Warthog Getaway Weekend: Methow Stylee

The wonderful thing about America is that you can drive a little ways and visit practically every kind of environment you can imagine, bar subtropical rainforest and anything having to do with the Maldives, or Australia, except for certain parts of Australia that look kind of like Eastern Washington only Eastern Washington has more fat people in sneakers.  Us fat people like to visit Eastern Washington to get our 'high desert' on.  We call out 'Kangaroo!' whenever we see a dog and then laugh hysterically, and call all the ducks 'koala bears' and feed them 'gum leaves' and 'scream' when they 'spit acid', which clears the campsites around ours like magic.

This year we visited the Methow Valley for a few days.  We left a town where it was 60 degrees and overcast.  Once we crossed over the pass we were in blue skies.  We just looked at each other and grinned in amazement.  It was pure bliss from that moment on. 

Just past the summit. Pure bliss beginning......NOW.

Yeah, we pussed out and took the van instead of the Victory.  This was as much a scouting expedition as a vacation, and it's nicer to be able to scout with a cup of coffee in hand.  That, and we wanted to sleep a. in campgrounds b. on a comfortable bed  c.inside a metal box that was d. safely above rattlesnake level, because  e. fuck rattlesnakes.  You're either in timber rattler country or desert rattler country out in Eastern Washington, and either one of them will bite you right on the hine and not give a fuck either way about it.  Nothing ruins a vacation like a snake hanging off your ass. Thus the van proved to be an excellent choice.  We only paid ten dollars on lodging and our butts remained reptile-free, unlike other we saw trudging around with five or six chomped on the back of them.

The Methow Valley is a different slice of Eastern Washington. The high forests are colder and damper than the Wenatchee side of the mountains, and there's a wider variety of plants...pine, fir, alder, spruce I think, vine maple, something that smelled intensely like juniper and a whole shitload of other stuff (yeah I know I should of brought my field guide but the dog ate it. Seriously.  And here you were so looking forward to a botany lesson too. )


Lotsa fuckin' trees really close together that are cold and wet.



What you notice most are the Ponderosa pines.You know, the ones I didn't take a picture of to put here. They're enormously tall and straight with close cinnamon-colored bark cut by black fissures.  The older the tree the higher up the trunk the  short limbs emerge, dividing into shorter downcurled branches, dark and sooty looking, covered in long green needles and gold buds. Nothing traps the sunset light like these trees.  .* 

The foothills descend into rolling plain, and the forest ends in yellow dog hills and grassy, gravelly plains scattered with small clumps of sagebrush.  The road you travel through them is edged with stunted oatgrass and short, silver artemesia.


Picturesque log cabin that we saw with hills arroyo trees etc.  And a bigass horse barn in the background.

 This is western kingbird country.  You see them on every fenceline shimmering in the heat.  Barn swallows, swifts and buzzards rise in circles up the hillsides, and osprey survey the lakes.  Ravens drop small rocks onto the picnic tables to chase you away.

One block off Main Street, Winthrop...the hardscrabble life of a wily forest denizen.

Elk and deer everywhere, even in downtown Winthrop, holding up traffic as they eat the municipal landscaping, wandering through the parking lot of the grocery store, wading up the creek to watch the bikers getting overserved at the Schoolhouse Pub.

We were those bikers. Us, and hundreds more funky nasty tattooed fuckers ambling around half lit, as it turned out.  We even met some hometown refugees and stood around in the middle of the street talking with them while all the other elderly miscreants baked in the sunshine, broke various misdemeanor laws,


Just a reminder from the Church of Christ, Winthrop.

  bought tchotchkes made in Indonesia, ate barbecue, and played their music too loud as they enjoyed the 'Western movie set' ambiance.

Yeah, Winthrop is a 'Western' theme town, and it's campy and touristy, but it's cool.


...and no western-themed town is complete without an abandoned hippie castle

  They could have gone the edelweiss splattered half-timbered Bavarian bullshit route, but they didn't, which means Winthrop beats the living shit out of Leavenworth in my book.  When I go on vacation I don't want to run into even the slightest chance of yodelling.  At all. Anywhere.  That's like first on my list of 'things to avoid while on vacation' in fact. 'Ebola' and 'rattlesnakes hanging off my ass' come next.

They have a craft show/farmers' market in the park every Saturday, and I failed to get a picture of it as well.  Imagine lots of old people with long grey braids and faded hand-dyed t-shirts selling organic honey and incredible outrageously gorgeous handmade jewelery and little crocheted outfits for your laptop.  It's a really good craft show. In fact the Methow is home to a rich and varied crafting legacy, one handed down not only from the primordial Native Americans but also the hippie scum that dried in a paisley ring around the valley back in 1969.  That, and you get snowed in for four months out of the year when the North Cascades highway closes,


..and closes with a bang I might add, with you stuck behind these battlements.

 it's probably a case of craft or die.  Anywho, there was some really good stuff there.  We even bought some of it.

We did a lot of exploring the backroads.  Saw a lot of ancient hippie dwellings, tepees, yurts, Victorian homes, double wides, and 'vacation gothic' mansions.  Saw some rivers. Saw lots of mountains. Saw this malachite green lake with the picturesque lightning-struck tree in front of it.




Diablo Lake.  As the very patient forest ranger with the fixed grin will tell you, it's that color because of all the 'glacier flour' suspended in the water which reflects this specific shade of green for a reason that you'd better not ask the patient forest ranger to tell you because it makes a vein in his forehead swell.


Then we came home. And here I is!



*The description I give here isn't of nursery-perfect specimens but trees that have survived fire at least once in their lives.  They generally survive a flashing-over and even lightning without noticing much, and come back green the next spring.  So there.

Methow Valley, Part Un: Rolling Huts

Last weekend we hit the road.  On our trip through the Methow Valley we stopped at took a look around at the Rolling Huts,  http://www.rollinghuts.com/, something I've wanted to do since I read about them in Dwell Magazine a few years back.  Now you need to be a good reader and go visit the site, and at least let the slideshow on their home page reel past........OK, done?

I was really interested in seeing how the years had treated their design concept.  Yes, I know how to party while on vacation. 

In the article I read, the original plan was to tow them around in the surrounding fields.  A client could request a certain view (and there are astounding views) or even daylight exposures, and they'd trundle the entire structure about to accommodate the request.

The Rolling Huts no longer roll, unfortunately.  Each one sits on an enclosed gravel pad, wired into service.  

Here's what I think happened: 

1. A Rolling Hut as massively overbuilt  (immense steel i-beams, gargantuan metal chassis and wheels) as these are probably became a Tilting Hut or even a Sinking Hut right around snowmelt.  Not to mention what their sheer passage must have done to the fields over time...'level' probably got pretty scarce.

2. The experience they were selling at the outset was 'aesthetic-spartan-rustic'. The design is gorgeously aesthetic. Wood heat is rustic.  But living without electric light and a place to plug into the 'Net is just too damn spartan for people who can afford to spend 135.00 a night on lodging.

I asked to take a look inside one of the vacant Huts and fell in LOVE.  These are beautiful objects both outside and in.  I have nothing but compliments for the layout, the style, the efficiency, the way natural light is  handled, everything.  Being inside feels good.  I could stay here happily and never feel awkward, isolated or cramped; no small feat given the square footage and the fact that there's a wood stove in the place.

Only problem for me: you have to go outside and use a tank toilet. 

Why they didn't build a door that communicated directly from the living space I do not know. As designed, you have to go completely outside and then enter a very chilly little separate chamber near the steps which contains a porta-potty.  Which smells exactly like a porta-potty.

