Gas for Rambo

As we have traveled across the country, one thing is for certain everywhere we go; we'll have to fill the tank with gas and we're going to complain that it costs too much. When we're driving to a new contract, we're constantly on the look out for where the cheapest gas is within the next 50 miles as well as which one is going to have the best snacky cakes to munch on for the next 5 hours (oh, and they BETTER have Mt. Dew in IV form for me). Now, I had always thought that almost every gas station was created equally. I mean, you have the gas pumps outside, you go in and there is a variety of different layouts and sizes, but most will have a few isles of candy and chips, maybe an isle of medicine directly across from the candy - never understood that logic, and then there is an area of crap. By crap, I mean T-shirts, trinkets from the area, maybe some post cards (and if you know Erica, she's hoping for the post card racks) as well as fun things like 'Pheasant dropping candy' or 'buffalo chip chips' or something odd like that. These things we assume normal and natural for the all-American drive cross country.

I was unprepared for Ramboland.

Here in South Dakota and nearby areas, there must have been a law passed that stated something like "You have the right to bear arms AND have everything you need within a convenient 24 hour shopping location for your killing needs". The first thing you will find is that as you pull up to the gas pump, instead of flyers saying what kind of cripplingly highly carbonated drinks are on sale or what candy is BOGO (really? was it that hard to just put buy one - get one people?) there is instead flyers for the killing machines. FREE REMINGTON SHOTGUN - apply for your credit card inside and use your points for a new rifle. 50% off any knife in stock with the purchase of 10 gallons of gas!. Yes, these are the new announcements. When I'm taking a break from dealing with drivers who apparently graduated from the Helen Keller driving academy, I want to be stress free, not shown pictures of the weaponry I could have at my disposal while driving down the road. I do not need to be encouraged to kill other drivers.

This should be enough. It's not.

Inside the gas stations of Ramboland, there isn't the customary first display of energy drinks. No. That has been replaced by rows and rows of ammo and stuffed heads of what you can kill if you buy ammo and walk back out the front door. Now, I'm not 100% sold on the idea of taxidermy in the first place, but we can let that one go for now I think. Either you agree with putting dead things on the wall, decapitated and creepy with marble eyes, or you don't. But I like to think that we can all agree on a few other things. 1) There comes a point where at 3am, if you didn't buy enough ammo the night before, you don't need it in the middle of the night just after the bars have closed. 2). Finding a gun rack before the coffee machines in the morning is not acceptable for anyone. I am a coffee freak and if there is something blocking my ability to get to the coffee or a line in front of me to get to it, I am likely to want to grab what is close and use it to get to said coffee. Putting bullets next to me and telling me to wait? No, not so smart.

It isn't like there are SOME bullets in the store, there are walls and walls, and pallets of them waiting for you. If I was a serial killer, this would be like some kind of disneyland of fun.

Dead body in the trunk - check
rope - check
shovel - check
gas - crap, well we can stop and get some, I was out of lethal projectiles anyway. Wonder if I should replace that shotgun now or later?

See? That type of conversation shouldn't be ok in my head. And in case you think I'm exaggerating, I snapped a picture on the way to work today because I want people to understand that giving me the chance to have weaponry when headed to work isn't in anyone's best interest

The Liberation of Skully

It was perfect. Glorious. Fun. Exactly our style. What we were needing in our life. It was a skull. And it was hanging on our neighbor's fence.

When we moved to Montana, one of the 1st things we happened to note was, in fact, a skull that was hanging on our neighbor's back fence. It was displayed nicely enough...as displaying skulls goes...but CLEARLY not valued for the masterpiece it was. 2 perfect horns arced up and out, there was a few slight tufts of fur still clinging on, it had been bleached nicely by the sun, and upon closer inspection, one could still make out a tooth or 2. How could we NOT stand on our back deck and look with wonder at this brilliant find. Only here it was...just on the fence in someone's backyard...hanging over a broken grill and not even within eye-shot of any window. Its owners...a couple of college kids from the local university...had hung it there. However, the girl who lived in the house had expressed disgust over the OTHER skull (this one still had a full spinal cord attached) that was displayed proudly on the front porch of their townhouse. She didn't WANT skulls around.

