking a cab home, take the cab ALL the way home.

2) If inebriated, use Google maps on your phone to judge distance, it even calculates walking paths

3) Don't walk home alone at night

4) If you are going out, don't tell people you are a psychotherapist

5) Don't incite people with pompous talk.

6) Don't write about your idiotic mis-adventures.

Five out of six lessons learned.

Until I ramble on again . . .  

I Went To The Bar . . .

This is part 1 of a 2 part series of me behaving like an idiot out on the town and why it is better for me to play games at home. The events in this story are mostly true according to my brain. Enjoy!

There are about 4 unfinished rambles that have either hit a wall or disgusted me. Woe is my artistic vision. I've been debating on writing up this story, but I figured that it might be fun to give you a snippet in the kind of trouble I sometimes get myself in, and part of the reason I don't go to bars often.

I went out with my cousin and one of her friends. They are a bit younger than me, but two girls that have good heads on their shoulders for not having full developed prefrontal cortexes (meaning the complete ability to make executive judgement has not fully developed, which doesn't happen until around age 25). Outside of that, they were funny and fun. Of course, there is a protective nature that comes out with hanging with your younger cousins causing one to lurk about (wait, do I lurk?).

Let's skip the boring parts. So we are fast forwarding to later in evening. bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (that's the sound fast forwarding makes in my head.) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (taking pictures of homeless man) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (getting called old) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (drinking) bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz (someone noticing all my gray hairs)bzzzzzzbzzzzbzzz . . .

The evening endedish at Barcadia, which is awesome outside that it is a little too swank for my taste, but they had amazing video games. I was talking to a female and in mid-flirt I had a nerdgasm for a retro The Simpsons arcade game. I had spent many of hours at arcades in my youth pumping that game full of quarters. Needless to say the female lost total interest (very use to it). Yet, I had a brilliant time playing as Homer and fighting hordes of yellow people.

After playing a bit, the girls had enough to drink, and it was time to send them back to the place they were staying. Herding them outside, I got them a cab. I have not taken many cabs in the city, heck I haven't taken many cabs in the U.S., but I have taken many, many cabs in India. This is an important piece of information because in my inebriated mind, one could only use cash for cabs. This was fact. Pay no mind that for the past year the local news has been covering how it is now mandatory for all taxi drivers to have a credit card machine in their taxi. So I gave the girls cash, and emphatically pressed upon the taxi driver not to try to rip them off or I would make like a Wookie. I don't think he felt threatened. Didn't he realize I was inferring that I would rip his own arms off and beat him with said arms? He smiled and promised to get them home safely.

Sending them off, I felt like I had my big boy underoos on. I got my own taxi. Heading down Magazine street, I saw a bar I enjoy. I grabbed the cab door, swung it open, and rolled on the pavement like Jackie Chan. Dusting myself off, I swaggered sauntered into the bar.

Here ends part one.

Until I ramble on again . . .

Rambling Etymology Part 3

Last post in this series I discussed the origins of the Tibetan Language in brief. I ended on a concept that I want to explore- thoughtful communication.

When I was a kid, physically not mentally, I was very interested in Native Americans. I think it was part Tonto, part Indian in the Cupboard, and part I thought Cowboys were dicks. I know, not very American of me, but I can’t remember having a fascination with Cowboys; rather, I wanted to be the Indians (Cowboys and Indians the classic, ironic game of childhood) without realizing I was going to be massacred.

I can’t remember the origin of this bit of useless knowledge, but it was one of the many books I read on Native American culture, and it stressed that they handled everything through an oral tradition. In certain Native American cultures, the men would discuss important business, and it was the women that would memorize every word uttered verbatim. I can’t even remember favorite lines of movies that I have seen hundreds of times, but people memorized entire conversations. Moreover, single conversations would take hours because when some spoke the other person listened intently, waiting for the other person to end, and then taking his or her time in constructing a thoughtful response. It was believed that words had powers and to utter anything in haste was wasteful, even potentially harmful. Whether this is true or not, is irrelevant since it is a beautiful notion.

I have noticed that often when I pause for an extended period of time attempting to formulate a thoughtful response I get several reactions. First type, the other person becomes impatient. Second type, the other person might believe that my thoughtfulness is my nefarious mind plotting. Third type, the other person might believe me not paying attention to what the other person is saying. Fourth type, the other person think that I’m inept in thought and communication (which is actually true more often than not).