This is where ideals and reality collide for me.  I'd GLADLY exchange the electricity for a propane incinerating toilet http://www.storburn.ca/storburn.html .  As for the 'go outside' aspect, I'm sure that anyone staying there with small children would appreciate not having to haul them out into the snow in the middle of the night one after the other to use the thing. It was a weird decision, but I wonder, given the 'turn three corners' layout of the toilet area, if the original idea might have been to leave it doorless so you could feel all 'al fresco' and peek out at the view.  It'd work...just not in an area that experiences blizzards.  Putting a door on the area was probably a last-minute thing.

I would have used more durable materials for the interior, given that these are rental units. They used plywood for the walls and built-ins, and cork composite for the floors.  There's a lot written on the 'room rules' card about being careful and not letting wet equipment, sharp equipment or dogs ruin things, but I have to admit that so far their guests have been pretty respectful. The places are holding up just fine.  Use has only burnished things a bit, to very attractive effect I have to say. Another point Rolling Huts!

I also noticed that the clerestory glass had cracked up in the corner where the woodstove stack passes through the roof. Woulda put an s-bend in the pipe to move it a little further out from that corner, but that's the kind of thing you note in retrospect. It doesn't leak.

Rolling Huts would work PERFECTLY in an area like the Southwest. I mean PERFECTLY. You'd only have to change out the existing glass for heat blocking glass ( http://www.solucecorp.com/product.html), and add some solar panels to the roof. They'd be neat little self-contained eco wagons.  'Burners would flock to them like lemmings to a tall cliff.

A private owner could take out the the bathroom door and open the area back up to the breeze;  even do away with the tank entirely; just leave it at a seat over a hole and let the chips fall where they may, which would make the coyotes happy. Not particularly welcoming if visitors happened to arrive while you were inside, though. But rustic as all git-out.

Yelling Night the White Ox: Terror Attack!

There really isn't a better way to spend an afternoon than digging through dead peoples' belongings.

  I spent the past week doing zackly that and having a total blast, on a quest to amass the record collection I never had.

Back in 1971 I saved up my allowance and bought a shitty Wurlitzer portable turntable for twenty-eight dollars at Sears.

I owned it through Jr. High and High School,  twenty moves, one failed marriage, several cats and a baby.  But despite all that it turned out to be a virtual Volkswagen Beetle of record players...beat it, abuse it, treat it like shit; it just kept on going.

The day came when the turntable started running at random speeds, going from a quaalude draaaaaawl to Alvin and the Chipmunks;  which was funny as shit  during one of the Bikers' records but completely unacceptable during Hendrix Live at Woodstock. Upon performing an autopsy, we discovered a lot of change, cigarette butts, bottle caps, Cheerios, a needle worn down to a stub, an interior packed tight with  a giant dusty...thing of some sort, and the white cotton string (!) that ran from the motor to the turntable so caked with grunge that it  had worn down to a thread. 

I  picked out all the change, consigned the carcass to the dumpster, and that was that. Since there wasn't any money to get another and there were bills to pay, it was time to sell the records too.

I had a chunk of bucks invested in those records, but they were surprisingly easy to let go of and I didn't miss them much.  Part of the reason why was that I didn't own anything that you couldn't hear on every pop-ass radio station in America every hour of the day.  Mainly it was because that, aside from Hendrix and Led Zeppelin, I hadn't actually owned any music I loved.
    
'Why' hit me years later. Back when I was buying albums, the music I really wanted wasn't carried on the west side of the Willamette. It wasn't even broadcast on the west side of the Willamette until late at night, so I owe at least some of my taste to an inability to sleep and a lack of late-night management presence at radio 101.9 .

Of course as soon as I discovered the Internet I started building some shit-hot playlists.  With that on tap, you might wonder 'why bother buying vinyl?' 

  I'm not a purist. I'm not a trophy hunter. I've been a volume abuser for 52 years so my eardrums probably look like iron manhole covers...but even I can hear the difference between music recorded in the 70's played back digitally, and the same music on vinyl played on a turntable. In that case, vinyl genuinely sounds better, with that lush, plummy tonal quality that only comes from liquid dinosaur.

 Analog recording wasn't done with a tin can on a string. It was a precise science, and a vast amount of research and money went into producing very specific, highly controlled results throughout, and that included taking into account how the ALL of the equipment and materials involved effected output.  After all, that output was the product they were selling...on vinyl, that went onto a record player, and came out the speaker.  It was the quality of what came out of the speaker, after all, which either brought customers back or drove them away.  To put it another way, if it was recorded to be ON VINYL, it's only going to sound the way it was meant to sound played off vinyl. That's why I'm buying record albums. Plus sometimes you find weed.*

Per my recent experience I can tell you that, if you hurry, you can still completely rebuild your record collection, no matter what the genre, from the 70's onward out of resale stores and garage sales, and you'll pay exactly what you paid back in the 70's too, if you're willing to look past the jacket condition.  If you're vigilant and lucky and willing to drive out where the aging longhairs roam and the Greatest Generation retired after seeing the world, you can find even older stuff too. But 'cha gotta hurry, because it's all disappearing as fast as the Internet generation can gobble it up.  For every dirty old crate digger out there gloating over Ish Kabibble 78's there are three skinny hipsters trolling the shallows.  It's  charming to hear someone one-third your age mention Ida Cox in tones of reverence, until you realize that  reverence is based on the price in yen.

That aside.  In a weeks' time I've scored some nice stuff, and all of it is in damn near pristine shape. I was really surprised, but in fact very little of what I looked at was damaged at all. That we knew how to take care of our records nicely speaks well for a generation of people who thought of Doritos as a food group.

 See, I know you're now asking yourself 'fine, you have records, but who has a turntable?'  Why, I do. I has a turntable.  An excellent turntable.


When the Playboy of the Western World went to that big bathhouse in the sky, we inherited his sound system. This thing was 20 years old when it came to us and solid as a fucking rock, with components (Pioneer) and speakers (Bose**) that still perform flawlessly.  Turn it up to 'eleven'? 'Eleven' means absolutely NOTHING to this device.  '6' on the volume control is loud enough to hear across the street, and although the calibration promises '30' I've never taken it past '18' because when I do I start ovulating charcoal briquettes. 

This is what a weeks' effort turned up; not connoisseur stuff but not too sad or lame either, I think, except for maybe Right On Time which I bought because I liked their shiny outfits, and that they gave their astrological signs in the liner notes:

Winelight...Grover Washington Jr.

Ray Charles Live In Concert at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles

Sweet Passion...Aretha Franklin

In the West...Jimi Hendrix

Right On Time...The Brothers Johnson   

Stompin' At The Savoy....Rufus and Chaka Khan

Headhunter...Herbie Hancock

Endless Boogie...John Lee Hooker

And chilluns, I got them for 3.00 APIECE.

 

___________________________________________

**Research in the field leads me to believe that hippies were a careless bunch of folks. LP jackets were a common hiding place, though; beside skanky old vegetation I've found love notes, dollar bills, cockroaches and antique blotter acid.  Imagine your cat getting ahold of that. Although with a cat it might be hard to tell.

**Bose advertising is not bullshit. We have the home range 'sound environment' package: quad wall mounts with  floor unit dual speaker boom chamber; pretty snazzy stuff for the era in which it was made.  

Yes I know I know I know ALL RIGHT ALREADY I haven't posted in a longass time I'M SORRY. Actually no I'm not.  It's been a very intense few months.


Awhile back I had to fill out an assessment form which was used to determine whether or not my grandson had ADD-ADHD.  Different behaviors, coping styles, things like that; rated them on a scale of severity or occurrence.  As I was going through I began to notice that not only did it describe my grandson, it described ME. 

Long story short, I gots it. Bigtime. Oh holy shit bigtime.

Now this is quite a paradigm shift.  You think of yourself as relating to the world directly, right; I mean why wouldn't you?...until suddenly you find out you've merely been coping with reality for 52 years through an intervening perceptual disorder? Yeah, you'd have your paradigm shifted too. 

