Travel Blogging my escapes from kidnappers

Got a travel type blog: Skedaddle Prattle

That's right, I'm checking out of the States. Follow my progress as I fornicate my way through Central America (or at least pretend to do so):

http://skedaddleprattle.blogspot.com

Relishing Raleigh

On August 22nd, minutes after stepping foot in Davidson for the first time in two months, Russell called and invited me to Raleigh the following Thursday. Because maturation had recently sucked the fun from trying to fit my toes into my mouth, I realized sitting in Davidson might be less exciting than expected. I promised a Thursday appearance, wanting to see these friends before my September 11th departure.

Raleigh's always fun. Boozing and talking shit, playing a little Foosball, grilling out, that's how days and long nights are spent. No stress and less rest. Bruce and Russell insisted I watch the new HBO miniseries Generation Kill, On Demand to the rescue. The show, the true story of a marine battalion advancing through Iraq as reported by a Rolling Stone journalist, carried heavy expectations given the creators' pedigree -- The Wire (from which a few actors are recycled) -- and it is excellent as anticipated, at once hilarious, poignant, and disturbing. The best moment, though, was when a rather high fellow joined us for an episode. After sitting through ninety seconds of contextless scene segments recapping previous episodes, he exclaimed, "Wait, what? That was the whole episode? I don't understand what's going on in that show." I couldn't find breath for a half-celebratory, half-deriding "HA! Nooooo way!" for a blissful minute.

Not to say I didn't have moments of my own. Something inspired me to record a voice memo, time and situation unknown, that simply says, "Imagine neighborhood kids pulling dad around on a sled," followed by hysterical laughter, mine alone. With Bruce and Russell I also invented a device designed to tame the wild boner, the Bruce-named Cock Sheath, a sleeve that guides unexpected boners in a less conspicuous direction.

Raleigh provided last tastes at a few of my favorite eateries. Coneys and chili cheese fries at Cloos' Coney Island, a superlative coney diner owned by Southfield, MI native Dan Cloos', where coneys best any I've ever had in Michigan. Lilly's Pizza is my other Raleigh must-eat, where mountains of artichoke hearts, red roasted potatoes, and baby corns engulf unconventionally topped pies of sublime honey-wheat crust, and we hit it for dinner and pitchers too. Lilly's was also the memorable for a conversation in which we very casually consented to drop acid, none of our four having touched the drug before, the rush of endorphins from too much pizza and beer overwhelming our ability to reason. The conversation itself wasn't particularly momentous, but the immediate aftermath, a sober flash where I comprehended what had just transpired, was jarring. I laughed nervously while contemplating whether the combination of Lilly's and pitchers of PBR could lull the unsuspecting into genocide or similarly sinister brands of subservience. I'm sure the Domino's delivery man we found in my trunk the next morning would have some opinion, but we can't seem to find the part of him that talks.

[And, no, we made no attempt to acquire acid.]

City Camping

My Ann Arbor lease expires August 15th at 3pm, meaning I have less than a month's housing remaining in the fairy tale summer vacation I've been enjoying since late June. What if I wanted to extend this dreamlike existence, these days consumed by sleeping, sporting, watching two or three movies, struggling to decide which restaurant I want to eat at, then picking a bar for the night?

It hit me late last night, walking through the nearby nature preserve where I do all my running; Nichols Arboretum, "The Arb," a labyrinthine swath of foliage and rocky, rooty paths in the middle of Ann Arbor, bounded by the Huron river and city constructions: with all the wide open, grassy spaces and a river at my disposal, why not set up a tent and live on the cheap? I could do the whole super-hippy bit in a public space: an unkempt mane of hair and bug-infested beard; the pungent odor assaulting anyone invading my hundred-foot privacy zone; showers in the river, a frightening obstacle for unsuspecting kayakers to avoid. What's wrong with the "hardcore outdoorsman" who still lusts for the advantages and conveniences of city life -- Into The Wild (of Ann Arbor)?

