Gramma,
It's been crazy busy around here. Dave took last week off to gather his wits for Union negotiations this week. Mostly, that involved sitting on the patio drinking, stewing and putting words on paper that he wanted me to reconstruct. If ever I was to apply for a job, I would put down Union Interpreter as one of my talents. This involves translating Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck Fuck into something more palatable for management.
On Friday, we took off for a three day weekend with the bike club. We put on about five-hundred miles total, looping through the backroads of Wisconsin farm country. The ditches were full of wildflowers. Hay being baled is one of my favorite childhood smells. The corn looks good this year, a little ahead of the "Knee High By The Fourth of July" rule.
Amish people were farming with horses. We gave a wide berth when passing horse-pulled buggies. The slowest McDonalds on the planet was on our route. Some Amish people left with enough food to for the zombie apocalypse.
The bartender at one stop had on bib overalls. I got lumpy Spotted Cow tap beer at another bar. After dumping two glasses, I asked for a bottle. I do not drink warm beer. Back at the dive motel, we did our serious drinking. Some of the guys had noisemaking fireworks. Surprisingly, we have never been kicked out of a motel. On occasion, the police have shown up to our campsites. Outrageous stories are told and legends are made.
My daughter and her guy friend arrived late Sunday. Guy friend's name is Aashkahn. I call him trashcan. They are here for a week. We have been hanging out, drinking and laughing. They don't get up until around two. My schedule is off until after the Fourth. Stories to follow.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
Friends Don't Let Friends
Gramma,
Five-hundred miles and ten t-shirts don't make you a biker. You can always tell a new biker by their leathers--all shiny and black with no scuff marks, creases, or scars. They are proud of this and stand apart like a new kid on the first day of school, full of anticipation and desperately wanting to fit in. They want to be recognized as a biker, but are uninitiated. This process can't be expedited in a special fast lane or by greasing palms. You have to do the time.
Surprisingly, doctors and lawyers, who have endured years of training to reach their goal think they can get a biker degree off a matchbox cover. But, you can become a HOG member if that makes you feel more legitimate. This is a group set up for new Harley riders who want to get to know the road and other newbies like themselves.
My own chaps have acquired a burnished, brown, sunbaked patina from the knees up. My jacket is covered with patches and pins collected from all the places I've been. They are scuffed from hitting the pavement. The lining is torn and frayed. Upgrading my leathers would be like trading in my loyal dog. I have seen vests so worn, they are held together by years of road grime and strategic placement of collected patches with the sentiments they believe in.
Friends don't let friends ride into Sturgis wearing new leathers. So it was an act of kindness when Bubba Dick was forced at beer point to hand his over for modification. Bubba had just purchased a new ride and approximately $600.00 worth of leathers. Bungee cords and rope materialized. Bubba's leathers soon looked like a couple of Cheech and Chong hybrid cigars. They were attached to a dope rope to bounce along the pavement behind the bike.
Fifty miles later, scuffed and scarred, Bubba Dick's leathers were seasoned to perfection. His friends could now take him anywhere with little embarrassment. Unfortunately, he was wearing a white t-shirt printed with "My Mother Says I'm Special." Bikers commune in black.
Five-hundred miles and ten t-shirts don't make you a biker. You can always tell a new biker by their leathers--all shiny and black with no scuff marks, creases, or scars. They are proud of this and stand apart like a new kid on the first day of school, full of anticipation and desperately wanting to fit in. They want to be recognized as a biker, but are uninitiated. This process can't be expedited in a special fast lane or by greasing palms. You have to do the time.
Surprisingly, doctors and lawyers, who have endured years of training to reach their goal think they can get a biker degree off a matchbox cover. But, you can become a HOG member if that makes you feel more legitimate. This is a group set up for new Harley riders who want to get to know the road and other newbies like themselves.
My own chaps have acquired a burnished, brown, sunbaked patina from the knees up. My jacket is covered with patches and pins collected from all the places I've been. They are scuffed from hitting the pavement. The lining is torn and frayed. Upgrading my leathers would be like trading in my loyal dog. I have seen vests so worn, they are held together by years of road grime and strategic placement of collected patches with the sentiments they believe in.
Friends don't let friends ride into Sturgis wearing new leathers. So it was an act of kindness when Bubba Dick was forced at beer point to hand his over for modification. Bubba had just purchased a new ride and approximately $600.00 worth of leathers. Bungee cords and rope materialized. Bubba's leathers soon looked like a couple of Cheech and Chong hybrid cigars. They were attached to a dope rope to bounce along the pavement behind the bike.
Fifty miles later, scuffed and scarred, Bubba Dick's leathers were seasoned to perfection. His friends could now take him anywhere with little embarrassment. Unfortunately, he was wearing a white t-shirt printed with "My Mother Says I'm Special." Bikers commune in black.
Monday, June 20, 2016
Beer Axiom
Gramma,
That mid-morning moment when you reach in the beverage fridge for a coke, crack it open and it's not the sweet taste you were looking for. It's a Coors. Can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning. Note to self: Always buy the silo beer cans, aka pounders, to prevent this.