Learning about ADD has been very illuminating, by which I mean 'comprehensively suck-ass.'  I haven't felt this kind of  crawling embarrassment about myself, looking back on my past actions, since I was a hormone-addled 12 - year - old.  On the other hand, there's finally being able to identify the problem and the relief of being able to change it...a relief that I've been clinging to like a tubercular steerage passenger clinging to a lifeboat surrounded by icebergs since it is the only  fucking thing that's been easy or pleasant about this.

Well fine, there's been the sudden dramatic decrease in the level of bullshit too.  I've gone from being an unwitting victim of ADD to being very proactive, relentlessly directed and able to maintain certainty.  And that last item has been key.  For me, the issue of 'certainty' has been the number one quality that made ADD so debilitating. 

When lack of certainty is hardwired into your experience of reality,  it means that every single waking moment of your life is ruled and defined by a constantly shifting ability to experience stable meaning... and the subsequent core drive to attain it.  Anything snares ones' attention, inspires repeated examination,  leads to questions which lead off into other avenues of unrelated inquiry, which leads to opening 15 different programs on your computer which is by your wallet which makes you wonder where your keys are and also reminds you of Francis Scott Key andOH LOOK A DACHSHUND.  It happens instantly.  All the time.  Just like that you're way off track, and there's a dachshund.

When I say 'a constantly shifting ability to experience stable meaning', I should point out that there are times when the range of shift is mild, and even times that it actually locks into the correct location on the scale and operates the way it's supposed to. Of course,  you can't depend on that happening either. Imagine the fun.

It's only since I've been taking Ritalin (Adderal ended in flames; made me barf all the time - Strattera turned me into an Emo, only not fun to be around or carefree and upbeat like an Emo, and 52) that I've really gotten a lock on this, and in the course of doing so I have come to two conclusions:


1.  I get a lot more things done now.

2. I am a lot happier now.


And that's a very good place to be, kats and kittens.  Better late than never.
_________________________________________


I am the last person on earth to discover Last FM, aren't I.  Yeah, it's sad. 

My husband and I were using Rhapsody, which turned out to be a complete boondoggle as far as I'm concerned.  You subscribe, thats nice, right up until they decide that their reconnection period should be two weeks long instead of a month every so often, just for shits and giggles, and you get hit with a dead player out in the middle of East Chucklafuck.  Their library was not as inclusive or complete as I would have liked it to be either. In general it glitched constantly, loaded slow and required an inordinate amount of time dicking around with settings and controls and updates and synching and using the less than helpful 'Help' pages.  I must say, though, their customer support people were very nice. 

Last FM, though, is pretty sweet.  I've been using the hell out of it.  It's nice to simply choose music and play music, instead of calling Bill Gates on the phone every five minutes and sobbing into a handkercheif while he burns sage on your cpu and dances around in a loincloth.  Tell you what, it definitely beats GrooveShark all to hell.  It does seem a little 'Skrillex-centric', but then everything is lately *bats away  nice sprites*.

6 - 5 - 12

Ray Bradbury died yesterday. 

Anyone who is not appalled that this news isn't  featured on the front fucking page of every newspaper in America has no soul.

How To Get An Opposum Out Of Your Dryer

It is 11:01 and I have just heard a gunshot, close, followed a second later by a man yelling 'Aaa!"

I didn't see anyone outside.  Before you castigate me for being a reckless dipshit, know that where I was sitting when these events occurred there are three huge picture windows.   If I was going to be seen by anyone, I would have already been seen, if you catch my drift.  All I had to do was turn my head slightly.  Nope. Nope. Nope.

So now what do I do?  Nothing is what I do.  Absolutely nothing.  Which freaks me the fuck out.

None of this would have gone through my mind when I lived in Seattle.  I'd have heard the noises, it would have been someone getting shot, and I would have unobtrusively slipped to the floor and butt-scooched my way into another room to call the police.  Same as when I lived in Portland.  That's what you did.  It was tough on pants.

But here, since I didn't see anything, I can't do anything...except sit here and worry about spree murderers.

The thing is, people fire guns a lot out here.  Back when I lived in a city, you heard gunfire anywhere, it meant one thing, you did one thing in response, and that was that. You at least were left with the illusion of safety, depending on the police department involved.  Situation finished.  Here...? Not so simple. 

Sound could simply be travelling particularly well that day.  It could be hunters up in the foothills, it could be a nearby farmer killing a bull calf, it could be smugglers, or just kids shooting bottles off a rock. It could be a drive-by across the border in Huntingdon (thats right Canada, don't be all smug like 'Oh, there's no gun crime here, we're a civilized country' damn old cheese-worshipping puck-humpers with your 'eh?' and your goofyass money.)  It could be someone putting down a dog.  It could be someone test-firing a bird cannon. Shit, for that matter maybe someone found a possum in their dryer.  Talking to the appliance recycler, he says this happens all the time. They come in through the outside vent (the possums, not appliance recyclers.)  You generally don't freak the fuck out about it, though; you leave the laundry room open to the outside and throw some dog food out there to bait him in the right direction. Then you slam the door behind him and buy a louvered metal vent cover. A surprising number of dryers get shot that way, though.  Imagine opening your dryer one morning and there's an ugly greasy possum in there with a mouth full of underpants;  you're going to freak the fuck out. Anyone would. 

When I first moved to the country I was played for a rube by an Australian Shepard dog, who herded me, in my car mind you, all the way down the street and into the driveway of his masters' home then ran around the house in furious circles barking.  "Aha!" I thought, veteran viewer of the old 'Lassie' series, "His master is probably in there seriously injured and unable to reach the phone!" (I've also seen one too many LifeAlert commercials.)  So I zoomed back to the police department and filed a report.  Eyes were rolled, my friends.  Then there was the time I called the cops one midnight because I thought someone was trying to break down my door, and it turned out to be another dog.  It can be said that I am known for goofy reports down at the cop shop.  It might also be said that dogs like to fuck with me.  I'll just sit here ignoring the impulse to call the police, and hope the next knock at my door isn't the worlds most polite spree murderer.  Or a possum.

A Note from Normal

As you may recall, I was recently diagnosed with ADD.  Nearly three hours ago I took my very first dose of Adderal ever.

This is the first time in my adult life that I've ever sustained the kind of mental focus I'm now experiencing for longer than 45 minutes at a stretch.  Not a narrow, intense focus either...a generalized, 'yeah, uh-huh' kind of focus.  And I'm not knocking that; it's interesting in a 'yeah, uh-huh' kind of way.  I'm also discovering just how much of my time and energy has gone into maintaining a whole battery of coping strategies.  Having that extra mental activity absent, letting those strategies go unused for this long is also mildly interesting; the key adjective so far being 'mildly'.  So far, 'normal' as a base state is kind of like moving from Castle Frankenfurter into an anonymous tract home.

What in heaven's name do you people get out of this?



When my life is going well and outside annoyances aren't being annoying, the inside of my head is entertaining as hell, vivid and colorful.  I experience the world as a succession of intensely interesting, surprising, and exciting things. This is not to say that it isn't also full of giant robot pterodactyls and  wiener dogs and Volkswagens and stuff, because it is. 

Apparently the average mind is an index that operates like a three-dimensional flow chart, and query 'x' will always, in the average mind, follow proscribed pathways through that flow chart to arrive at solution 'y'.  My mind, however, is like a latex Habitrail in a state of constant molecular passage through an intricate perpetual-motion sculpture filled with hummingbirds and random explosions. 
You will always reliably arrive at 'y'. 
I'll arrive at 'y' too, but the process will also trigger a hundred other operations along the way, so I'll simultaneosly arrive at w, r, q and d. And a small cow.

