We went to watch the fireworks at this large field/sports complex in Fraser (which is near Winter Park, for those of you non-Coloradans), and got to enjoy a live band and delicious brats and Coors Lights before freezing our asses off for about two hours. (Your mom was right: bring a coat. The mountains are ever so slightly colder than the city, and sundresses do not keep you particularly warm.) The freezing-our-asses-off part was worth it, though, because the fireworks show was amazing. Somehow we picked the best spot on the lawn, and the fireworks ended up being directly over our heads. Fabulous. I love how fireworks amaze and awe people from three to 93. We were a bunch of 21- and 22-year-old boys and girls (by technical standards, adults), and we were ooh-ing and aah-ing and screaming "WOW!" like a group of toddlers who had no idea what those lights up in the sky were. I love that.

If you haven't noticed yet, I'm completely and totally obsessed with the state of Colorado. I'm not particularly outdoorsy, but I love that my state is, and I love living in a great city that's only two hours away from some of the most amazing mountains in the world. It doesn't get much better than that. You know that Baz Luhrmann song about sunscreen? Where he says "Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard; live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft"? To that, I'd add: Live in Colorado once. Period. You may never want to leave.

My camera drowned in a Blue Moon shower last weekend, so I didn't take any photos while I was up in Fraser, but the area basically looks like this:

And the drive up looks something like this:

Pretty great, no?

[Posted by Mallory]

Jag o Lillen åker ut dit samma vecka varje år. Tyvärr verkar ju vädret inte bjuda på några höjdpunkter. Vilket är tråkigt med tanke på närheten till hav och sandstrand. Skit också!

Men ändå.

Miljöombyte. Det brukar bli väldigt lugnt. Och nu är ju Lillen förkyld så lugn och ro gör nog gott.

Vi får väl se om jag lyckas skrämma igång det mobila bredbandet därute. Om det går, så blir det blogg på kvällarna. Om inte - så ses vi om en vecka.

But yesterday, I was antsy and worried and sweating in droves - cold, clammy sweat.  I faced a wannabe girly girl's biggest nightmare yet ... throwing a baby shower!

I've never organized a formal party before in my life.  I'm anti-social, from an anti-social family and was with the most anti-social man I have ever met for way too long (and part of the reason we got along was because we stayed home a lot and hardly ever showed up for parties).

And so it turns out, being a girly girl means much more than looking half decent.  It means being a super organized event planner, like Gildamic who was once told by her hubby that 15 of his friends were coming to dinner in the morning of that same day and she somehow managed to go to the grocery and cook and meet me for merienda and then go home and feed all her guests without missing a beat.  

It means being gifted and gracious like Evie, who designed the shower invitations by hand and prepared elaborate games and name tags and scrapbooks for the guests and all the other detailed, fun stuff that makes a shower a shower. 

Whew, sometimes I think I wasn't meant to be a girl at all ...

I was just in charge of decor and food and making sure everyone knew about the event -- and I was already terrified. No kidding. (Though I must say the baby shaped cupcakes I found were adorable!)

I won't go on about everything I forgot to do and everything that almost went wrong but didn't.  Let's just say the important thing is people had fun and Gildamic was happy.  And I'm sure Baby Nina was too.  

In between sweating, it was a learning experience for me.  That's the funny thing about this year ... everything's not gone exactly as I planned, and yet I'm still growing, changing and moving on because I'm forcing myself to do things I've never done before.

Which reminds me, in the middle of the shower I got a dinner invite from this Harley-riding dude a friend is setting me up with.  Yes, more reason for cold, clammy sweat and nightmares to come. 

Have I ever told you guys I'm lousy at dating too?  Especially the blind kind?  Arrrghh!

Views of Rue Sherbrooke in Westmount:

Read on for a lot more details and photos of our adventure...

Off of Rue St. Catherine in Westmount, we discovered this old abandoned train station, apparently the old Gare Westmount ("Gare" is French for "train station")

We checked out some shops in Westmount, and started working our way up Victoria Avenue (which heads up the mountain). We immediately came upon an awesome little tea shop where I bought a variety of flowering teas (which I've been dying to try) for a great price. If you don't know what flower teas are, click here and check out the photo below.

We continued to walk/climb our way up the mountain through the beautiful streets of Westmount.