That mid-morning moment when you reach in the beverage fridge for a coke, crack it open and it's not the sweet taste you were looking for. It's a Coors. Can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning. Note to self: Always buy the silo beer cans, aka pounders, to prevent this.
Saturday, June 18, 2016
True Colors
Gramma,
Bikers have a lot of stereotypes to live up to. When not tearing up the road on bikes, they are seen as hard drinking, tattooed tough guys who are plotting anarchy. They are seen as willing to tear apart a bar in the process of defending their good name against some other antagonistic faction. These guys have no hygiene interests. We are not those guys. Our guys are willing to take time to do crafts. There are times when it is important to be who you are and explore talent options other than martial arts.
After riding all day to participate in a distant Toys for Tots Ride with another club, we checked into our hotel. The following morning we found ourselves with several hours to kill before events began. A park, complete with a lake, pavilion, and ice cream stand presented itself. There was something else going on in the parking lot when we pulled in. Doors were stacked everywhere--inside doors, outside doors, industrial doors, smallish under the stairway doors--with and without knobs.
It was part of a summer art program intended to get people in touch with their inner Van Gough. There were doors with flowers and graphic designs. Some tried to be pretty, others were ugly, but interesting. Some people worked on their doors every weekend. The doors would eventually be covered with spar varnish and installed along a garden path. A woman in a sunhat and muumuu was overseeing the project. She was flustered when the men in black said they were in.
We chose an industrial, battleship grey door with a heavy window that looked unbreakable. We hoarded the orange, dark grey, and black paint and magic markers. The guys began to outline their bike colors in large letters. When it came to drawing the bike engine of their center patch, they found themselves artistically challenged. We had run out of our basic colors and the sunhat lady was off in her periwinkle bugmobile to fetch more.
We watched the industrious college art student making easy progress on his work. He was using all the colors available. One of the guys poked him out of his oblivion. He removed his ear buds. He was a hippie type and not intimidated. He accepted a fist full of dollars and was pretty soon drawing a nice engine replica on the center of our door.
While the guys were otherwise engaged, the girls worked on the window. Soon, a guy behind bars emerged. People gathered at a distance to watch. After our prison door was finished, we walked over to the ice cream stand. There were the usual side glances. How scary can bikers with ice cream cones be? The local paper took a group photo. The guys were recognized as a roving band of artist bikers doing a Toys for Tots Run. Sometimes you just have to show your true colors.
Bikers have a lot of stereotypes to live up to. When not tearing up the road on bikes, they are seen as hard drinking, tattooed tough guys who are plotting anarchy. They are seen as willing to tear apart a bar in the process of defending their good name against some other antagonistic faction. These guys have no hygiene interests. We are not those guys. Our guys are willing to take time to do crafts. There are times when it is important to be who you are and explore talent options other than martial arts.
After riding all day to participate in a distant Toys for Tots Ride with another club, we checked into our hotel. The following morning we found ourselves with several hours to kill before events began. A park, complete with a lake, pavilion, and ice cream stand presented itself. There was something else going on in the parking lot when we pulled in. Doors were stacked everywhere--inside doors, outside doors, industrial doors, smallish under the stairway doors--with and without knobs.
It was part of a summer art program intended to get people in touch with their inner Van Gough. There were doors with flowers and graphic designs. Some tried to be pretty, others were ugly, but interesting. Some people worked on their doors every weekend. The doors would eventually be covered with spar varnish and installed along a garden path. A woman in a sunhat and muumuu was overseeing the project. She was flustered when the men in black said they were in.
We chose an industrial, battleship grey door with a heavy window that looked unbreakable. We hoarded the orange, dark grey, and black paint and magic markers. The guys began to outline their bike colors in large letters. When it came to drawing the bike engine of their center patch, they found themselves artistically challenged. We had run out of our basic colors and the sunhat lady was off in her periwinkle bugmobile to fetch more.
We watched the industrious college art student making easy progress on his work. He was using all the colors available. One of the guys poked him out of his oblivion. He removed his ear buds. He was a hippie type and not intimidated. He accepted a fist full of dollars and was pretty soon drawing a nice engine replica on the center of our door.
While the guys were otherwise engaged, the girls worked on the window. Soon, a guy behind bars emerged. People gathered at a distance to watch. After our prison door was finished, we walked over to the ice cream stand. There were the usual side glances. How scary can bikers with ice cream cones be? The local paper took a group photo. The guys were recognized as a roving band of artist bikers doing a Toys for Tots Run. Sometimes you just have to show your true colors.
Friday, June 17, 2016
Chili Feed Day Hours
Gramma,
They guys taking money at the gate have plenty of time to eat, drink, and screw off. One of their adult kids is running naked through a nearby field. He has someone with a video camera documenting his life for him. I don't know what he's on, but I don't want some of that. I have enough behavioral issues of my own.
There is an outdoor shitter, a camper, and a picnic table at the gate. While Pus Gut was in the shitter, two club members tipped it over so the door was facing the ground. There sure was a lot of yelling and pounding. He emerged covered in blue toilet juice. Pus Gut's new name is Papa Smurf. Pus Tit and Pus Gut are not amused. He has no change of clothes. How stupid are you? Well then, it is their kid bounding naked through the weeds.