On the other hand, my learning and coping abilities, such as they are, have been forged by the kind of undersea pressures that would crush your average lifelong normal thudpucker.  Now that I've emerged from those aphotic depths, lurching like some unimaginably primeval beast from the midnight sea onto the innocent shore, garlanded with seaweed and emanating a presentiment of ancient evil like a foul aura beneath the frozen moons' averted gaze and so forth, beware all upon whom I turn my unswerving gaze.

I noted the same effect when I was treated for depression years ago (minus the seaweed.)    Once the fog was lifted, all the strength of will I had developed in the effort to simply survive catapulted me into the lead. I was able to process and internalize twice the recovery twice as fast.  Now I can feel the same potential for forward progress. I think that once I learn how to trust that my attention will remain undivided, anything that I train that faculty upon will eventually give way before it, or be whammed into chowder with a shovel, depending on the mood.

Still, I honestly fail to see what this state has to recommend for itself on a long-term basis. This is so...average.  But now I finally understand why the rest of you take drugs. 

You take drugs to feel like I do when I'm not on drugs.

Souptacular Recipes from Yesteryear

I'd have to nominate Campbells' Soup as the biggest negative influence on the average middle-aged Americans' diet. It was a soup, of course; although unless it was Chicken Noodle I am hard pressed to remember it being served as such.  More often, Campbell's Soup was used as a sauce, an extender, a binder...

....with a tip of the hat to DaNator

....and apparently as a cake ingredient.

In my house, as I suspect it was in many other homes, it was also used a culinary band-aid.  Don't throw away unrecognizably charred horrifyingly over boiled perfectly good food! Just blop a log of Campbells' Cream of Something on top and bake the sapsucker! And don't forget to stick some cheese, pearl onions, tater tots, Corn Chex, cornflakes, fried onions-in-the-can, Doritos, Fritos, Ritz crackers, soda crackers, coconut flakes, walnut chunks, whipped cream, miniature marshmallows or barbecue motherfucking potato chips on top particularly if what's underneath is extra disgusting.*   Take it from one who knows...you could hide a lot of evil under a thick coating of Campbell's.  Or a locomotive, or your mother.

There was no escaping it! The stuff was everywhere! Any family or group event you attended - weddings, funerals, picnics, reunions, potluck dinners and birthdays - half the food on the table would have been made using Campbell's soup.

And so, in the spirit of sharing the dark side of our American culinary heritage, I'd like to present this recipe to posterity: 

AUNT LILLIANS' BISQUICK, CAMPBELL'S AND VELVEETA PIZZA
... My cousins used to tear this shit up like wild pigs. 

CRUST: 
-2 cups Bisquick
-1/2 cup water...knead for 1 minute then roll out and shape into circle 1/4 inch thick on pan. Pinch dough around edges to form slight rim.
TOPPING:
-1 can Campbell's Tomato soup, undiluted, shlooped out of can directly onto raw dough and spread with a rubber spatula to cover thinly
-1 lb hamburger (crowd pan and boil until grey. DO NOT DRAIN.)
-Velveeta cheese, sliced, to cover every single square inch
-1 can black olives, sliced in half
Bake at 425 for 30 minutes.

The thing about this recipe is that it would probably be marginally edible if the cheese was anything but Velveeta. 

Velveeta does not melt well when baked.  What it does, is burn.  And at this temperature, it burns rather spectacularly, complete with flames, black smoke and little specks of ash floating around the kitchen; and this is exactly what happened every single time my Aunt Lillian served it.   The smell was exactly what you'd expect any milk product in flames to smell like (i.e a sweaty t-shirt covered in baby formula barf and then used to clean a wood stove.)  In presentation this dish resembled a well-used manhole cover, the hamburger sticking up in craggy lumps beneath a fragile vitreous glaze of burnt processed cheese-food, the olives laid out all shiny and wizened up on top of the thing like little black Volkswagens caught out by an asteroid strike.

I trawled the back alleys of my cookbook collection, and here's the closest printed thing I could find right offhand to the above:

...from 'Favorite Mormon Recipes' p.o.box 3075 Montgomery, AL 36109...in case anyone wants the address

You see? I'm not making this shit up.

Neither am I making this up:

Heres' the thing about the Campbell's recipe books c. 1940-1970 (and I have several)...they suck.

 Campbell's Inc. clearly gave less than a lukewarm, runny shit about what went between the covers as long as there was something there besides clip art.  Now you market this shit to newlywed girls with little to no clue, and put it on the table in front of a public who all smoked like fiends anyway, who's going to know any different, right?

Campbell's is responsible for popularizing such staples of the mid-century table as:

And...

Green bean casserole, from the kitchen of someone who likes food, is really delicious and something to look forward to. This one will give you something that looks and smells like the aftermath of a nuclear incident nearby a tiny alien logging operation.

 I don't remember anybody ever making this with Cream of Chicken soup, probably because that would have been marginally tasty. No, they always made it with gross-ass Cream of Mushroom because vegetables are supposed to be obligatory and disgusting, not delicious.

The Campbell's version of stuffed peppers was something I used to dread... a slimy, wrinkled, parboiled punishment on a plate. You stuck a fork in them and they burst, and this liquid that tasted like over-boiled green beans ran out and filled up your dish as the pepper deflated and laid there  like a gross saggy wrinkled Jolly Green Giant scrotum.

Here's the cookbook picture:

Looks pretty good, right?  Until you look closer.  That pan has never seen the inside of an oven.  Those peppers are raw. That's right. This is fucking staged.  And  you know why; because they took the first pan out of the oven, recoiled in horror, and called in a professional.  You make this dish according to their recipe and the peppers come out all pale and squatty and freaky, the tomato soup on top burns black because it's full of corn syrup.  Remember?

And what about these taste temptations?

...this wins, hands down, as the defining gross childhood dish of the 20th century.

I have no idea why this even exists as a recipe. But this is the actual Ur-tuna casserole recipe, right here. Lucky you!

Everyones' parents LOVED this shit. Absolutely loved it.  I have no idea why. Not only did it look disgusting and taste disgusting, it smelled like a taxicab seat. And there's fucking PEAS floating around in it.


And vying for number one with 'Pressure-Cooked Anything' on my childhood list of culinary horror:

This isn't out of the Campbell's cookbook.  It's out of this one again:

...published by people who really, really did not like Mormons, although that's just my opinion.

  This recipe is absolutely the most horrible thing that's ever been done to a piece of beef in the history of food.  It's absolutely revolting.  Our house version was, you took the steak and dumped the seasoned flour all over it and then beat it to death with a toothed mallet for about 20 minutes, turning it over and scraping all the frag and flour off the board and dumping it back on and whamming it in until the meat was pale gluey Easter pink and thin and holey enough to read a newspaper through; and so huge you could use it as a bathmat.  Then you just flopped in in the pan with everything else and let it boil for an hour while you stood over the stove with a Pall Mall dangling from your lips and poked it with a fork.

So remember, middle-aged America, the next time anyone tries to face you up about some of your food horror stories, you just show them this.  And don't forget to tell them...it gets worse.
Much, much worse.


________________________________________________________________
*ever notice that? You could always tell which casseroles were the nasty ones; they were the ones with the most delicious toppings.

Old Cookbooks: Why, God, Why?

I've been collecting old cookbooks for years and years and years and years.  Just lots and lots of years.  Lots of them. 

I have good cookbooks, average cookbooks, old cookbooks, and new cookbooks...but mostly, I have weird cookbooks and I have very, very BAD cookbooks.

Here's a few of the weird ones. 

I got this one at a YMCA thrift store in Sequim. Sequim, for those of you unfamiliar with the PNW, is where lifelong residents of the Northwest go to die. Now we know how.