We saw spectacular views of Montreal from lookout points as we climbed our way up the mountain to St. Joseph's Oratory.

And, finally, the dome of St. Joseph revealed itself to us over the trees. We made our way to it, slack-jawed over its size. From Wikipedia, more about the Oratory:

In 1904, Blessed André Bessette, CSC, began the construction of a small chapel on the side of the mountain near Notre Dame College. Soon, it became much too small. Even though it was enlarged, in 1917, a church was built, called the crypt, with a seating capacity of 1,000. In 1924, the construction of the basilica was inaugurated; it was finally completed in 1967. The Oratory's dome is the third-largest of its kind in the world after the Basilica of Our Lady of Peace of Yamoussoukro and Saint Peter's Basilica in Rome, and the church is the largest in Canada.

We went inside and were amazed at how modern the interior is, which I'm guessing would have to do with it being constructed between 1924 and 1967. Take a look, and click the images to enlarge:

After seeing the oratory, we walked down the long flights of stairs leading to its grand entrance and hopped on the subway to Outremont. Outremont is another cute area with small shops and restaurants, tree lined streets with ornate houses, many of which are Victorian in architecture style. We loved it immediately. We stopped at a little cafe that was recommended in one of our tour books, called Cafe Souvenir.

We didn't get any photos of it, but here's a screenshot of their website... check it out here. It's an impressive website with a full version of their menu, which is set up like a passport.

Jon and I split a caesar salad with grilled chicken, which was amazing, and then got espresso and crepes with chocolate sauce for dessert. The chocolate sauce turned out to be more like a melted chocolate bar than any chocolate syrup I've ever had. While I was unable to find a photo of Cafe Souvenir, I did find a great photo of Theatre Outremont, which was directly across the way from our outside table at the cafe.

We then walked our way to Plateau, another fun district in Montreal that Jon and I really enjoy. We walked along Parc Jeanne-Mance (which runs parallel down much of the length of Plateau) or down streets parallel to it, enjoying the architecture and beautiful gardens along the way.

We meandered over through the McGill "Ghetto", which is McGill's student neighborhood. The area is becoming discovered by more and more non-students who are moving into the area. It's no wonder for its growing popularity, the area is filled with gorgeous Victorian architecture.

We headed to a section of Rue Prince Arthur that is sectioned off from car traffic, and completely lined with shops and cafes with outdoor tables. In the center is a pretty fountain and both times Jon and I have visited this area, musicians were playing. The area is so charming and very European, I love it!

We then hit the Latin Quartier (Latin Quarter, in French), which was all abuzz for the Brazilian Festival. Not much was going on, but plenty of people were milling around and stages were being set up for entertainment presumably to take place later tonight.

We then headed down St. Catherine to The Village, the gay-friendly district of Montreal, which was having an arts festival. After walking through much of The Village, we headed back to the nearest metro stop, Beaudry, which is shown below, complete with the colors of pride. :) We then headed home to cool our heels.

Take a look at our full route, all 11 miles of it...

Wild Strawberries.

Yesterday Ian and I went out and "harvested" some of the local fraise de boise (wild strawberries). Two hours of picking yielded us just three cups of strawberries, but holy shit were they ever good......

We hiked about an hour from camp to a meadow that held a lot of great berries. I am thinking about paying some of the local Albanian kids to get in there and finish the job for us. Along the way we found a great old cherry tree and set aside some wood for the way home to fuel our bbq. Having nature boy (Ian) along really helped as he pointed out the juniper bushes, wild mint and blueberries. Being a dry camp, I couldn't help but think what I could do with the juniper. Aside from the booze, how good would it be rubbed into a rabbit loin and grilled. Blueberries are a few weeks away which will give me some time to find the labour force to help harvest.

Juniper.

So we came back from berry picking, put up a simple lunch and I started (with the help of a translator) to ask about local pigs and the chance of us buying one. Next thing I know, we are in the Landrover and heading out to Frans house, one of our helpers. We arrive there to his wife and son waiting outside with big smiles on their faces. As much as I have worked with the locals, this was my first time seeing how they really live. The house was built by his father and was surrounded by fig, walnut, and fruit trees. The house is utilitarian in design, with big wood slat floors, a giant fire place and natural rock walls. We asked what the hooks were for in the ceiling of the main room and they told us they were for hanging meat. What would Wendy (Dan’s girlfriend) say if she came home from work and I had a sheep bleeding out over the dining room table.