The local police keep close tabs on the party by driving through the campground several times a day. They step it up at night and like to make sure the wet t-shirt contest goes off without a hitch. Other more nefarious bike clubs show up looking for trouble. They are allowed in for the steep discount of free. It's just easier that way. They assess the fun quotient, eat chili, drink beer and leave, all without cracking a smile.
Mid afternoon is game time, fueled by alcohol, and sweetened by a money pot. Slow races involve riding your bike to the finish line with someone on the back. You may not stop or put your feet on the ground. The field is not flat, There are gopher mounds and rocks. The last person wins.
For the balloon toss, water filled balloons are lobbed over a bar that the bike rolls under. The person on the back is in charge of lobbing. Teams go one at a time. When you miss, you are out. Nothing quite like a couple of drunk guys on a bike trying to win. Men don't usually ride bitch at these events, but they are the crowd favorites. The guy throwing is facing backwards.
During the weenie bite, a hot dog is suspended from an overhead bar. The person on the back is supposed to bite off as much as possible. A lot of wieners meet the face, but not the mouth. The crowd is jeering and cheering. It's all fun and games until someone gets an eye is poked out.
I like to sneak off and get in a beer enhanced nap so I can stay up for the evening stunts. When I get in the car, the pet store box with the mice inside is chewed open and they are on the loose. Ugh. I have to catch the little fuckers before I can sleep. I took them to their intended destination--Junior's tent. I am one-upping him for something he has done to me, plus he is fun to fuck with. He hates mice.
They guys taking money at the gate have plenty of time to eat, drink, and screw off. One of their adult kids is running naked through a nearby field. He has someone with a video camera documenting his life for him. I don't know what he's on, but I don't want some of that. I have enough behavioral issues of my own.
There is an outdoor shitter, a camper, and a picnic table at the gate. While Pus Gut was in the shitter, two club members tipped it over so the door was facing the ground. There sure was a lot of yelling and pounding. He emerged covered in blue toilet juice. Pus Gut's new name is Papa Smurf. Pus Tit and Pus Gut are not amused. He has no change of clothes. How stupid are you? Well then, it is their kid bounding naked through the weeds.
The local police keep close tabs on the party by driving through the campground several times a day. They step it up at night and like to make sure the wet t-shirt contest goes off without a hitch. Other more nefarious bike clubs show up looking for trouble. They are allowed in for the steep discount of free. It's just easier that way. They assess the fun quotient, eat chili, drink beer and leave, all without cracking a smile.
Mid afternoon is game time, fueled by alcohol, and sweetened by a money pot. Slow races involve riding your bike to the finish line with someone on the back. You may not stop or put your feet on the ground. The field is not flat, There are gopher mounds and rocks. The last person wins.
For the balloon toss, water filled balloons are lobbed over a bar that the bike rolls under. The person on the back is in charge of lobbing. Teams go one at a time. When you miss, you are out. Nothing quite like a couple of drunk guys on a bike trying to win. Men don't usually ride bitch at these events, but they are the crowd favorites. The guy throwing is facing backwards.
During the weenie bite, a hot dog is suspended from an overhead bar. The person on the back is supposed to bite off as much as possible. A lot of wieners meet the face, but not the mouth. The crowd is jeering and cheering. It's all fun and games until someone gets an eye is poked out.
I like to sneak off and get in a beer enhanced nap so I can stay up for the evening stunts. When I get in the car, the pet store box with the mice inside is chewed open and they are on the loose. Ugh. I have to catch the little fuckers before I can sleep. I took them to their intended destination--Junior's tent. I am one-upping him for something he has done to me, plus he is fun to fuck with. He hates mice.
Thursday, June 16, 2016
Chili Feed Prelude
Gramma,
The night before the party, the club sets up. It is the party before the party. The beer tappers on the trucks are tested and retested. A leaf blower is used to clean the bat and mouse shit out of the chalet. The storage truck is unloaded; the chili is made. The bar is stocked. A circus tent arrives and the band stage is set up. Planks of wood are stacked like a teepee for the bonfire.
The usual suspects show up early to secure their prime real estate by the lake. Our closed camping area on the hill behind the Chalet is cordoned off with police tape. Club wives supply a spread of food. Some of us bring our dogs or grandkids. Only adults and three-legged dogs will be allowed tomorrow. Classic rock blares from the outside speakers. I bring ear plugs so I can sleep. I hate chili, so I have a cooler of cheese, water, and sandwich meat.
The girls sit outside and talk trash about the guys while they have their private meeting. No topic is taboo. We talk about our sex lives. Long ago, we refused the idea of wearing "Property Of" on our backs, but we have made aprons for tomorrow. They say "Chili Bitch" on them. There is grumbling over the schedule for who works at which location and when. Some of us are stuck for a shift with people or hours we don't like.