These are all negative responses to a pause, or a thoughtful construction of a response. Why does communication have to occur at a rapid pace? Why does a dialogue need to be a volley as though we are in a tennis match? I enjoy snappy, snarky dialogue on T.V., but it further promotes the concept that intelligence is linked to how fast one can provide a clever response. How often do we step away from a conversation and think, “Oh man, I should have said this or that.”? There is a place in conversation for wit and pith, but sometimes stopping, slowing, and really listening to another can make us better . . . conversationalist.

Furthermore, if we aren’t holding on to a thought in fear of losing said thought while another is talking, then we can truly absorb what the other person is saying. If we lose a thought, it might really have not been that relevant or it will return. However, my problem is when I discuss things I enjoy, I become overly excited. This leads to rapid speech and outbursts. Mindful of speech can help in slowing conversation to a nice meandering pace. Unless some one is being an ass, then you shot the pith and wit at them with full force. 

Just food for thought.

Until I ramble on again . . . 

Dancing at the Zombie Zoo

I have had that Tom Petty Song stuck in my head ('Zombie Zoo') for about a week, but it is fitting for today's post.

On Thursday, I received a phone call from my cousin asking if I would watch my godchild for a couple of nights. Fortunately for her, my social calendar has been a bit barren. As I don't spend nearly enough time with my godchild, I thought a couple of days would be great. Being a godfather is akin to being a grandparent. I get to take the kid for a determinable length of time, spoil him, and kick him back to his parents. The difference is I didn't have to raise a child of my own to get the privilege. I was asked.

I am not a religious person, which makes the title godparent somewhat interesting. It's origins are Christian in nature. Two individuals are chosen to sponsor a child's Baptism. These individuals are bestowed the responsibility of the child's spiritual development. I view it more for me as taking an interest in my godchild's cultural development, which is why I introduced him to Monty Python.

I have a couple of their records, and played one for him as we devoured some Pinkberry frozen yogurt. The mead in the picture was not shared with him- that comes later in life. He was laughing. He genuinely seemed to be enjoying the songs and silliness. Of course, he didn't understand all the references, but on visceral level it was funny for him.

Next in his cultural lesson was Risk. I taught him how to play, but he schooled me on how to dominate. The little bugger was hitting some great roles and generally destroying. We played it off and on for two days. This is a picture early on, but he ensured that we have a picture of our final turn of the weekend to set it up exactly for when he comes back. He is yellow.

Saturday we got up relatively early for 10 year old and 32 year old males. Had breakfast and went to the zoo. The zoo was very fun. In the spirit of adventure, we explored without a map. No plan, just exploration from one exhibit to another. My godchild commented, "Why do you need a map? There are signs and every where you go there are animals." Sometimes his mouth is a fountain of hilarity. Speaking of fountains.

My godchild enjoyed the primates the most. He seemed to stay longer, showing fascination with each of the different primates. He was less impressed with the animals that were just laying around. He was more interested in the monkeys moving. My 'Sprockets' joke did not work on him, and in retrospect, should not be uttered in a public that is kid friendly. For me, I have a special place of fondness for orangutans- right next to Buffy and just below alcohol. I always think of the Librarian in Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels when I see an orangutan. One person understands this line of thinking. . .

I think the most fun was had in the reptile area. My godchild would walk up to a vivarium and search out for the specific reptile or amphibian noted above. When he would find the creature of his search, he would move on to the next vivarium. At one point, he found a snake easily and another child of about equal age walked up and whines, "Where is it? I don't see it." My godchild turned to him, rolled his eyes, and stated, "There." The subtext was 'duh'. 

The weirdest thing was the two-headed snake. The sign above the vivarium was emphatic that it was an anomaly not a natural occurrence. Here he is to creep you out now. You're welcome.

  

We saw much and enjoyed soda, roman candy, and trees (oaks are made for climbing). I think it was a successful cultural weekend. We covered foreign countries, history, and nature in the forms of British humor, 90's references, board games, dinosaurs, and lazy primates. You are welcome world, cultivating another geek/nerd one weekend at a time.  

Until I ramble again. . .