I trained Ian (far right) on brunch at Aurora.

We shared a beer with them, alright three, and then went out to the back yard. There was a pen with three pigs in it and they motioned for me to pick one out. I picked the little one with the cute spots. As we hauled it over the fence, Frans wife pulled a low table out and a small pot, along with a few rusty knives. I had known  from the get go that it was my job to kill the pig, but I had been hoping for a .22. We struggled to get the pig on the table and they put the knife in my hand. I really did try. My experience with slaughter so far has been limited to chickens and rabbits, so I had done a little reading on how to kill a pig. I tried to put the knife point through its neck and into the jugular but it was so dull I couldn't even pierce the skin. Before I knew it, Frans wife had grabbed the knife and handed it to Fran to saw through the neck. Heres where I got a little woozy and Ian got really excited; blood sprayed, pig screamed, shit flew, and then it was over.

I assume that is Frans's wife and son.

Now all that was left was to pull out the still hot innards, weigh it and take it back to camp. No biggy. It was weird, as soon as I singed the hair off and gave it a good scrub it became something I was familiar with. I find we are so detached from the animal sometimes it was a good reminder to see where it all really comes from: kicking and a gouging with the mud and the blood and beer. It gives you new respect for every part of what we cook with on a daily basis. So we chilled it down, loaded up the bbq with the soaked cherry wood from the morning, split off the hind quarters and fired them on for dinner. We also had local cream to serve with strawberries and mint, potatoes from the same place as the pig and we were in business. This is not every day in Albania for us. Given the choice, it would be, but it doubled our work load for the day and got blood on my sweet new balance shoes. Plus the more squeamish in camp had a hard time seeing me with a blow torch singing the hair off of dinner. It has always been my motto that if you are going to eat meat, you should be able to kill it, and I got a bit of lesson in that yesterday. If I had to kill a cute little pig and watch it shit itself everytime I wanted a club sandwich, I might think twice. Then again, I really like bacon.

Moral of the story: If you are going to kill a pig, don't wear new shoes.

Breaking it down.

Bucket of blood.

Thanks for the story Dan.

Tonight was a get together we had been planning for a few months.  It was held at someone else's house, so if they wanted to invite someone else, I had no control of it.  Unfortunately, he invited this guy - let's just call him Asshat - who, if I hadn't decided to get up and leave, would have been on the receiving end of a swift kick to the ass.

You see, this guy had obvious self-esteem issues.  This was made apparent because he had to belittle his two young children by making fun of them.  He even ragged hard on my friend's son.  We're talking 5 year olds.  And I don't mean just picking on a kid, no, I mean flat out soul crushing foul mouthed ridicule.

Case in point:  they two young boys were playing a video game and he continuously pointed out how much they "sucked" and how "stupid" and "retarded" they were for loosing.  If this wasn't enough, when one kid eventually lost to his son he said, "look at that, you lost to my stupid son.  How retarded are you?"  For obvious reasons, both kids got upset.  He told the "loser" kid that "he needed to play and show him how to do it."  What resulted was two to three round of him doing everything he could to win the game while saying whatever insult he could think of to his son.  It's one thing to talk shit to your friends or even maybe a teenager, but a flippin' 5 year old?  Do they really need to be ragged that hard?  After the kid lost the last round he literally got in his face and gloated about winning.  The kid was upset, so he tossed the controller.  Then the unforgivable happened.

He picked the kid up, beat the shit out of him and dropped him hard to the ground.  Then he yelled at the kid for crying. I felt anger growing inside of me.

I should have said something but it was all too fast.  For the next 30 minutes it was a very different room.  His wife was clearly embarrassed.  The kids were all upset.  I was angry.  What bugged me even more was the Asshat didn't even blink; he just found someone else - his wife- to start talking shit with.  Then his slightly older daughter came in and asked a question to which his response was "it's something that tells me to tell you to shut up."  I had enough.  Either I was going to start something myself or leave.  Since my friend and his wife just laughed it off as "that's how Asshat is" I just left.