The prospects, new guys not yet patched in, are scheduled to work during the wet t-shirt contest. We women are expected to recruit girls from the audience for this. It is a skin to win event for a combined pot from the club and audience. There are three categories: Classic for "older" women; Sportster for small breasted women; V-Twin for above average girls. Some "professional" girls show up.
Tonight we are all drunk. The guys chant "Show Us Your Tits." Some of the girls are pretty shy, others not so much. Add alcohol , and clothes disintegrate. The shy girls are teased relentlessly. "Okay, show us your beavage." Our response is, "You guys line up behind a wood fence with holes strategically cut, so we can do some judging.
The night before the party, the club sets up. It is the party before the party. The beer tappers on the trucks are tested and retested. A leaf blower is used to clean the bat and mouse shit out of the chalet. The storage truck is unloaded; the chili is made. The bar is stocked. A circus tent arrives and the band stage is set up. Planks of wood are stacked like a teepee for the bonfire.
The usual suspects show up early to secure their prime real estate by the lake. Our closed camping area on the hill behind the Chalet is cordoned off with police tape. Club wives supply a spread of food. Some of us bring our dogs or grandkids. Only adults and three-legged dogs will be allowed tomorrow. Classic rock blares from the outside speakers. I bring ear plugs so I can sleep. I hate chili, so I have a cooler of cheese, water, and sandwich meat.
The girls sit outside and talk trash about the guys while they have their private meeting. No topic is taboo. We talk about our sex lives. Long ago, we refused the idea of wearing "Property Of" on our backs, but we have made aprons for tomorrow. They say "Chili Bitch" on them. There is grumbling over the schedule for who works at which location and when. Some of us are stuck for a shift with people or hours we don't like.
The prospects, new guys not yet patched in, are scheduled to work during the wet t-shirt contest. We women are expected to recruit girls from the audience for this. It is a skin to win event for a combined pot from the club and audience. There are three categories: Classic for "older" women; Sportster for small breasted women; V-Twin for above average girls. Some "professional" girls show up.
Tonight we are all drunk. The guys chant "Show Us Your Tits." Some of the girls are pretty shy, others not so much. Add alcohol , and clothes disintegrate. The shy girls are teased relentlessly. "Okay, show us your beavage." Our response is, "You guys line up behind a wood fence with holes strategically cut, so we can do some judging.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Annual Chili Feed
Gramma,
Our annual Chili Feed is a biker camping event. We rent the whole park for the weekend, a beautiful wooded area with acres of camping available. No adults are banned from this event and some of the locals show up for the all inclusive price of unlimited free beer. They often stick out like a sore dick. More often than not, it is windy and rains, but that doesn't dampen the spirits.
It's never a good idea to fall asleep or pass out during anything involving alcohol. The guy nearest the lake had his tent stakes pulled out so that when he stood up in the morning, the wind blew his tent skyward. With vertigo and a hangover, the not-yet-awake man with no tent stakes battled his way out. The tent ballooned, flying across the lake like a tumbleweed. A guy wearing boots should not try to chase a tent across a lake.
My lipstick color inspired my friends to call me Boozo the Clown. If you are throwing this party, you should plan on not sleeping. A new club member violated this law, and woke up half naked with lipstick drawn arrows suggesting in and out orifices. He should not have engaged Tequila Girl to a drinking challenge. She has a reputation.
"If you're going to hang with the guys, you're going to drink like the guys," he said. "Okay," she said. "Let's go." When he pulled out a bottle of tequila, he thought he had her. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. Eventually, he was puking his guts out. When he finished, she took another shot for good measure, then sallied up to the bar.
A local, wearing a striped shirt and a bowtie, stalked her through his glasses. She was wearing a short skirt, spike heels, and a scant top. She had mastered the art of riding on the back of a bike in this attire. "Wow," he said hopefully. He asked if she would please let him talk to her. She said no. Bikers looked on in amusement. "Please," PeeWee begged.
"I'll buy you one if you talk to me while you drink it." She summoned Smitty, the bartender. He shook his head, knowing how this was going to go down. In one gulp, it was gone. She turned and walked away, pinching his ass on the way out.
Our annual Chili Feed is a biker camping event. We rent the whole park for the weekend, a beautiful wooded area with acres of camping available. No adults are banned from this event and some of the locals show up for the all inclusive price of unlimited free beer. They often stick out like a sore dick. More often than not, it is windy and rains, but that doesn't dampen the spirits.
It's never a good idea to fall asleep or pass out during anything involving alcohol. The guy nearest the lake had his tent stakes pulled out so that when he stood up in the morning, the wind blew his tent skyward. With vertigo and a hangover, the not-yet-awake man with no tent stakes battled his way out. The tent ballooned, flying across the lake like a tumbleweed. A guy wearing boots should not try to chase a tent across a lake.
My lipstick color inspired my friends to call me Boozo the Clown. If you are throwing this party, you should plan on not sleeping. A new club member violated this law, and woke up half naked with lipstick drawn arrows suggesting in and out orifices. He should not have engaged Tequila Girl to a drinking challenge. She has a reputation.
"If you're going to hang with the guys, you're going to drink like the guys," he said. "Okay," she said. "Let's go." When he pulled out a bottle of tequila, he thought he had her. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. Eventually, he was puking his guts out. When he finished, she took another shot for good measure, then sallied up to the bar.