Rubbing the lamp

For those noble endeavorers who'd use the miracle of granted wishes for worldly betterment, no greater tragedy could befall mankind than to have a just-baked stoner stumble upon the world's solitary, single-use genie-in-a-bottle. As luck would have it, the bottle would likely be buried in the back of a donut display case, practically touching the day's last Bavarian cream-filled, chocolate-glazed delight.

The stoner, wholly concerned with the flecks of chocolate frosting smeared upon the bottle's face, would, in all likelihood, accidentally unleash the genie while trying to rub all the chocolate onto his finger. The whoosh and appearance of a levitating nonhuman would momentarily startle the pothead, but the scene would quickly be attributed to the hallucinogenic properties of some killer strand of weed. Prompted for three wishes, internal debates wouldn't entertain environmental concerns, world hunger, or genocide, but types and quantities of munchies ("A two-hundred pound satchel of Candy Corn or two-hundred Snickers bars?"), the merits of various otherwise unattainable self-improvements ("Seventy-two inch vertical -- for dunking, of course -- or an adamantium endoskeleton with retractable claws?"), and hedonistic materialism ("Fifty-thousand square foot mansion or a full-sized, fully edible gingerbread castle? Tank treads or 26" Sprewell-rimmed tires to replace my legs?"). Goth kids will almost certainly wish for fangs and lines of fishnet-based clothing to be introduced at all major retailers.

Me? My recurring delusion involves bringing all cereal, cracker, and snack promotional characters to life, then tracking and eating them for the rest of my life.

Pillaging the Midwest

Really, I have nothing to write, no inspiration if you will, but the embarrassment of my previous bloggasm sitting atop my Facebook notes feed, a one-click portal to the diminishment of my self-esteem, deems some minimal stringing-words-together effort necessary. I've been long plotting to unseat said shitty prior entry from atop the Facebook notes feed throne, but I have an adversarial relationship with authority, especially when that authority is me. I punched myself in the head while running a few days ago, about two inches behind my temple, connecting with more ferocity than usual -- usual being occasional explosions in which I pound my stomach with alternating fists as my runner's arms pump, determined to beat out demon cramps. This recent cranial assault, however, left me momentarily stunned and still, days later, leaves me a timid shampooer. Yeah, that's right: fuck authority.

My purest contempt, however, is reserved for rapists, pedophiles, grease-sweating obeasts, and, especially, teenagers at movies who not only laugh and talk at inappropriate times and volumes, but also find such great humor in their solitary laughter that their snickers crescendo into manic, movie-blotting cackling. Always, at this point, my skull begins to bend and bulge as bold black words ricochet inside, impacting bone with meteoric force: KILL STAB, and if I haven't had any movie snacks, if the theater doesn't offer Sour Patch Kids Watermelon candies, DEVOUR. At that moment, usually, pitch black plumes from my irises, a pooling ink-spill of hatred slowly smothering the whites of my eyes. I imagine, if only I were skilled with knives, a blink-quick pivot in my seat and an imperceptible flick of my wrist could restore order to my sanctuary, leaving nothing more than a little extra work for the post-movie cleanup crew.

They say each person can make a difference. Overpopulation is a serious concern. What are you doing? Why isn't the US exporting it's masses of fatties (say, any non-professional athlete 300lbs plus) overseas, to third world nations ravaged by starvation? Third-world promotions should laud "The other other white meat," posters and commercials depicting fearful fatties waddling from hordes of smiling, starving refugees, knives and forks in hand. Can you imagine how delicious a greasy American elephant would look to a herd of starving Africans used to rice and dirt pies for sustenance? Corpses could be flensed, fatty oils used for lighting lamps, flavoring pinto beans and collards, viable green solutions. Skeletal sets are the poor child's Legos; in more tribal areas, weapons.