The title is 'Cooking With Condensed Soups'. Ladies and gentlemen, there is a CAKE on the cover.

I haven't even cracked the thing yet. I just love knowing I own it.

You gotta clickie for the biggify on this one. It's worth it.

This is like a bad acid trip you'd have after reading the Wizard of Oz books. Seriously, if you opened your oven and found these things climbing around inside it you'd ask the landlord for a refund on your cleaning deposit, wouldn't you? Irregardless of which, you really want the recipe, don't you.

Your Worst Nightmare

 I have a bad haircut, no patience for bullshit,  a drivers license and a handgun.

Furthermore...

I'VE JUST BEEN DIAGNOSED WITH ADHD.

Be very afraid.

Why I Live Here Redux - a - go-go

This is real, this is not Photoshopped, this really appeared on the church readerboard down the street:

..it was a barbecue. What do you suppose was on the grill that day?

It's Greek because the price is hairy, fool

Let me take a few moments of your time here to save you 3000.00 dollars a  year off your grocery bill, OK?  This won't hurt.  Stop struggling. No the handcuffs are part of the proceeduWOULD YOU HOLD STILL DAMMIT.

You go to the store and what they're selling as 'Greek' yogurt is running SIX FUCKING DOLLARS (and change) A PINT.  And this is the part that makes Big Dairy wealthy and you stupid:  The only difference between regular yogurt and 'Greek' yogurt is that the 'Greek' version has been drained of about 1/3 to 1/2 or more of it's whey content. 
That's it. 
I am completely serious. 
If you've been buying so-called 'Greek' yogurt and paying that kind of cash for it you need to quit being retarded now and read this carefully so I can un-tard you.

You will need:

-One bigass container of regular plain yogurt-the milk fat content is up to you. This should cost you four dollars and change.  You will be saving TWO ENTIRE FUCKING DOLLARS is what I'm trying to tell you here.

-A bowl

-A colander or strainer that fits into the bowl, leaving an inch or more space between the bottom of the bowl and the bottom of the strainer thingie.  (You could sit the colander up on an overturned coffee cup set in the bottom of the bowl to get some height.)

- clean, white paper towel

Instrucciones de yogue of Greek:

Colander goes in bowl.
 Paper towel goes in colander.
Container of yogurt is blorped out into this.
Let stand at least one hour

VOYLER!  What's left in the colander is now 'Greek' yogurt! 


Need flavoring?  Add flavoring. Or  stir in 1 1/4 cup raw hamburger and walk around with it packed in your armpits until it starts to itch.

You will lose about 1/3 the mass you had originally in the form of whey.  You can dump this out, or drink it (I do; it's very sour but I love sour things)  use it to make bread or pancakes with, or-if you used unpasteurized live culture yogurt- use it as starter for any cultured food you might be making.  If you're manufacturing cyborgs and you've chosen to use a wetware CPU (i.e a raccoon brain) or growing a dermis using your own skin cells,  room-temperature whey makes a good interim nutrient solution.
_____________________________________

Or you can use the whey as a home remedy that is going to sound gross as hell but I swear to you this works like magic:

Got a sinus issue? By which I mean a seeping horrifying festering infection filled with dark strands of necrotic tissue and  other suspicious-looking fragments which might be insect parts?
We can fix this.

-Strain the whey free of white chunks.
-Add some warm water, enough to give you about three cups of liquid
-Add about a level tablespoon full of salt and stir to dissolve
-Bend over a sink and gently suck this mixture up out of a cup using your nose.  Seriously. I mean this.  The salt will keep it from stinging and burning. Really!  This works!
-Fluid will collect in your mouth; spit it out.  Alternate spitting with just sucking up water into your nose until it just fills your sinuses, holding it, then blowing it out of your nose. Finish off the whole cup. AND RINSE THE SINK OUT AFTERWARD geeze. Including the trap.  Trust me.

Repeat every couple of hours.

This will take care of your sinus issues in a couple of days.  Usually takes two with me.  No really I mean this.  Take it from a lifelong allergic person who spent a lot of years being really poor-this works like MAGIC.  Yes it's repulsive. That's part of it's charm. 

Does it taste funny? Does it smell funny?  A little.  Nut up. Your disgusting sinus infection tasted and smelled funny too, didn't it.
DIDN'T IT.

Like, and love

Here is where I am at, right now, me.

'Love' is oxytocin.  Love is limerance.  Love is that emotional rush, that 'you are my everything and my reason for being' primal, animal, meat bond that forms between animals for the sole purpose of survival and perpetuation of being.

'Like' is my choice.  'Like' is based on who I am, my history, my preferences and my predelictions, based on reason and experience.  'Like' is intellectual.  'Like' is WHAT I CHOOSE. 'Like' is based on who I am and my taste.

'Like' is what survives when 'Love' wanes.

'Like' is what keeps me connected to the fellow beings I select, based on what I prefer.

'Like' never dies.

'Like' is what Love takes root in, and the only thing that will make it flourish.






Holy shit I am a profound motherfucker.

Three Things People Overcomplicate With Rhetoric

The Patriarchy: I'm right because I can beat you up.
It is no more complicated than that. It simply isn't. 

Juggalos: I'm really, really, really, really stupid.
Really stupid.  Just amazingly, amazingly stupid.  Truly, profoundly, just stupid.

Vegans: Animals are people and my eating disorder is a virtue.

Speaking of vegans, please...save the Jethro Kloss 'stand on the seat in your Birkenstocks and pee all over yourself' stuff for home. Seriously, that's just retarded.

More Nevada, or, Go On Another Trip Already We're Sick of Hearing About This One

The coolest 'vacation spending' thing we did on our trip to Nevada was rent a car.  I mean, we've rented cars before, but this particular experience was so streamlined it was fun. 

You hit a tram right at the airport that goes through a tunnel and over a freeway at 650mph with little kids and baggage glued to the back wall; you end up at a huge traffic complex filled with taxicabs, shuttles and car-rental buses. All the little kids and baggage fall to the floor and you get out.  You get onto one of the buses that your car rental agency runs.  The bus smells really good, like a delicious tropical fruit drink. The driver puts your bags away and you whip off at 650mph over another freeway to a hugeass complex that kind of looks like that three-dimensional chess game from Star Trek (TOS) only it's not made of Lucite and it's full of cars and rental agencies, and only on the inside because the outside just looks like a big concrete box surrounded by depressed palm trees. You are dropped off at your rental office and a person takes you to your car, you get in and off you go.  It's almost as quick as it takes to describe it.

Of course, once you get in that car, you're on your own.  And finding your way out of Vegas is retardedly difficult.  I more than suspect that's the whole point.

Our car was nice. Tinted windows, air conditioning that would freeze a side of beef in three minutes flat, and faster than almighty shit.  Either I am way older than I thought, or they have made amazing strides back at the Pontiac factory. This thing would crack 100mph without any encouragement whatsoever and the only way you realized it was that the 'Coyote and Roadrunner' landscape loop got kind of blurry as it went past.  This is no exaggeration, it really happened. Usually while I was driving.

It's true that as you get all old and shit you return to the tastes of your childhood. Specifically, those tastes that come loaded down with artificial colorings, guar gum, polysorbate 80 and monosodium glutimate.  It probably has a lot to do with the soft texture and oversalted, fat-laden mouth feel too, but whatever it is, you go back to it in times of uncertainty, like when you're travelling and you don't know where's good to eat. Like we did.

Now to be fair there's nothing whatsoever in the way of decent cuisine going on in Nevada...or if there is it's guarded more closely than the secret of the Wu Tang clan.  No, there isn't, you folks who are saying what about those fancy restaurants in the big name casinos.  It all comes off the same truck.  It's all food service.  It doesn't make that much difference who is back there setting it on fire when what they're starting out with is identically sourced and identically average.