A local, wearing a striped shirt and a bowtie, stalked her through his glasses. She was wearing a short skirt, spike heels, and a scant top. She had mastered the art of riding on the back of a bike in this attire. "Wow," he said hopefully. He asked if she would please let him talk to her. She said no. Bikers looked on in amusement. "Please," PeeWee begged.
"I'll buy you one if you talk to me while you drink it." She summoned Smitty, the bartender. He shook his head, knowing how this was going to go down. In one gulp, it was gone. She turned and walked away, pinching his ass on the way out.
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
Fear
It stormed last night. The Wicket was hiding under the stove when I got up. She wouldn't even come out for a meat stick. She snarled when one of the other dogs made off with it. Wicket is such a meatloaf that I was concerned about her being stuck. Fear can get you into places not easily escaped. There may have been tornado sirens. Dave and I sometimes hear them, but go back to sleep because we can't care.
Monday, June 13, 2016
Fuckitol Meds Not Working
Gramma
I don't think my meds are working. The pharmacy has been using another manufacturer to fill one of my prescriptions. Since then, things are less than. My daughter's insurance company is forcing her to take a generic form of Abilify. It gives her migraines, and the co-pay is astronomical, whereas the name brand provides a manufacturer subsidy that makes it affordable. We need our Fuckitol pills to work right.
Last week I did not blog. I sat in the driveway/patio area contemplating the hanging trees again. And I was incredibly crabby. My beer supply was exhausted, and didn't want to use my limited funds on more. It didn't help that my tractor was in the shop. If I don't hound them daily, it will be fall before I get it back. I spend a lot of time on hold. If I leave a message, they won't call back.
The neighbor stopped over with a beer in hand and a backup to put in the freezer. I told him I was out. He said he would give me one, but that will just agitate people like us. He was planning to drink himself stupid and suffer the hangover. After he left, I drank Dave's last Chelado with an old Hamm's chaser.
Dave was in union negotiations all week, which ramps up his blood pressure and puts him in irate overdrive. I was hoping he would bring home some calming fluids. When he showed up empty-handed, my inner bitch went silent treatment, which rarely happens.
I went to bed early to escape with an episode of Grace and Frankie. The gay guys were throwing temper tantrums and the women were making bad decisions. Next to my dearth of beer, this was ridiculous. Disgusted, I opted to listen to the frogs.
It is not like me to want to stay in bed when the weather is nice. On Friday, I couldn't overcome the gravitational pull of my mattress. I got out of bed at noon to pick up the grandkids. Having them around usually lifts me out of a fugue. Bubba and Veve were sitting in Dave's big man's chair when I overheard Bubba say, "Grampa's foot is bigger than your head." They make me laugh, the next best thing to Fuckitol.
I don't think my meds are working. The pharmacy has been using another manufacturer to fill one of my prescriptions. Since then, things are less than. My daughter's insurance company is forcing her to take a generic form of Abilify. It gives her migraines, and the co-pay is astronomical, whereas the name brand provides a manufacturer subsidy that makes it affordable. We need our Fuckitol pills to work right.
Last week I did not blog. I sat in the driveway/patio area contemplating the hanging trees again. And I was incredibly crabby. My beer supply was exhausted, and didn't want to use my limited funds on more. It didn't help that my tractor was in the shop. If I don't hound them daily, it will be fall before I get it back. I spend a lot of time on hold. If I leave a message, they won't call back.
The neighbor stopped over with a beer in hand and a backup to put in the freezer. I told him I was out. He said he would give me one, but that will just agitate people like us. He was planning to drink himself stupid and suffer the hangover. After he left, I drank Dave's last Chelado with an old Hamm's chaser.
Dave was in union negotiations all week, which ramps up his blood pressure and puts him in irate overdrive. I was hoping he would bring home some calming fluids. When he showed up empty-handed, my inner bitch went silent treatment, which rarely happens.
I went to bed early to escape with an episode of Grace and Frankie. The gay guys were throwing temper tantrums and the women were making bad decisions. Next to my dearth of beer, this was ridiculous. Disgusted, I opted to listen to the frogs.
It is not like me to want to stay in bed when the weather is nice. On Friday, I couldn't overcome the gravitational pull of my mattress. I got out of bed at noon to pick up the grandkids. Having them around usually lifts me out of a fugue. Bubba and Veve were sitting in Dave's big man's chair when I overheard Bubba say, "Grampa's foot is bigger than your head." They make me laugh, the next best thing to Fuckitol.
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
The Other Woman
Gramma,
My good friend, Tim, died from Lou Gehrig's. His wife cleaned the union hall one day a week and he couldn't be left alone. I spent many Thursday afternoons with him getting shit-faced and mocking the absurdities of life. His stories were so hilarious, I thought I would cough up a necessary organ from laughing so hard. I got to know all his friends this way.
Tim's family refers to me as "The Other Woman." Some twenty years ago, Tim showed up at my door to ask if he and a few of his friends could continue hunting on my property. After stalking deer or turkeys, I would go out to where they were they were debriefing. We stood around drinking and laughing.