Now, I'm not one for just stealing from people. That...would be wrong. But, as Dan and I reasoned, this skull had CLEARLY been forgotten and was not even really wanted. It would potentially be doing everyone a favor if we just...say...liberated it. And so, cigarette in one hand...and the other extended, Dan stretched across the patch of yard still snow covered to reach for the skull. Careful not to leave any footprints or trail OF COURSE...as that would just be obvious and rude, Dan safely liberated "Skully" from his place upon the fence...and he found his way into our townhome...brilliantly displayed in a number of locations. Had we held a dinner party of any sort, we reasoned that we could suspend "Skully" from wires and tuck red LED lights into the eye sockets...and have a bit of fun with the guests.

Life is better with a skull or 2...and as we drove back across country from Montana to Pennsylvania, I'm pretty sure the looks we got with a horned skull proudly displayed in our car made the entire liberation more than worth it.

67, 3, 45, 98, 6, Hennepin, 9...Misadventures of Minnesota

Driving about the country as we do lends itself to a certain amount of extreme creativity and a certain amount of insanity. Then you begin noticing things that you just may not typically think about.

I first became aware of the state of Minnesota's county problem driving from Pennsylvania to Montana. I was somewhat aware that the numbering system made no sense, and as we sailed along I-90 I was reading off the county signs. "County 34. County 5. County 98. Hennepin County. County 76." Naturally I was concerned for Minnesota's apparent lack of mathematical sense, but it was what it was...and I carried on. Driving BACK from Montana, we achieved a feat of sheer insanity by driving 36 hours straight. Perhaps you yourself have never spent 36 straight hours in a car. I'm going to have to say...we had fun...but it's not highly recommended. By South Dakota, at 3am, we were trying to identify and photograph roadkill. By Minnesota, I was in no frame of mind to deal with the senseless system of numbering...and as I again read off all the county numbers...ALWAYS dramatically out of order, I found myself becoming more and more agitated by it. Likely because, by this point, we had been in the car for longer than any human SHOULD be...but I still maintain that Minnesota needs to work on this issue. I'm aware there are probably some of you reading this who ARE from Minnesota. I'll admit...I have no problems with the state, it's residents, it's sports teams, or those who enjoy vacationing there. In fact, other than this sticking point, I enjoyed Minnesota. I only take issue with the counties. Perhaps it's just me...but should I have been the one settling and colonizing uncharted territory, I may have taken the time to NAME the counties...or at least put them in reasonable order.

THESE are the things that enter ones mind when they are sleep deprived, hungry, sore, and I find that once you've sunken to the level of who can name the roadkill...maybe counties SHOULDN'T be my biggest problem. But it was. And Minnesota may need to get working on that.

Something stinks here

So I was working in a sleep lab in Mt. Vernon, IL this last summer on contract.  I can't say that Mt. Vernon is a place that I would ever want to live as it was so constantly warm and humid that I felt like I was living in some sweaty guy's armpit.  During the night, after the patients were in bed and asleep, I would go to the front door and pop it open to watch and listen to the sound of the thunderstorms which were so amazing.  Many times, the storms would be way off on the distance and you would see up to 3 or 4 lightning flashes every second, but there would almost never be any thunder.  You could watch the lightning start off on the horizon and it would ripple across the sky almost as fast as you could blink.  Without the lightning flashes, with the cloud cover on the edge of the sky, it would be almost totally dark with only the one street light out on the road which was out of direct line of sight from the door.