I guess this post is my way to vent.  It's also my way to express my regret for not saying anything to the idiot.  Hopefully when I left Asshat asked why and someone told him.  I doubt they did, and if they did I doubt he'd care.  I have very little tolerance for ignorance and Asshat filled the room with it within 20 minutes of me meeting him. I can't stand people that feel so inferior they have to put everyone else around them down.

I also hope that little boy grows up and kicks his ass to the next decade.  I know the kid is gonna have issues, unless his mom gets smart and leaves Asshat.  You think I'm judging to quick?  Consider this: Asshat had no problem behaving that way in front of a total stranger, imagine how he behaves in the 'comfort' of his own house.  It makes me want to leave now and go get those kids....

So at work, we're shuffling the office around and I'm finally moving down to the main studio with the other 3 designers from the 3rd floor.  As a result, I was able to get out of work an hour or so early, so it allowed Jen and I to have a full night out.  5 miles later of walking later...

So we took off down Rue Sherbrooke Est through Westmount.  I had found a cool restaurant on the internet and wanted to surprise Jen.  I knew vaguely where it was...but wasn't quite clear on how far away it was.  That was a bit of a surprise.  Maps can be decieving when you don't acknowledge the scale of the map!  Lesson learned.

The place is called Burritoville.  It is a mostly organic vegetarien restaurant on Rue Sherbrooke in NDG (Notre Dame De Grace...or...Our Lady of Grace)  Their menu resembles their orange fascade.  they have 3 main dishes; burritos, tacos, and quessadillas, and most contain sweet potatoes as a base ingredient.  The place is dinky.  There is room for maybe 12 people outside and maybe 5 people inside.  The kitchen of the restaurant actually might be smaller than the kitchen in our apartment.  It was a kitchenette at best.  But they used it well!  The food was great.  Fresh tasting, sweet, spicy, and goooood.  Cheap too.

The area that Burritoville is in is very down to earth and eclectic.  There are many markets, shops, cafes, and apartments all mixed together.

There are several fair trade and green cafe's and shops in the area.

Here was a cool vintage store next to a record/book/movie store.

The walk down Sherbrooke led us past many old english looking apartment buildings like the one shown above.  Many with grand entrances and ornate doors.

More of a common thing around Montreal as a whole, these fresh fruit markets are very convenient and usually feature local produce. Yum!

This BBQ joint is located at the edge of NDG and has a very "inconspicuous" sign out front.  It's quite impressive at night!  The place looks like it has been there forever, so I'm curious to try the food.

I love this building!  Perhaps a bit sketchy looking, this building greets you as you enter NDG.

After dinner, and on our way home, we stopped at an ice cream shop in Westmount that we had passed on the way to dinner.  It's called Bilboquet, and appears to be a local chain with 2 or 3 locations around Montreal.  They serve high quality specialty ice creams in a variety of fun flavors.  Quite similar to Jeni's Ice Cream in Columbus.  Very very good.  And a fun retail space as well.

We returned home not realizing we had just walked 5 miles.  It seems our sense of distance is drastically changing as we get more used to walking.

Can't wait to see what Saturday has in store!

...sorry for the long post!  Enjoy!

Canada Day (French: Fête du Canada), formerly Dominion Day, is Canada's national day, a federal statutory holiday, celebrating the anniversary of the July 1, 1867 enactment of the British North America Act of 1867, which united Canada as a single country of four provinces. Canada Day observances take place throughout Canada and also internationally.

Click here to see the full article. Jon and I walked down St. Catherine to Peel (right near where Jon works), following the route of the parade.

I'm not sure if it is just a big city thing, or if it is a Canada thing, but Canada's national holiday, as we saw it celebrated in Montreal's Canada Day parade, seemed to celebrate the many countries and groups that make up Montreal and Canada. It was very much a celebration of Canada, with people from a multitude of cultures displaying both their pride in their backgrounds and cultures and their pride in Canada. It was amazing!

Check out the pictures...

Got your attention, dear Internet?  Thought so.

I went out on Friday 13th this month, to what was innocuously billed as a mere glo-bowling party.  Begona was turning 19, and wanted to have a fairly low-key event, at least by comparison with previous events I've attended with her. 

