The one not wanted.

"Where are you now?
Memory fades, you take a bow."

The one not wanted.

The better part of the past few years I've been the one on the receiving end of the "Dear John" letters, and "you're not my type" concession speeches. For the first time in a long while I'm having to turn down an available, young lady. "Why?," you ask dear reader. Because she's completely and utterly delusional.

This is a young lady that I've been friends with via the internet, knowing that's all it'd be, for a couple years now. She's a friend of a friend, and we always joked that we were the same person, just lived in different cities and had different parts.

Well, she came to town, to hang out with her friend and I. Now, I made it known, as I always have, that friends is all that it would be. Then she drops the bomb, that she "likes" me. As in "likes likes." Eek. I promptly told her that, as I had always said, I didn't like her in that way.

Her time here came and passed, and I only ended up hanging out with her one night. I actually nixxed rolling again because it just flat out made me uncomfortable. ... and this is where we remain. Now I feel like I cannot be friends with her anymore. All my female "just friends" friends have a line that doesn't get crossed. Well, she crossed that line. Now I cannot talk, joke, or just generally make comments about women with her. Her reply will always be "you could have me." Again, no comfort on my end.

Add to all that the bombshell that she's thinking of moving here. Jeez. That's a bit much.

So I've decided that I, for the first time in a long while, will have to start a letter "Dear ______,". It hurts me a bit to do this, but I'm not being harsh. Its just a bad situation she's put me in, and looking to put me in a even more disturbing place. I mean, moving to my town, even though I've turned her down. That's just not right.

Until next time:
"It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over." - Edna St. Vincent Millay

The passing of a great one.

"When your faith in life is gone
Come and speak to me
When you’re down and all messed up
Seek my sympathy"

The passing of a great one.

I always find it odd at the receiving of friends and funerals of one of my close relatives that all sorts of distant people come out of the woodwork to tell you how wonderful the departed was while living. Because, for the most part, these are people that rarely ever saw the deceased. I can still remember a distant cousin from my grandmother's side talking to me about my grandfather. Which was odd because said cousin lived in Kentucky, and only saw my grandfather twice a year.

Not that I'm complaining. The four people from my immediately family that have passed on are people to be lauded. Especially my grandfather, and now, my grandmother.

A giant slice of my youth was spent at my paternal grandparents house. I would head up there on Friday evenings , and not go home until Sunday evenings. Throughout the summer I would accompany my grandmother on her sojourns across the vast landscape of the south, and ride along when she delivered meals to home-bound invalids. When not away with my grandmother, I would go with my grandfather to work on people's homes, and just any place in general he went to.

My grandfather was a giant man. One that I was always fearful to irritate. It wasn't until I started to become a young man that I truly appreciated and talked to my grandfather more and more. He passed in 1998, and not a day goes by that I don't wish he was still here. There have been moments of decision in life that I feel would have been a more comfortable transition had I been able to talk with my grandfather first. Though my dad and mom have stepped in, especially in the last couple of years.

My grandmother was a great woman. She was the backbone of our family, and the best damn cook I've ever met. It's still odd using "was," the past tense. She left us last Tuesday. By "left" I don't mean she went on traveling bus to Boone, NC. I mean she passed away. She had had a rough last few years, eaten away with Alzheimer's. That disease is the kind of travesty that makes me want to punch God in the face. It used to pain me so much to see her, a shell of the strong-willed woman she once was.

I'll miss her. No doubt about that.

Until next time:
"I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter. " - Sir Winston Churchill

Nature - 0; The Big Man - 2

"Life is old there
Older than the trees
Younger than the mountains
Growin like a breeze"

Nature - 0; The Big Man - 2

BJ used to let me tag along on his treks through the Smokies. We would hike from the highest peaks, through the lowest valleys. Even though I battled through pain the week after, I always enjoyed our hikes. We both would become so entrenched in the beauty around us that, for the most part, we would go miles upon miles without speaking. There was no need. You fully realize the un-necessarity of the human thought spoken aloud when you happen upon a doe dipping it's head to the water, getting a drink. I still remember clearly the trip back from Abrams Falls. We were bounding along when I noticed, through the trees, a single deer calmly drinking from the creek. I stopped, walked to the edge of the tree line, and openly stared. The tops of mountains are fantastic, but I don't think a solitary moment in all my journeys has meant as much to me as seeing that doe.