After Tim got sick, his friends helped him into his hunting gear and took him out to the woods with them. They went to the cabin on weekends to go fishing. Eventually, the DNR gave him a license to hunt from his truck. He had a special compound bow that he used.
Tim had a couple of electric wheelchairs in his mostly empty two car garage. He challenged me to try one out, beating me at bumper chairs every time. Eventually, I had to light his cigarettes or other smokables, then open his beer and put a straw in it.
He would tell me how suicidal he was and how he was going to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. "And you are going to do this with arms that don't work?" Then he would laugh, suck on his beer, and go on to plot plan B. There was a lot of time spent somewhere between giving up and seeing how much more he could take.
Tim spent ten years battling this horrid disease. His tiny wife was his primary caregiver. She had to call the police for help when he fell out of bed or when trying to get to the bathroom. Tim would yell to hide the pot plants growing on the deck. The police would look the other way.
He was often bossy and mean to his wife, telling her what to do and how, as if she was stupid. He didn't want me to have a friendship with her. He wanted me all to himself. I told her to ignore his request to stain the underside of the deck. "Disappear into your bedroom for an afternoon and tell him you finished the job. It's not like he's in a position to check it out."
Near the end, he told me not to hug him. His joints were coming loose and it hurt too much. When he left, I was one of the first people called. The funeral home was told that I would be coming to spend some time alone with the body. Every year, on the anniversary of his death, his wife and I get together to celebrate him.
I say with great fondness, that Tim and I had a friendship not just based on a solid relationship with beer, sarcasm and irreverence for everything, but a rich love of the beauty of nature and the importance of friends. Laughter was an important part of his ability to cope. I look forward to seeing him again.
My good friend, Tim, died from Lou Gehrig's. His wife cleaned the union hall one day a week and he couldn't be left alone. I spent many Thursday afternoons with him getting shit-faced and mocking the absurdities of life. His stories were so hilarious, I thought I would cough up a necessary organ from laughing so hard. I got to know all his friends this way.
Tim's family refers to me as "The Other Woman." Some twenty years ago, Tim showed up at my door to ask if he and a few of his friends could continue hunting on my property. After stalking deer or turkeys, I would go out to where they were they were debriefing. We stood around drinking and laughing.
After Tim got sick, his friends helped him into his hunting gear and took him out to the woods with them. They went to the cabin on weekends to go fishing. Eventually, the DNR gave him a license to hunt from his truck. He had a special compound bow that he used.
Tim had a couple of electric wheelchairs in his mostly empty two car garage. He challenged me to try one out, beating me at bumper chairs every time. Eventually, I had to light his cigarettes or other smokables, then open his beer and put a straw in it.
He would tell me how suicidal he was and how he was going to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. "And you are going to do this with arms that don't work?" Then he would laugh, suck on his beer, and go on to plot plan B. There was a lot of time spent somewhere between giving up and seeing how much more he could take.
Tim spent ten years battling this horrid disease. His tiny wife was his primary caregiver. She had to call the police for help when he fell out of bed or when trying to get to the bathroom. Tim would yell to hide the pot plants growing on the deck. The police would look the other way.
He was often bossy and mean to his wife, telling her what to do and how, as if she was stupid. He didn't want me to have a friendship with her. He wanted me all to himself. I told her to ignore his request to stain the underside of the deck. "Disappear into your bedroom for an afternoon and tell him you finished the job. It's not like he's in a position to check it out."
Near the end, he told me not to hug him. His joints were coming loose and it hurt too much. When he left, I was one of the first people called. The funeral home was told that I would be coming to spend some time alone with the body. Every year, on the anniversary of his death, his wife and I get together to celebrate him.
I say with great fondness, that Tim and I had a friendship not just based on a solid relationship with beer, sarcasm and irreverence for everything, but a rich love of the beauty of nature and the importance of friends. Laughter was an important part of his ability to cope. I look forward to seeing him again.
Monday, June 6, 2016
The Inbred Bar
Gramma,
There is a double-wide trailer in rural Wisconsin where you can get a cold beer. Just kick the chickens away from the front door and come in. Watch for holes in the floor. Grampa Pissy Pants sits in his wet, urine soaked Lazy Boy next to a Juke Box that is not working. The needle is broken.
At the Inbred Bar, also known as The Dollar Store, beer is a dollar. There is a reason for that. Making change is too complicated for the beertender. The one on duty now is the son. One eye looks up, the other down. There is a goat path lined with newspapers and other hoarder detritus that leads to the living quarters. It smells bad.
Don't eat there. Don't ask for a glass. The refrigerators are never cleaned, the gaskets are moldy and no cleaning products have ever been used on anything. Boiled eggs are sitting out for available eats. The clientele rivals the bar scene in Star Wars. Someone made the mistake of asking for a glass for their beer. The bartender grabbed a used plastic cup from the pile on the bar, emptied it out and poured the beer in it. The patron wasn't watching this.