We went to ridge, and due to some confusion from the large objectionable man staffing the desk (read: creative pricing to get rid of the small horde of loud and enthusiastic troublemakers) we only ended up staying for one round of bowling.  We bowled while getting gleefully, stealthily inebriated in a cluster of twenty or so crammed into a bowling bench intended for 6 or so.  The group's size fluctuated wildly all night, as new people arrived and others seemed to vanish.  I sat around and stood around, posturing and gossiping and playing my part as an inveterate hedonistic troublemaker, as per expectations.

Our time pitching small hard balls along a polished floor at unstable pegs eventually came to an end, and the unpleasant little man running the joint migrated over to hover and harrumpf and generally attempt to appear scornful of the noisy horde in his space.  The effort seemed to mainly consist of wrinkling his nose and wiggling his eyebrows while rapidly curling and uncurling his upper lip, as though he'd recently swallowed something distasteful and was attempting to remove it from his upper gum line.  Sadly, not nearly as effective as he'd hoped.  Regardless, our time was at an end there, so we sauntered outside to collect the entire group outside the alley and proceed to re-enact junior high by getting drunk on cheap booze standing outside the bowling alley.  What it lacked in novelty and thrill it regained in irony and nostalgia.

The night proceeded, as nights with that crowd tend to, with people getting intoxicated, smoking, and exposing themselves.  As the cavorting continued, myself surrounded by a swarm of near-strangers, Begona's boyfriend took off, and then in due course, she departed as well; more's the pity.

Once the alley itself closed and we were again subjected to the near-comical glare of the gent running it, we opted to depart lest he phone the constabulary regarding the horde of inebriated, occasionally exposed youths lurking in front of his business.

Our group had shrunk somewhat, so we piled the remaining 9 or 10 people in & on the only car we had manned by someone sober, and proceeded very slowly over to Byng in the vague hope that we could gain entry to their pool.  We had 6 odd people in the cab of the car, with 3 on the trunk and one on the roof - we all huddled lower in the car as we crossed both McDonald and Alma, as though ducking down would make the people clinging to the back of the car somehow less evident.  Our stealthy approach seemed to work, the pile of giggling kids clinging to the car were somehow unnoticed for our trip.

Reaching Byng, we all piled out and started to attempt to gain access to the pool.  Nothing worked on the ground, so someone suggested getting onto the roof to see if the skylights were vulnerable.  No such luck, sadly, and the roof was too high for most of our party to clamber on top of.  The idea of a rooftop adventure did manage to capture our imagination, and we went ambling about the school, looking for an alternate method of ascent.  Finding one, we began exploring as much of the roof as possible, finding our way to ever possible corner we could reach, before eventually settling on a roof near the front of the building.

We cavorted and talked and generally did stupid things, until four of the gents lined up, dropped their pants, and stood near the edge, poised to drop their drawers at a moments notice.  "Oh, man," the conversation went around the remaining 6 or so of us, "they're going to get naked again..." and so we stood, in near horrified fascination, waiting for the proverbial coin to drop.  And waited, and waited.  Nothing.  The pose remained.  One of our group eventually wished they'd either hurry up or give up - "just get on with it already!" at which point I and another gent exchanged a look, nodded, and dashed past the line up, dropping our pants as we went.  Following our good example, the four joined suit, and in the span of one long, hazy moment, there were suddenly 9.5 nude people on the roof of the high school.  (One nice young gal declined to remove her coat, citing the cold.  Losing her pants didn't seem to bother her so much.)

Suddenly, our cavorting took on a whole different note, as we both shivered and and laughed, wandering the roof, eventually striking it rich with a series of hapless pedestrians who were no doubt shocked to be accosted by a number of nude youth on a roof while walking home late at night.  We got all number of amusing reactions, from outright puritanical horror to an awe-struck sort of fascination.  We danced, we sang, we shouted things and made a general nuisance of ourselves until, we heard sirens in the distance.  Panictime! We all kinda threw on a few items and darted to a less-visible rooftop to get fully clothed while making sure we were in fact wearing our own clothes.  All the while, debating whether we wanted to be clothed or nude if the cops arrived, before eventually settling on the necessity of being clothed for any running involved and definitely getting nude fast if capture was imminent.