Since our falling out, I have yet to go on an official hike. Two years had passed, and I came to the conclusion that that was far to much time to have forgone a trip to the Smokies. In that early, dewy moment right before dawn on Memorial Day I headed out to visit Charles Bunion.

According to Kevin Adams of Trails.com "Charles Bunion is a classic Smokies hike and can be crowded any time of year except winter." He was somewhat right. I passed many a hiker that day, but it wasn't too overly crowded. I even happened upon a few through hikers.* The biggest problem I had was the [hold on a sec whilst I revert into backwards ass hillbilly mode] group of effin', Yankee ass, day hikers. There was a group of five of them. They typified everything that rednecks of this area bitch about. They were loud, obnoxious, and clearly not aware of other people nor the beautiful landscapes around them. The bulk of the time spent at the Bunion, a craggily rock face to which I decided to make my stopping point, they were bouncing around, being noisy, and, most importantly, pissing me off. Now mind you, we're around 6,000 ft above sea level. The drop off from the Bunion was both swift and fatal. Many a moment passed where I thought about knocking those dumbasses off the side of the mountain. Hell, they were worse than little children. I don't think for one moment that they ever really paid attention to the world around them. These types shouldn't hike. They should run marathons, or some such event. The bountiful lushness of the Smokies is completely lost on these fools.

Enough bitching.

The rest of my travel was nice. I did have to stop a few times because of both a pulled left calf [from my own dumbassness of not taking enough water], and the treacherous incline. I soon realized that on most of my hikes with John, we mainly stuck to somewhat straight trails. Inclines are not really my forte.

Charles Bunion = 8 miles roundtrip; 1,500 feet incline

Then I realized that I do, in fact, live in the shadow of the Great Smoky MOUNTAINS National Park. Mountains mean ascension. Ascension means sore knees, and strained calves for this here big fella.

Upon hobbling into work the Tuesday after Memorial Day I began chatting to one of the other designers on our team, Toddles. He's an avid, way-the-hell-more-advanced hiker than I, and wanted to tag along next trip. We figured out a time that would work best, and he picked out the hike. He chose the lengthy trip to Spence Field via the Anthony Creek trail to Spence Field which starts in the valley right before Cades Cove.

Way before the crack of dawn, with two hefty griddle cakes in my belly, we headed to the mountains. We arrived at one of the many Cades Cove parking areas, and looked around for our trailhead. It was nowhere to be found. Going back to the Guide Book, it mentioned that the trailhead was at the back of the camping area... which was a good mile from where we parked. We decided "screw it," and headed off. The "camping" area is not really for real camping, it's for campers. Those big, typically off white mobile homes. That's not truly camping. Camping is when you're out in the middle of the forest, with only wildlife as your company. Those people in the "campsite" were merely hanging out near the woods.

One of the first things we noticed, upon hitting the trailhead, was that this trail was also a horse riding trail. That meant we had to be on the lookout for stink nuggets, and horse mines. We spent the better part of the trip hollering out "shit!" whenever we came upon a pellet, trail, or pile of scat.

The trip to Spence Field via the Anthony Creek trail was vertical. And I do mean vertical. Some pieces were nothing more than a zig-zag at an incredibly difficult incline. I'm not ashamed to admit that on many an occasion I had to stop in order to recuperate. The whole time I was thinking "what the hell are through hikers thinking? This is nuts!" Then it happened. We cleared the trees, reaching the apex.

Beautiful is a word thrown around a lot. Sure there are interchangeable words like majestic, bountiful, lovely, charming, delightful, appealing, gorgeous, stunning, arresting, beguiling, exquisite, aesthetically pleasing, magnificent, divine. Hell they're all good adjectives, but none are descriptive enough to fully encompass the look, hell the feeling, from being on top of a mountain. It's almost euphoric. I don't know whether it's exertion from the climb or simply the view, but something changes when you've hoofed it all the way to the top. Your body is no longer weary, your mind is completely clear, and everything seems to just click into place.