One night I went out to the door and I was looking forward to the sound of the thunder since I knew the storm was closer than normal.  I popped open the outer door and this stupid cat starts to dart into the building.  Now, I don't know if you have ever had cats around, but they always have this massive need to run for any open door.  I have a cat and I know how this works, I have been trained and trained well.  I knew that the appropriate response to a cat invading an open door is to take my foot, put it under their stomach and just push them back out the door.  Now, I can't say that I always do this maneuverer correctly as I have a tendency to get a little air under the cat as I make sure that I give myself a little bit of time before they run for the breach again.  Cats are fast little suckers and you know that if you don't buy yourself some time with a good launch, they will know that it's a guarded door and their ninja training will help them get past you.

Now, with my foot still sticking straight out in front of me, the cat flying about a foot off the ground I was suddenly informed by a brilliant flash of lightning that the cat was of an unusual color; black with stripes of white.  That's right, boys and girls, the kitty wasn't a kitty, it was a stinky kitty - El Skunko.  My heart instantly lost 2 beats, cold sweat and I felt a little vomit rise.  I was not prepared for this change.  I instantly closed the door, pressed it shut and held it and tried to come to grips with my sudden mortality, or at least, stinkality.  About 3 very quick breaths later when I realized that the butt bomb had not gone off, I sighed and figured I was safe.  I was not.

At that moment, this golden retriever came running out of nowhere barking at the stunned skunk at which point I decided that I was no longer interested in the lightning or in wild kingdom.

Now, they say that every story has a moral or something that can be learned from it.  What I have learned is this - if you have a cat like object trying to get into a door, do not think about terms like 'animal cruelty' or 'abuse', you punt that little bastard.  Aim for the far side of the street, you make it count.  One can not take chances.  This rule may or may not apply to crawling children as they too come fully loaded on scent glands.

In the Kill Zone...

Bozeman, Montana. Mountains. Forests. Waterfalls. Rivers. DEATH. It was here that Dan and I discovered "The Kill Zone."

To the South of Bozeman is the Gallatin National Forest...which eventually ties into Yellowstone and carries down through the mountains, along a river, and it's amazing in all it's beauty. Day trips are something we try to do wherever we are living. To see the sights of the places that we go and to mesh into the current locations. Researching Gallatin, we found that just about 15 minutes from our house was a trail-head that lead to 2 waterfalls...and we were interested in going exploring one day. So off we set...cameras in hand and hopes high. Arriving at the Hyalite Canyon Road entrance, we were rather saddened to see that it was blocked off. As far as we could tell, there was simply no reason for this. The snow had long since retreated...at least to the point where all roads were clear of any snow or ice. The website had clearly stated that Hyalite Canyon was open. Everything...at first glance...looked to be in order. It was simply a mystery.

Not immediately dissuaded, we parked the car and wandered down to the river. On one side of where we parked, the river was glittering in the sun...trees lining it's banks. To the other side, a hill rose sharply up...also thickly covered in trees...sun glittering off the slight snowpack that was still left on the ground. It was perfect...no reason not to get out...take some photos...and goof off. Which is exactly what we did. Posing on top of a little rise on the banks of the river, I had no idea that surrounding us was death. A lot of it. Dan suddenly encouraged me NOT to pose in that particular location...and pulled me down. It was then that I saw the leg. Or rather, LEGS. Several of them. Then the ribcage. I was a bit taken aback...and moved off the hill to the pavement...and we began walking up the closed road. Until Dan suddenly jerked to one side and told me to watch where I was stepping. "SNAKE" I immediately thought. Panic coursed through my entire body. It was not, however, any snake whatsoever. It was another several legs...scattered about on the pavement and onto the grass next to us. It was then we saw another ribcage. A head. Some other scattered body parts.