My friend asked for a soda and got told, "This is a beer bar." The next visit, another friend asked for a Coke. My friend informs girlfriend, "You can't order that." "We have Coke today," says the beertender, testily. Give the bartender a twenty for three beers and you sometimes get eighteen back.
We like to stop at these places for the entertainment value. There is another bar that rivals this one. It is on the beaten path of four-wheelers and snowmobilers. Smoking in the bars is verboten, but not in the bar with a maximum occupancy of twelve. There is nobody to police these places.
We sit outside on the picnic tables. There is a lake far below. Up here, there are several non-motorized kid size three-wheelers and four-wheelers. Drunk adults race them down the steep hill towards the water. Unfortunately, nobody is willing just now. Bikers know all the best places to take a beer break.
There is a double-wide trailer in rural Wisconsin where you can get a cold beer. Just kick the chickens away from the front door and come in. Watch for holes in the floor. Grampa Pissy Pants sits in his wet, urine soaked Lazy Boy next to a Juke Box that is not working. The needle is broken.
At the Inbred Bar, also known as The Dollar Store, beer is a dollar. There is a reason for that. Making change is too complicated for the beertender. The one on duty now is the son. One eye looks up, the other down. There is a goat path lined with newspapers and other hoarder detritus that leads to the living quarters. It smells bad.
Don't eat there. Don't ask for a glass. The refrigerators are never cleaned, the gaskets are moldy and no cleaning products have ever been used on anything. Boiled eggs are sitting out for available eats. The clientele rivals the bar scene in Star Wars. Someone made the mistake of asking for a glass for their beer. The bartender grabbed a used plastic cup from the pile on the bar, emptied it out and poured the beer in it. The patron wasn't watching this.
My friend asked for a soda and got told, "This is a beer bar." The next visit, another friend asked for a Coke. My friend informs girlfriend, "You can't order that." "We have Coke today," says the beertender, testily. Give the bartender a twenty for three beers and you sometimes get eighteen back.
We like to stop at these places for the entertainment value. There is another bar that rivals this one. It is on the beaten path of four-wheelers and snowmobilers. Smoking in the bars is verboten, but not in the bar with a maximum occupancy of twelve. There is nobody to police these places.
We sit outside on the picnic tables. There is a lake far below. Up here, there are several non-motorized kid size three-wheelers and four-wheelers. Drunk adults race them down the steep hill towards the water. Unfortunately, nobody is willing just now. Bikers know all the best places to take a beer break.
Saturday, June 4, 2016
Frog Symphony
Gramma,
The spring frog symphony has arrived. Warm up begins around nine, working up to a crescendo about 11:00. This is one of my favorite sounds. It takes away the constant noise in my head and redirects it to a magic place where nothing matters, almost like laughing gas. Yesterday it rained, so the air was intoxicating, an amazing pairing of sound and smell. I lay in bed, euphoric as I drift off to sleep.
My mind races most of the time, much like the breaking of billiard balls on a pool table--off in every direction, free associating forward, backward and sideways in time. There is background music with this, most often an Italian piece that drives me up the wall. I could take more meds, but I don't want more side-effects.
My nighttime bi-polar cocktail would take a horse to the ground. I can't sleep without it. Even so, I wake up any time after two, and often need a booster to help me get back to sleep. Before I had my dosage upped, I often heard indiscernable voices, like a radio between stations. I could tell what kind of music it was and when there were commercials or the announcer was talking, but nothing clear, too much static.
Another of my favorite sounds are the windchimes hanging from shepherds hooks around the yard. This too, takes away the pervasive racket in my head. Chirping birds at the feeder below my window is a calming morning distraction. The smell of fresh cut grass and new mown hay is therapeutic. If these feelings of serenity could be bottled, we would all be happy.
I love the smell of pot, but ingesting it makes me dopey, incoherent and worst of all, inert. Unproductive is intolerable for me. The kids found my night time baked goods under my bed and that was the end of that. Dave always asks first before eating any cookies stored in the freezer. Some of my friends are incredibly functional on high dosages pot, others, not so much. Beer helps.
When I'm on my way off the planet, I want these sounds and smells to herald my exit. And mainline the beer please. I look forward to the day I am greeted by all the animals I loved and can again apologize to those I failed. Meanwhile, I am sustained by these little bits of heaven.
The spring frog symphony has arrived. Warm up begins around nine, working up to a crescendo about 11:00. This is one of my favorite sounds. It takes away the constant noise in my head and redirects it to a magic place where nothing matters, almost like laughing gas. Yesterday it rained, so the air was intoxicating, an amazing pairing of sound and smell. I lay in bed, euphoric as I drift off to sleep.
My mind races most of the time, much like the breaking of billiard balls on a pool table--off in every direction, free associating forward, backward and sideways in time. There is background music with this, most often an Italian piece that drives me up the wall. I could take more meds, but I don't want more side-effects.
My nighttime bi-polar cocktail would take a horse to the ground. I can't sleep without it. Even so, I wake up any time after two, and often need a booster to help me get back to sleep. Before I had my dosage upped, I often heard indiscernable voices, like a radio between stations. I could tell what kind of music it was and when there were commercials or the announcer was talking, but nothing clear, too much static.