Upon finding a little alcove made by trees, we sat down, ate some grub, and almost immediately passed out. Upon my waking, Toddles asked the time. I figured, worst case scenario, that I had napped for but a few minutes. Looking at my cell phone I realized it had been over an hour. "Shit." This time there was no horse feces in the vicinity. We decided is was high time to hoist our gear, and shake a leg. We bounded about the top of the mountain, scoping views from all of the open vistas of Spence Field.

Descending a mountain is in the realm of possibility for me. It's not really a problem, unless my boys are dying. Then the yellow flag is let out, caution taken into consideration. The biggest hurdle, when heading southbound, is that the trip will work muscles in your calves that normally do not get tested. Which is usually not that bad, until the rise of the sun the following morn. At that juncture it'll feel like the acupuncturist left a square foot of needles in your calves.

All in all it was a good trip. The later part, right towards the end, we started babbling on about BBQ pizza and beer. It's like we had already imbibed massive quantities of beer, bounding around loosely, screaming about our boys dying, and trying to channel our innermost John Wayne.

Spence Field via the Anthony Creek trail = 11 miles roundtrip; 3,300 feet incline


* Through hikers are people attacking the monumental task that is hiking the entire Appalachian Trail. These people are easily noticeable by their sweat-soaked clothes, rabid look in the eyes, and wavy lines above their head showcasing the long stretches without bathing.**

** While I poke fun at those crazy bastards that attempt to hike the entire AT I still have utmost respect for their shear determination. Hell, I cannot go on a day hike without injuring myself in some form or fashion.


Until next time:
"A vigorous five-mile walk will do more good for an unhappy but otherwise healthy adult than all the medicine and psychology in the world." - Paul Dudley White

Three Word Wednesday - June 6, 2007

"One night of magic rush
The start a simple touch"

Three Word Wednesday - June 6, 2007

Sir Bone of Bama has Three Word Wednesdays at his blog. The project is that he picks three words, then people write a bit utilizing those three words. The three words this week were endless, ought, and shadow. Below you will find my attempt.

"How lucky am I?"

That was the thought racing through Josh's mind. Two hours ago Katy was the beauty sitting at the opposite end of the bar, chatting away with her gaggle friends. Now she was sitting across from him. Talking. Smiling. All he could to was be in complete and utter awe of her. That and hope this night was endless.

It all came to be because Josh had lost his biggest client that day. He had given up the stability of the firm in order to strike out on his own. The first few months seemed to breeze by smoothly. Now that there was no lingering shadow of his former boss, he felt he could really and truly focus for the first time ever. He had been doing well. Then, as businesses do, his biggest client shifted into a new direction leaving him in a wake of despair. Now, with Katy, none of that mattered. It was a warm, Friday night. Those were Monday's woes. No sense in borrowing trouble now that night had fallen.

The original plan was just to head out with the fellas, shoot the shit, drink beer, passively pine for the lovely ladies of this town, and subsequently shirk his troubles. All that went out the window once "she" walked through the door.

Katy walked across the barroom floor, somewhere in the neighborhood of a saunter. She seemed to just float. Josh eyed her. Not really full of lust, more of a longing to reach out to her. Big D noticed, snapped his fingers, and said "wake up, B. No way you'd hit that."

"Not really what I'm thinking 'bout," and Josh meant it.

"So what the hell you thinkin'?"

"I'm thinkin' I need to go see about a girl."

"Sheeeit. You been watchin' that damn Borne-Identity-dude movie too much. The one wit' Mork from Ork."

"Well man, you can debate the high cinema. I'm going in."

"Good luck. You'll need it wit' dat broad."

Josh's steps were a lot less sure than Katy's. His nervousness was making it's way throughout his body, transforming his legs into mush. Arriving at the group of women, the nervousness had attacked his tongue. The words were stifled back somewhere in the vicinity of his colon. Katy noticed this, and spoke first, "see, usually, you talk at this moment. In case you're wondering, that's what you ought to be doing." There wasn't an ounce of venom in her words. She even laughed lightly, and patted him on the arm.

"Hi... Josh I am... I mean... Josh is my name... I'm Josh..."

"That's great, though I'm not completely clear on what your name is." Another polite laugh, followed by a grab of his arm.