At home, I researched what had been going on. We had identified AT LEAST 6 bodies...and limbs to many more...arched in a circle of death around the parking area at the canyon entrance. It was then it became clear. Mountain lions. They were on a killing spree...to the point that the officials had to close down the whole area. Apparently, one poor soul had been walking his dog, when, WHAM...Mountain lion...leaping out of the tree and snatching Fido up. After this had happened a few times, it was decided maybe Hyalite Canyon wasn't safe. Then we thought about it. The bodies had been fresh. No birds had chirped. No sounds really AT ALL. They had been there...watching us...that close to snacking on either Dan or myself. Perhaps off-putting to some, this excited us, so we decided we needed to go back at dusk...to hopefully catch a kill in action. So off we set...and I won't say I wasn't aware of the notion that as Dan got out of the car to wander over to the corpses scattered about that I didn't envision him suddenly becoming a bedtime snack for some rogue animal. And there we sat. And sat. And sat. Eyes peeled and cameras at the ready...certain we were about to witness an epic kill. I report, with sadness, that this did not in fact happen. But "The Kill Zone" became one of our favorite pastimes...a place to go to check out the latest killing activity...snap a few artistic shots of death...and sit in the car long after the sun had gone down.

I'd go back. But maybe this time, I'll stay in the car.

Stick Man

Last Christmastime, E and I spent Christmas in Cleveland, OH living downtown.  When I say 'downtown' I mean literally down town, in between the two sports stadiums. The entire city of Cleveland for some reason, closes down at 5pm every night of the week.  It's the most annoying thing that you can do to someone living in a big city is take away the ability to do anything other than drink after 5.  If we wanted milk, we would have to hop into the car and drive about 10 miles out into the suburbs in order to get to a store that was open.  We would constantly ask ourselves why the city didn't want to be open at night and we would occasionally just wander out of the loft we were living in and just stand on the street and watch the locals go by.

There was this guy that would wander by every night.  Coolest guy ever.  He would go about 100 blocks from the city center and grab a few branches from trees and then as he walked back to the heart of Cleveland, he would carve the branches into walking sticks and then sell them for $20 - $40 to pay for food and tea and coffee and the like.  It's a brilliant idea, an easy way to make money and for E and I, it was a great way to get her dad a present.  E's dad loves hand crafted anything, and the idea that we knew the artist was perfect - pay him in advance for a walking stick and POOF, perfect Christmas gift for a good price.

So I paid Stickman in advance to make me a nice walking stick and he carved the most amazing face of a wizard with stars and rainbows and other flowery crap into this elaborate mosaic.  He asked if he could take it home and lacquer it a few times so that it would bring out the texture in the wood.  I wasn't sold on the idea of this, but, I was willing to go the extra mile here to get that perfect gift and I had his cell phone #, so it's not like he was going to escape or anything.  I mean, hey, the guy had his name in the paper for doing this, what could go wrong?

Death.  That's what can go wrong.

So the day before we are supposed to get the ultimate gift for Christmas, Stickman goes and dies.  I'm sitting in the loft grumbling to myself because now I'm out of ideas for what to get, I'm out $25 for a homeless man that was now no longer in need of money and it's probably in his back pocket at the funeral home.  The worst part is, is that I couldn't stop thinking about how I wanted to go to the funeral and before they put him in the ground be like "Hey, see the last thing that he was working on and that you are burying him with?  I own that. Pry open his hands and fork it over."  I know it's rude, but I couldn't stop thinking about it.  I remember thinking that it was totally unfair that the Grim Reaper had intervened to keep me from giving someone a nice gift.

Death.  It can be a jerk.

Sign Language

One of the best things about traveling the country is the signs that you find that someone, somewhere, thought was the right sign for the area and the right way to phrase it.  I go out of my way to look for signs of things that amuse me.  Anyone who thinks that all signs are created equal, well, they're not.

The Rattle Snake and testicle festival is one of the signs that I know that I have seen but I have not been able to get the right snap shot of.  I did, however, find some other ones that are well worth people seeing.  Anyone who thinks that the grape candy is innocent is probably prepubescent, children that run at the speed of light, and books that maybe shouldn't be funny to everyone, but damned if it isn't funny to me....

Take your pick.  And the next time that you see a sign that looks perfectly normal, take the time to think about how some one else may view it.