And surprisingly this didn't bother me too much.  We ate a few meals at the buffet in our hotel, and it was pretty bad, but it was bad in a nice, familiar way, which was weird until I figured it out.  It had as much to do with the ambiance as it did with the mooshy textures and neon colors. Aside from a few odd decorating choices and all the morbidly obese old people, it looked, sounded and smelled exactly like a school lunch room.

This held true wherever we went.  Food service in Nevada is aimed at slopping the hogs fast and efficiently, and you cruise right on through no matter where you go, no waiting, no fucking around, pay, get your food, eat it and leave.  Food isn't the main event there.  Gambling is.  Apparently gamblers aren't real concerned with food.  They are concerned with cars and shitty jewellery.

There was an entire neighborhood devoted to luxury car dealerships. Not just one BMW dealership, but competing BMW dealerships, and Cadillac, and Lexus, and Rolls, and Ferrari.  After awhile you simply don't care anymore. Yeah, there's another Lincoln dealership, whatever. But our interest in late-model cars is pretty jaded anyway since we've owned so many vehicles over the years. Once you've owned and driven a vintage luxury barge from the Golden Days of Automotive Excess, a brand-new status car just doesn't have that much appeal.  We're so cool.

There were more jewelry shops than I have ever seen; just an unbelievable freaking heap of jewelery shops everyfucking time you turned around. And it was just awful crap.  If there's a shortage of industrial diamonds, I know why; because I have never seen so many shit-colored diamonds in my life. Actually this was my first time, but still. They sold every kind of jewelery you can possibly imagine, including stuff that had no business being jewelery like engine parts and exercise equipment and giant bugs and dead shit.  Mostly skulls. Not small skulls. Not 'Day of the Dead' stuff. Just regular average skull skulls. They even came in sizes, from infant to 'oh what the fuck.' The things were everywhere, and they were all covered in 'diamonds'.  I had no idea there was such a market for skulls with sparkly shit glued to them. The most popular were:  wolf, human, saber-toothed tiger, dragon, and deer. Some of them were hinged so you could keep your stash in there. Some of them had a loop on top with a chain so you could wear them around your neck.  What shall I wear today?  Full sized deer skull, with antlers. Yeah, going to the supermarket in my life-sized deer skull necklace, with antlers, that's covered in crap-grade diamonds, that's hinged, picking up a gallon of milk, getting tangled up in the grocery cart because my necklace has antlers, yeah I have a coupon for that right here in my deer skull, hang on.

The number one market for all this crap jewelery seemed to be middle-aged women from Luzon.  Every single one  of them were covered head to toe in metric shit tons of cheap sparkly Chinese bling like a protective exoskeleton of awesome sparkly over tight, black, fetishy clothes.  Like the officers' uniform of a disco spy unit, or really short extras from The Road Warrior. I have no idea what this is about, but it was a welcome treat for the eyes.  Other than them, the people watching was kind of dismal, unless you had some kind of weird interest in old white people, which I do not.

We had fun, though, and I'm glad we went. The last time I was in Las Vegas was in 1977, when we saw Kathryn Kuhlman make people fall down, after which we all sat in a dusty baseball field eating Kentucky Fried Chicken out of a box.  Seven hours was not enough time to develop much of a feel for the place.  I still can't say I have a perfect feel for the place, but then again I now know I don't feel a need to anymore, so theres that.  See?  Travel is broadening. Particularly if you eat at the buffets.

Why I Live Here

The sign at either end of town reads 'Sumas: A Nice Place To Live...And Do Business'.  My house is the first thing you see right after you pass that sign, and I try to keep the place looking nice. So it was that  I came to be outside yanking weeds last Summer when a couple of bicyclists came riding past reading the sign to each other in snarky voices and laughing.  I flipped them off and said 'Yeah, keep on riding, assholes' as they passed. They had the nerve to look astonished.  But I was hurt, y'all.  Snotty fucking bicyclists and their snotty fucking attitudes.  Keep pedalling your kids' toy right on out of town and don't let a combine hit you on the way out, dipshits.  We wouldn't have you.

Is it perfect here?  Depends on your definition.

The wind through here can reach hurricane force in Spring and Fall, and does so often. If you have a metal shed, you either tie it down or you watch it fly away like the Wicked Witch. On the other hand, snow doesn't stay around for long, since it never really gets a chance to touch the ground.

There are times that it smells like you're living in a cow butt.  Silage, flattened skunk, aged dairy pee and rotting cole add to the symphony of delicious aromas on certain still, humid days.

We have weird next-door neighbors.  They live in a tottering house just barely visible behind a tangle of un-mowed grass and overgrown shrubs and trees.  (Migrating birds love this jungle and I've added seven new species to my life list just by looking out my kitchen window at their yard.)  The neighbors hoard animals. Rats seem to be their favorites. Occasionally those tame rats come over to visit and to amble around in my flowerbeds and lick their butts in my front yard. The daughter likes to argue loudly with the pear tree, and occasionally on nice nights she comes out onto the back porch and screams gibberish.  Perfectly nice woman in her right mind, as is her mother, who I haven't seen in two years. We haven't seen the father in over five.

I've had worse neighbors.  Hell, I've had worse family. Add prime birdwatching and the knowledge that they'll never, ever complain about anything we do over here (mainly because they don't come out during the daytime), and you have a situation that is pretty much ideal for both Hippie and Biker and the type of element we attract. In fact it's like the Small World ride at Disneyland here. I dress up like a toy nutcracker and the Biker puts on his dirndl and everyone sings about global brotherhood, and you never hear a peep from next door.

Across the street is a hayfield.  In the spring and summer, and on  into the early fall they take a harvest off it about once every three weeks, and my allergies kick into high gear. The mower sends a fine green mist into the air as it circles the field, which you can taste.  When the silage equipment comes through and shoots the cut green hay into the wagon,  the fermented spray that creates acts like a heavy drifting fog that leaves dried ripples of fibrous stuff on windshields, windows, and the side of the house.  The crud I dump out of my vacuum cleaner turns beige and fluffy for a couple of days, and when you sneeze it tastes like grass. That can get annoying.

On the other hand  I can go into City Hall dressed in yoga pants and a cut off t-shirt with my tattoos hanging out, or caked in mud with shit all in my hair like aphids and twigs and stuff, and compost down the front of my pants and my shoes tracking wet lagoonage,  and I can speak with the Mayor just by asking to. Any damn time I want.  Or the Chief of Police.  Or anyone on the City Council or in the Works Department. I've done this. Despite my appearance they'll listen to me and take me seriously. They did.

This kind of casual accessibility is priceless.  These people aren't sequestered, they aren't faceless; they don't belong to a different class than me and they don't live in another part of town...they're neighbors.  I see them wearing torn sweatpants buying animal beer at the Quickie Mart.  We know each other. Cops included.

Last winter when the Biker was working graveyard I was up alone about midnight when I heard something outside at my front door. Something THROWING ITSELF at the front door!  I could see the door shudder with each blow!   Pistol in hand, eyes bugging out,  I dialed the police.  Before I hung up the goddamn PHONE they were in my driveway shining a spotlight.

No it wasn't a tweaker. Or a zombie. Or a zombie tweaker. It was a stray dog. Why some random-ass dog tried to bread into my house at 12:03 at night is still a mystery.  I still get a big smartass grin and wave every time I see the officer who answered that call.*

Here's another example.  One day the Biker decided out of the blue to stop off for a drink after work at the local watering hole, three blocks away. Once there, he thought that it would be a good idea to take three of the brand-new pain pills he'd just been prescribed that afternoon with a Long Island Iced Tea, because he is a man.  After that hit, he realized he was feeling a little funny; so because he is a man and also sixteen and bulletproof, decided it was time to drive home.  Very slowly.