"Heh, well it's Josh. Not sure if you caught that the first bazillion times."

"Nice to meet you Josh. I'm Katy." With this established, her friends slowly made themselves scarce. They knew that look in her eyes all too well.

Until next time:
"One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter." - James Earl Jones

Hickory Hops Brew Festival of ought-seven

"There are things that drift away
Like our endless numbered days"

Hickory Hops Brew Festival of ought-seven

Sun Drop doesn't taste the same as it did thirteen years ago. I'm not really sure if they've changed the formula, or my taste buds have evolved. Don't honestly know. Could be that the most recent batch I guzzled was after a sun-drenched day of imbibing multitudes of fermented wheat. That's right folks, beer. Nectar of our Norse forefathers.

This tale begins long ago in our humble, East Tennessee version of The Winchester, Union Jacks. One of the regulars, for which we were also, started chatting up about her crew's trips to many beer festivals across this great land. The first most event located in downtown Hickory, North Carolina, going by the moniker of the Hickory Hops Brew Festival. Catchy, ain't it? Well we decided then and there to attend. By close of business the next day we had tickets ordered, and hotel rooms booked. That's how we do it, how we roll.

The end of a particularly hard work week arrives, and we head down Friday night. We decide to get our bearings. By bearings I mean vanquishing as many beer bottles as our tired, road weary asses could handle before passing out. The Hickory Tavern was a nice, albeit noisy venue. It had the pretense of your regular sports bar, but the crowd leaned more towards both the family and the post-college crowd. As the night wore on the families thinned out, and the meat market atmosphere became more prevalent. It was still nice, didn't seem as bad as our meat markets here in K-town. Well, eventually, our old bones started chattering, and we headed out. Considering how far we'd travelled, our staying out well past midnight was a feet. Damnit.

The next morning we were free and clear of any trace of a hangover. I guess our years of poundin' 'em back makes us more tolerant than others. Somewhat. Could be that we slept in a little bit. A phenomenal thing happened Saturday morning. I realized that I left my sneakers back at the house. The only thing I had were my Lugz, which are black, work boots. No way in hell I was going to look like a crazed, ex-military goof ball. Wearing shorts with those boots. Instead I chose the wearing-slacks-even-though-its-eighty-degrees-and-the-sun-is-beating-down-hard-and-heavy, dumbass look. I was sweating balls. Literally.

Upon arriving at the beer festival we checked in, and got our glasses. The beer taster glass we received was just barely north the size of a shot glass. In fact, it was like a tall, narrow tumbler. Probably holds that much liquid too. Bird's eye view would have produced a lowercase "h" out of tents under which the beer vendors were located. We start hitting distributor after distributor, completely in hog heaven. Are you kidding? All the beer you can drink for the low, low price of twenty-five dollars, cash money? All I can say is an emphatic, Templesmithian "hells yeah!" Replete with dueling, air six-gunners. Of course.

We tasted beer, after beer, after beer. An hour passed, I start to realize that I really don't like the taste of beer. I'm not talking "don't appreciate," as in I'm uncultured. I mean, flat out, it tastes nasty. What horse piss would be like if it weren't so hayey. Just disgusting. Especially some of the oddball beers of choice. IPA especially. Bleh. I decide, once I come to this realization, that maybe I need to slow down. Tasting beers, trying to figure out which one tastes the least vomit-inducing, is not really my idea of an enjoyable, Saturday afternoon. A bolt of brilliance then hits me. I can do what I usually do, guzzle it down. Down to the bottom-most pit of my belly. If I do it fast enough, I'll get that ever-so-lovely buzz. I'm hitting vendor after vendor, chugging away. Never tasting the swill. Just letting if swiftly pass my gums. An hour or so later, I had to sit down for a quick second. I had been drinking non-stop, wearing long britches, sweating my ass off. Not a good combination when you're borderline drunk. To my luck, the consumer-friendly hosts thought enough to distribute free water. Thank God, Buddha, Allah, Chuck Norris. Whomever you believe in.