Back home, because all of the world will be well-fed long before the US can donate its stable of slobs, anyone who crosses the 275lb plateau should be required to report to bike camps, tens of millions of square feet of warehouses and barracks scattered about the nation, millions of stationary bikes hooked up to the power grids, reducing our reliance on oil and polluting, non-renewable resources.

As for renewing resources, I'm trying to do my part. My brother's report from a blackout I endured weeks ago informs I met a girl, wooed her for hours, then walked her home from the bars; at her doorstep she slurred, "I can't get pregnant tonight," at which point I entered her number into my phone and named her some combination of letters and symbols. Seeing as how her entire existence is a meaningless phone entry and a physical reconstruction via my imagination, I'm guessing it was Heidi Klum, and she probably said her name in German, which lost meaning in my choppy ear-brain beer canal.

When immaturity and business collide

This, apparently, is a business "value proposition" I authored sometime in the last year, a work project gone awry.

Fat butts and cheddar sticks: I have herpes, and I’d like to share. Sometimes I think about the exquisite combination of celery and ranch, and how it feels when I pour it down my pants, attracting ants, whose bites inspire rants, per chance, do you have any lotion, to help soothe the commotion, whistling in loco-motion, like I’m tipsy on the potent potion, I’m aghast at the notion! sXe

Value Proposition: Give me all your $$$ and I won’t set off the bomb.

Sincerely,

PAY**** logistic(al nightmare) inc.

Barometer of perversion: search queries that found me.

Third world successess

War-torn third world nations have death halfway right. Sure, mass graves are bad. But burial without boxes is a progressive step. Obviously I can't support this with research, because I don't do research, but I imagine an astonishing number of resources are wasted on the manufacture and shipment of coffins and accessories for the institution of death. That's my green effort for the day...

Babies, storks, and abortion forks.

Because I want to make an impact on a cause I support and have my name reverberate through history, enshrouded in controversy, I will lend my limited ingenuity to the pro-choice path, inventing an invaluable abortion aid, which, despite bearing no resemblance to any sort of dinner utensil, nor sharing any confusable usage, I shall name the Abortion Fork. To enrage the Bible Belt and people with consciences, my late-night television infomercials will feature nothing but babies propped around my soon-to-be-ubiquitous abortion apparatus, with me doing voiceovers. For effect, the babies will probably all be kidnapped. I will also bedizen them in stereotypical goth or death metal regalia, to further appall, and for personal entertainment.

Also, to suggest the truly sinister, the babies promoting my Abortion Fork, situated around said baby snuffer, will all be sitting within empty aluminum pie tins. The more I think about this infomercial, the less and less I think I'll even feature my product. If only I had the means to quit my job and do nothing but write and perform infomercials for imaginary products, I might find some semblance of happiness.

Sadly -- mostly for others and their families -- the only happiness I get derives from positioning large obstacles and, especially, large, wooden ramps on the interstate in the middle of the night. I like to sit on the road's shoulder and experience the surprise each driver must feel when he suddenly finds himself launching from a 6-foot tall ramp, on a heavily trafficked interstate beneath the heavy black of midnight, at 75mph, how sincere that, "Oh. SHIT." must be. Because authentic surprise is such a difficult treat to replicate, I know that, somewhere, deep down, each lucky driver appreciates my prank.

When I'm particularly sour, I like to place a ramp a number of yards in front of an overpass. The symphony of contorting steel and combusting substances ranks high on the list of simple, unexpected pleasures. And, especially given the current economical climate, a cheap pleasure too!

Landmines, too, could be a blast, especially dotting sports fields scheduled to host major athletic competitions, but those pranks are a little harder to disguise with today's around the clock lawn pampering.

Lyrical analysis: "from da back"

Three 6er DJ Paul describes a young woman exiting the club:

"Barely able to stand up,
Barely able to fall down."

DJ Paul suggests the young woman is levitating.

Definitely a good enough reason for me. That's the kinda shit worth writing a song about.