On the wrong side of the road.

With a police car following him. 

The police simply made sure he got home safely and let it go.  Never said a word, never issued a ticket.  Why?  Because they know us. We're not fucked-up people. We don't make a habit of visiting the local watering hole, let alone driving 10mph on the wrong side of the road.   That, and they probably realized that the best thing they could do in terms of deterrence is to let him face ME. 

But the best example of why we live here happened while we were away in Nevada.

We pay our utilities directly to the City.  Once they bill you, you have I think it's three working days to settle before they send a guy out.

We got caught up in the preparations for our trip, and the bill went due two days before we left.

We came back after four days gone and receive a telephone call from the city.  Did we know they had to shut off our lights?

WTF?  Our lights are still on.

Oh, 'Local Philanthropist' paid your bill.  Holy crap lady, we're glad to hear from you.  We've had the police making welfare checks on your place for the past three days! We were scared you guys were laying dead in there or something! I mean there were cars in the driveway, and...

OK freaked-out person. We'll be right in. Don't worry.

I went down and everyone in the office is all relieved.  Oh, there she is! Thank God!

The cops peek in from their desk in the next room. 'We didn't know what happened to you guys!  You usually let us know when you go away! We didn't know what to think!  I was going to get a dog and, because..' 

Local Philanthropist wanders in. 'Listen, it's OK if you need time. I know you just got back from Vegas-'

Not at all. Here's the cash.  We shake hands.


And that's why we live here.
________________________________________


*Of course, I have a history of dog-centric police calls. Like the time someones' Australian Cattle Dog decided to herd me, in my car, all the way back to his house, and then lead me around the whole farmyard five times barking and crying before running off. I called the police on that one, because I've evidently seen too many episodes of 'Lassie' as a child, and figured Timmy was laying in there with a broken leg helpless to stop the weasels from eating his face. Turns out this dog likes to herd vehicles. He's even stopped semi trucks and herded them back to his farm.

Quaint Vignettes From My Charming Rural Idyll

The Biker is descended from original (white) settlers here in Subdued Excitement. If there is a street out hyar that was named prior to 1900, chances are that it's named after the pioneer family homestead it lead to, and that the Biker clan is related to that family. They liked their strange, those Bikers. Which is a good thing, particularly when you consider the whole 'rural and isolated' part of the equation. This is a part of the country where memories are long and people stay put generation after generation. Long-time residents hear a last name and go 'Oh. You're a 'Fill In the Name,' huh?' after which you're either welcomed and accepted, or turned down for a loan, or remanded to sheriffs' custody. If you've ever read 'To Kill a Mockingbird' you know what I mean.

We got a visit yesterday from one of the self-appointed family historians, who came to consult the photographs and papers we inherited from the Bikers' father, the Playboy of the Western World. In passing he mentioned that what we'd thought was the original family homestead was instead the second one. The actual factual first homestead was only a short distance away, and the two cabins that those early Bikers had hammered together from cedar logs, sawpit baulks and hand-whittled pegs are still there and still inhabited. They've been remodelled over the years of course, but the original structure is still clearly visible.

Across the street from the main ancestral manse is a graveyard. We walked through and found where the Bikers ancestors were planted. I was happy to see that despite their age, isolation and Goth appeal, the old granite and marble markers have lain unvandalized all these years.

It brought back a lot of memories for us about the Playboy, and how much history was lost when he passed away, and how much our visitor had resembled him in feature, turn of phrase and gesture. There is no mistaking a member of the Biker clan. It was the type of sodden winter afternoon, overcast and windy, and certainly the type of excursion, that made you think about mortality. It was an interesting day.



Today, the Biker was almost killed in a head-on collision on the way to work.
_______________________________




A car tried to pass a semi in the oncoming lane, doing 70. It shot out in front of the Biker, who braked hard. The car missed him by less than a foot and continued on into the ditch at the side of the road, plunging at speed beneath a concrete flood control grate.

The Biker pulled over. The car in the ditch was bent in such a way that the rear tires were actually higher than the roof, and the roof was smashed backward by the impact. The Biker reached through the window and held the man upright because he was drowning in his own blood. It took a rescue team and lots of equipment to cut the car from around the man. He was alive and in a lot of pain when they took him away in the ambulance.

The Bikers vehicle? Not a scratch. The Biker? Not a scratch.

So he went to work.

The Bikers are a hardy fucking breed, folks.


_________________________________

You're Happy And You Have The Lobotomy Scar To Prove It

Part un: How do I find the meaning of life and the reason I exist?

Damn it's a good thing you came here. I can seriously help you with that shit because I'm old and I know more than you do.  Now this will get a little convolute but I don't feel like making it any clearer because I've spent a long fucking time getting it narrowed down this far. So then.

Start by looking in the right place. Don't ask your dog, for example. Try to use some common sense here.  People who seem to have a lot of meaning and reason for their lives are a good place to start. The microwave is not.

'Reason' and 'meaning' are then formed from what is found in the combination of ones' favorite personal experiences of observable reality and ones' personal history of experienced reality with ones' favorite versions of other peoples' stories about their history of experienced reality.* Doesn't mean the result will be right, but you'll get a reason and a meaning you can understand.

Bear in mind that expecting the conclusion you arrive at to apply perfectly to everything all the time is like looking for a pair of shoes in a steak using a sweater. It won't. Why? Because at the same time you're engaged in this process, other people (although not nearly enough of them) are doing it too, which means that ideas and points of reference will shift. Things outside your sphere of perception and control are meanwhile continuously beginning, changing and ending. Bear in mind too that your ability to perceive is limited, and you will never achieve omnipresent omniscience, which even if you did, might not provide you with much of a 'reason' or 'meaning' anyway.

It's OK though. Here's what you do in the meantime:

Come up with an idea you like about meaning and reason and test it by attempting to use that idea to effect a specific outcome. If the test bears out your idea, then you adopt the result and use it as a tool to investigate more ideas. This is called 'having a life and living it'. If your idea works, then at this point, you experience 'belief' and 'certainty' and 'increased efficiency'.

If it doesn't work, then this is the point at which you experience 'doubt' and 'instability' and 'suckage'.

What do you do then?

You don't just continue to try and wham the original fucking idea into fitting the results....you come up with a new goddamn idea and see if that works.

It will not kill you.  In fact about 3/4 of the time you will experience the resulting paradigm shift as an enormous sense of relief. That 1/4 of the time you experience it as fucked up, when it destroys everything that came before and leaves you bereft of formerly familiar landmarks, is the point at which you get to make a very simple decision: build a new paradigm, or go back to the old one?

What do to?

Well...did the old one paradigm bite? Build a new one. All the phenomena you based the old one on is still there, you just have to recombine it and probably throw out a lot of stuff.  This is an important point.  Subtraction is a part of creation.

Did the old paradigm provide you with things that you believe to be important to you? Return to it.

All done? Good.

I know what you're saying. No seriously I do. Yes I do too. Which is why we'll tackle the issue of happiness next.

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Part deux: Happiness - it's not just a city in China!

If you listened to your dog when you asked it about meaning and reason, then right now you're probably eating cat crap. Do you experience this as pleasant, fulfilling, relevant and survival-enhancing? Then you're happy, and you need to go sit over there and be happy.

If not, you're unhappy, and you still need to be sitting over there.

You do not fix unhappiness by telling yourself that you actually are happy, any more than you fill up your gas tank by telling yourself it's full. 
You certainly do not solve it by telling yourself that you should be happy. Why? Because 'should' doesn't put you at 'happy'. 'Should' puts you at 'still pre-happy'.
Nor do you fix it by making other people agree that you're happy and getting pissed off at them when they won't play along.
You fix it by deciding to be happy according to your own standards, as discovered by implementing the principles in part un, and then changing things around you until you are.