Another of my favorite sounds are the windchimes hanging from shepherds hooks around the yard. This too, takes away the pervasive racket in my head. Chirping birds at the feeder below my window is a calming morning distraction. The smell of fresh cut grass and new mown hay is therapeutic. If these feelings of serenity could be bottled, we would all be happy.
I love the smell of pot, but ingesting it makes me dopey, incoherent and worst of all, inert. Unproductive is intolerable for me. The kids found my night time baked goods under my bed and that was the end of that. Dave always asks first before eating any cookies stored in the freezer. Some of my friends are incredibly functional on high dosages pot, others, not so much. Beer helps.
When I'm on my way off the planet, I want these sounds and smells to herald my exit. And mainline the beer please. I look forward to the day I am greeted by all the animals I loved and can again apologize to those I failed. Meanwhile, I am sustained by these little bits of heaven.
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Train Wreck
Bad Gramma,
Called my girlfriend and asked what she was doing. She's trying to find out online how long meth stays in your system. Her son and a dumbass friend of his decided to shoot meth up their asses using a turkey baster. You will get higher faster for longer, said Bevis to Butthead. More than a week has passed and she thinks he is a little off. Maybe there was a booster shot somewhere in there.
I laugh because this reminds me of the time I called the department of psychiatry at the U of M to ask how long it takes for a meth addict's pupils to undialate. My son had been in prison awhile and his pupils were still dialated. The other end of the line said, "We haven't had much opportunity to study that segment of society."
Girlfriend went to pick up the dog at her son's house, as he would be working late. The feds and the police had removed the front door in a most violent way and were tossing the sad little house. Girlfriend asks what the hell they are doing there. Someone held up a pipe and some weed. "You don't know your son is dealing meth?" She says he's not. They say they have found a bunch of needles. She says they were from his ex-wife who stopped by recently to visit the kids.
The ex-wife is a POS ho bag drug addict who deserted the kids and took off with one of her boyfriends for greener pastures. The kids think their dad is keeping their mother from them. She rarely shows up and always brings trouble. This time she said she was clean and was hoping to get the kids back. She is probably doing squeal for a deal on some charges she's facing and left the used needles for props.
The feds told girlfriend she should keep picking the kids up after school. She asks how they know she does that, They play back the details of her past week's activities, how she took the kids to Toy's R Us in the cities so they could pick out something for their birthdays. On Sunday, we were out riding bikes with club members. We stopped at the Dairy Queen. We are badass.
Girlfriend has two other son's, both with new babies. One son spent a night in jail last week for disorderly conduct at a bar. The other one is friends with Bevis, and they are often up to no good. The feds should follow Bevis around for awhile and they will find out who is dealing what and where. Bevis got a big inheritance, which is making some drug dealers pretty flush these days.
Most of these kids were raised in good homes, by good people, who set good examples. In a recent session with the school counselor, girlfriend's grandkids revealed that their dad is on drugs. Making memories. There is not much you can do here, but watch the train wreck.
Called my girlfriend and asked what she was doing. She's trying to find out online how long meth stays in your system. Her son and a dumbass friend of his decided to shoot meth up their asses using a turkey baster. You will get higher faster for longer, said Bevis to Butthead. More than a week has passed and she thinks he is a little off. Maybe there was a booster shot somewhere in there.
I laugh because this reminds me of the time I called the department of psychiatry at the U of M to ask how long it takes for a meth addict's pupils to undialate. My son had been in prison awhile and his pupils were still dialated. The other end of the line said, "We haven't had much opportunity to study that segment of society."
Girlfriend went to pick up the dog at her son's house, as he would be working late. The feds and the police had removed the front door in a most violent way and were tossing the sad little house. Girlfriend asks what the hell they are doing there. Someone held up a pipe and some weed. "You don't know your son is dealing meth?" She says he's not. They say they have found a bunch of needles. She says they were from his ex-wife who stopped by recently to visit the kids.
The ex-wife is a POS ho bag drug addict who deserted the kids and took off with one of her boyfriends for greener pastures. The kids think their dad is keeping their mother from them. She rarely shows up and always brings trouble. This time she said she was clean and was hoping to get the kids back. She is probably doing squeal for a deal on some charges she's facing and left the used needles for props.
The feds told girlfriend she should keep picking the kids up after school. She asks how they know she does that, They play back the details of her past week's activities, how she took the kids to Toy's R Us in the cities so they could pick out something for their birthdays. On Sunday, we were out riding bikes with club members. We stopped at the Dairy Queen. We are badass.
Girlfriend has two other son's, both with new babies. One son spent a night in jail last week for disorderly conduct at a bar. The other one is friends with Bevis, and they are often up to no good. The feds should follow Bevis around for awhile and they will find out who is dealing what and where. Bevis got a big inheritance, which is making some drug dealers pretty flush these days.
Most of these kids were raised in good homes, by good people, who set good examples. In a recent session with the school counselor, girlfriend's grandkids revealed that their dad is on drugs. Making memories. There is not much you can do here, but watch the train wreck.
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