After having enough wheat in our bellies to shat a loaf of bread, we headed over to The Olde Hickory Tap Room. Located in the heart of downtown Hickory, adjacent to the festivities, was this extremely nice restaurant and bar. It was formerly a train depot. The walls were lined with a lineage of beer taps of all shapes, sizes, and varmints. After eating we headed back over to The Hickory Tavern. We wanted to see what it was like on a Saturday night. Compare it to Friday night. The clear winner, by the end of the night, was Friday. It didn't help much that our waitress only appeared at our table four times in the well over five hours we were there. How the hell were we to get our proper drink on with slow service? Not at all is how it turned out.

Overall it was a good trip. I missed out on seeing Wolfmother for the sojourn for beer. Some days it feels worth it, others not so much. One thing for sure, I will be hitting many more beerfests. Next time I'll bring a clothespin for my nose, and some damn shorts for my sweaty balls.

Until next time:
"I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move." - Robert Louis Stevenson

Words

"Don't worry up your mind
People are sick and mean sometimes
They're only words"

Words

I cannot spell the word definitely to save my life. If I were in some wild-haired situation where the lives of millions depended on the correct spelling of definitely, well they'd be screwed. Sorry. I do not possess that part of the brain that makes one able to spell that dreaded word.

What are words exactly? The Oxford American Dictionary defines words as "a single distinct meaningful element of speech or writing, used with others (or sometimes alone) to form a sentence and typically shown with a space on either side when written or printed." Sounds 'bout right to me, but that only scratches the surface. Words can also mean so much more. They can topple nations, breathe beauty into atrocities, and change the definition of sex just by the tone of the usage.

So what have learned over the years? What was ingrained in the majority of us growing up? Choose your words carefully. Some folks use their gifts by crafting reams of exquisiteness. Others wield their power to spew hatred against their fellow human. The see-saw seems to be tipping away from love, skewing towards venom more and more every day.

But enough political mess.

I find myself using non-existent words day in and out. A few times I've been called out on this. Friends saying "that isn't even a word!" So what? What's it really matter in the grand scheme of things? It's not like I'm saying quxstelduch, fully expecting people to understand. Usually it's a modified version of preexisting words, making them fit Round peg into a triangle-shaped hole. If worked properly, it'll still fit. Just be obtuse. Think about it though. If you're using some jimmy-rigged term to emphasize what you're saying, shouldn't that be alright? As long as you're not trying to be oh-so cool, inventing new catch phrases. Those seem to reveal themselves organically more so than being forced upon us.

I think the word that sparked all these bouncy balls in my brain was "crappily." Something of that nature. My buddy stopped me dead in my tracks, and said "that isn't even a word!" My response, since he's getting his MBA, was "hey now, that's a word in my hood. May not be in you big, fancy MBA books." That shut him up. I'm taking great pride in knocking his knees out from under him when he attempts to act superior.

I'm trying to push the way words are used. Most times I fail, but sometimes I succeed. Life's all about those small pockets of success. In those, well hell, not to sound to hokey, but the world clicks into place. Stars align. The moon shines bright... 'n all that shit.

Until next time:
"All my life I've looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time." - Ernest Hemingway

Three Word Wednesday - May 23, 2007

"I might be in Colorado, or Georgia by the sea
Working for some man who may not know at all who I might be"

Three Word Wednesday - May 23, 2007

Sir Bone of Bama has Three Word Wednesdays at his blog. The project is that he picks three words, then people write a bit utilizing those three words. The three words this week were filthy, guess, and convenience. Below you will find my attempt.

"I guess it's really all a matter of convenience. Everything that happened?"

"Yes, for the hundredth time. I was just walking down the street when I bumped into your wife."

"Really? You wouldn't lie to me now, would you son? You know what I do to men that lie to me?"

"Yes. Yes. YES!" The last 'yes' was emphasized by the swift crack of a baseball bat splintering Shaun's left shin. "Oh God," was all that Shaun could barely eek out through the flood of tears.

"He can't help you now, son. I want to hear you tell me the truth. What is the nature of your relationship with my wife? Is it truly some simple passing, or was it what I believe it to be? A tawdry, filthy affair between two consenting adults?"

"I swear, it's nothing!"

With another loud crack, Shaun's other shin became mush.

Until next time:
"The ideas dictate everything, you have to be true to that or you're dead." - David Lynch