Start here:
The more fallacies you base your life around, the shittier your life will be. Thus it follows that if your life is shitty, what you believe-or are trying to believe- right now is REALLY STUPID.  Therefore:

Quit believing in stupid things. It makes you do stupid things. Doing stupid things makes you unhappy.

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Part C: 'Qui Custodit Portam Asinum Caput Mouere Prius Habito'
Which is French for 'wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first.'


People who deceive themselves are first of all aware of the stupidity of their data. In order to complete the operation they must then decide to continue to utilize it.
Stupidity is a state.
Self-deception is the decision to impose that state upon yourself. 

As such, it is usually painfully obvious to onlookers.  Those who lack the mental furniture to detect it are exactly the type of supporting cast that anyone looking to achieve happiness does not need, yet deserves, and will get.  Nothing attracts more stupid like stupid, as we observe in the case of the Insane Clown Posse.
Magnets: how do they work?
Muthafuckin' rainbows.

The decision to replace action and change with self-deception subsequently and invariably creates great deal of unpleasant suck. Where many people would say 'hey, this sucks' and stop doing it, the determinedly self-deceived generally refuse to abandon the use of lies, and attempt to lie their way around this suckage by erecting higher and more elaborate buttresses of lies, which effort feeds back into itself resulting in an ever-increasing rate of material and metaphysical entropic decay; or, as it is commonly known, a giant clusterfuck of stupid.

The by-now completely overwhelmed self-deceived will commonly react to this snowballing state of affairs not by abandoning their initial strategy, but by imposing a greater volume of self - induced stupidity....attempting to cover it all over like a cat shitting in a gravel driveway by using more lies combined with abreactive stress responses. And all the while, their fucked-up paradigm state steadily propagates as they continue to apply it to the people and things around them.
Get it? It propagates.
Your determination to be stupid and behave stupidly makes other people miserable to the direct degree of their involvement with you. Your determination to CONTINUE this behavior makes their lives worse exponentially right along with yours.


Got it?  Now QUIT BEING A FUCKING IDIOT.

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*Wasn't that easy? You can stop paying for those e-meter sessions now!

Muk Visits Nevada: A Photo Essay, With Photos

The Biker and I visited Laughlin, Kingman and Oatman, and a little bit of Las Vegas, which was horrifying. We took pictures with our digital picture taking thing. There are batteries inside it. It is called a 'camera'. 'Camera' is Latin for 'room'. Now quit bugging me about it. The pictures show images of things we saw. Like this:






This is the road to Laughlin. Whole lotta nuffin, is what you see in Nevada, in between casinos and tiny, bleak towns filled with mobile homes and identical tan houses. Why didn't I take any pictures of Vegas? Because you can go online and see pictures of Vegas. That, and we spent only as long as it took to rent a car and return that rental car in Vegas. Fuck Vegas. I mean seriously fuck Vegas.



This was taken on the main street of Kingman. Why didn't I take any pictures of Laughlin? Laughlin is fucking ugly, is why. Laughlin consists of one main street with five or so bigass casino-hotel complexes, surrounded by identical tan houses, and desert. Fuck Laughlin. The Colorado River runs through it, and it's ok as rivers go but it's a RIVER, PEOPLE. If it were on fire, or was filled with hybrid dolphin-humans, that would be another story, but it isn't.


This is the side of the storefront Catholic Church (traditional) in the last picture. Remember? The one with the fat chick? That one. Jesus has an air conditioner on his shoulder. Remember back in the 80's when everyone was carrying around a bigass boombox on their shoulder? Yeah. But Jesus is a practical guy, and this is the middle of the Great Basin desert. If he wants to hear tunes he can duck into a tavern.


...like this one. Only this is a cocktail lounge. I think Jesus would dig the sign.


This is another painting of Jesus we saw in Kingman. Someone needs to buy this because it is cool as shit. You want it, it was in an antique shop called 'Bubbies'. The same person painted another awesome-ass painting of a Chicago Dog, and I wanted that sapsucker bad, but it cost 300.00 and there isn't a hot dog in the damn world I'm going to spend 300.00 dollars on cool or not. Fuck hot dogs.


This is a random mountain just poking up out of the desert outside of Kingman. This mountain is so old it is actually CRUMBLING into dirt, just from standing out in the hot sun getting baked to shit and then freezing at night for weeks on end like it has. If you have a mountain you should think about this. You can ruin a perfectly good mountain without meaning to really easily.


You see this here? This is the reason me and the Biker came to Nevada in the first place. This is some of the last few remaining miles of the original Route 66. We wanted to see this and travel on it ourselves. Now it's paved. It wasn't 60 years ago.

This is a ghost of what the Dust Bowl migrants faced in their desperation--20 unpaved miles across waterless, shadeless, open desert, headed straight toward the sudden dangerous grades and washouts of the jagged stone mountains in the distance. Crossed with sand-filled arroyos that the tires of the cars sank into, washes that could turn into a pit of death and erase you without warning if a flash flood occurred...caused by a rainstorm you never saw, that happened far away in the hills. The desert is still giving up the bones and belongings of these people.


Once well into the hills the stone and sand begin to give way to amazing desert plants, cacti, mesquite brush, palo verde and spanish dagger, alien and spiny. There is no sound and no smell of water anywhere. The still air perceptably draws the moisture from your skin and your hair crackles with static.
In places the road is supported on piles of stone rubble. Once well into the mountains it shrinks down until it is barely two cars wide. The hairpin turns and switchbacks are short enough so that you can scrape your car on the stone walls of the mountain in navigating them, and the grades are dangerously steep. Some of the washes you cross are so narrow that long vehicles can get lodged tight stem and stern between the downhill and uphill. This shit is not for the fainthearted driver even today. Imagine it in a Model T. I wish I could have gotten pictures of it to illustrate what I mean, but there was literally no place to get out of the car to do so. This was taken on the only wide turnout we found. It's some plants.


Up in the middle of these mountains you suddenly come into the little town of Oatman. Named after a Victorian era woman with a facial tattoo who was enslaved by the Paiute, in fact. (go Red Team!)

Among other inhabitants of the place are a herd of semi-tame hippie-ass donkeys that were turned loose way back when the mine up the road switched over to mechanized transport. The donkeys lie down in the middle of the road. They wander into the stores. They lick your windsheild. They eat cactus. They crap where they want. They do not give a fuck.


This is pretty much it for Oatman. It's in a ravine, and the town, such as it is, is perched up on the hillsides on either side of Route 66 going right through the middle.



You have to look around the corners for the 'old' Oatman to peer back at you. A lot of what stands is whats been built and re-built for years out of what remained after something fell over or burnt down. Some of it still remains, though.


If I have to live in Nevada, I'm going to live here. I'll craft motorcycle 'windsheild wipers' out of donkey leather and sell them in the summer for beer money. Come winter, I'll just pop the air conditioner out, give it back to Jesus, unblock the stack and stick on the tin chimney, fire up the woodstove with 100$ bills, uncork the Recipe, light up a cigar and watch the snow fall in my living room.


This'd be my next door neibors. The house is a cabin thats been sided and drug up to another cabin as an addition. It's built up on mesquite posts and rocks for a foundation, and the gap between the floor and the hillside closed in with shaved log slabs. The aluminum windows are salvaged, and the old shingle roof is roofed over with another roof of tin for whatever reason.


Just out of Oatman the road flattens out and becomes straighter, the grades become less nerve-wracking, and it's a long glide down into the desert along the banks of the Colorado River. This is the perfectly magic, perfectly timed sunset we saw as we rounded the last bend on Route 66. It went straight through me.

Now I have to go pee. You should probably go pee too.