However, our escape was effected without incident, and the lot of us dispersed back into the woodwork of the city, mutually agreeing that our next destination for such shenanigans really absolutely had to be a church.

I'd never heard of Islands before Thixal invited me, but I downloaded some, expecting usual Thixal fare, and instead found myself captivated by strikingly interesting music, with an odd sort of edgy tone to indie-pop fare that, well, was significantly more appealing than I was expecting.

Really, in all honesty, it was a fucking utter blast, and I'm choked that I'd not heard of them before.  They put on a phenominal show, and despite being both all-ages and to an odd tempo, the crowd was rowdy and dancing and generally fucking awesome.  Eventually, the night closed down and we all skived our ways out - I went to pick up Kurunta from work and return her keys.  I'd spent much of my afternoon trecking from work to home and out again immediately to go get a house key from Kurunta in order to leave a briefcase full of booze in her house, which is near the beach that we were going to.  Having done so, I needed to give her her key back and convince her to join our party.  The plan had us meeting Thixal and co at Cafe Crépe before heading out.  We got to Cafe, and they weren't there.  We looked around for a while, phoned a few times, and she took off home, with me promising to call her once I worked out what I'd planned.

Eventually eliciting the assistance of a nice young lady working at Cafe Crepe, I ascertained that the majority of the group had ambled off down the road Southward.  I found them in a pizza join down the road, cheerfully noshing down.  Myself, I was somewhat irate that not only had they taken off from their original position, but they also had phones and the like off, leaving me unable to reach them regarding their new location.  However, my ire was quickly bought off with pizza from Thixal.  ...Oh, I am so easily purchased.

From there, I got in touch with Kurunta, and all 5 of us committed to the celebration wandered off down to the beach, by way of Kurunta's place.  A 6th member took off shortly after crossing the bridge, apparently only joining us for the expedience of bussing with us.  We swung by Kurunta and picked up our briefcase of booze whilst calling folks to come out and join us at the beach - we'd rustled up a crowd of 10 or so by the time we got there, and ended up with a total attendance of 15 or so people getting gradually drunk on the beach.  Beyond my 2-6 of home-spiced rum for me, I contributed two bottles of wine, while Thixal put in for two 2-6s, one each of vodka and rum.  All told, we had a lot of booze on that beach.  And it was good.

As the crowd grew, the extent of the bad ideas grew proportionately.  As per usual drunkeness, I ended up on a roof or two.  And a tree.  Some of the boys there knocked over the life guard chair, and we re-organized some logs on the beach to less practical designs and briefly tried to get a fire started.

Eventually, the notion that we were near the ocean settled in, and the whole gang up and opted to go skinny dipping.  An expedition was mounted for towels, with Kurunta, Thixal, Dygon and myself trekking to pick up towels from Kurunta's place.  The trip there was mostly uneventful, though amusing, but the trip back ...  Kurunta took Thixal down beachward on her bike, leaving Dygon and I to wander back on our own.  We took the best route available, causing mayhem on our way.  Stupid shit, that is.  Moving a contruction fence to wall off a sidewalk, or redecorating an ATM in gardenform with plants and flowers, and swapping the plants out front of two stores, just to confuse folks.

When we got back, roll call was taken for the skinny dipping.  I declined.  I know how damn cold that water is, and have no interest in the discomfort involved in getting into that water.  So I sat around with another bloke who didn't want to dip and chatted while everyone else got naked and frolicked in the seafoam. The swimming turned into an expedition to migrate the uprooted lifeguard chair out onto the dock, just to provide an Epic Throne on the dock there.  Also, 'cause it'd be hilarious.  From the success of that venture, logs were migrated to the dock, and attempted to be loaded onto it, as well.  That being a less successful venture, the swimmers, exhausted and cold, returned to the beach to towel off and debate putting clothing on.

With a far longer than necessary interval between dryness and clothing, everyone did eventually obtain a semblance of clothing, and eventually the whole damn horde was clothed and good to go, just in time for a group of new randoms to show up and join our little party.  I was working the morning after, so I was more than relieved as the evening wrapped down and we all processed off our own separate ways.  Thixal was "crashing" at Kurunta's place, as well as two of Thixal's friends and Julse, who all apparently nearly had an orgy after I left.  I take credit, none of those connections would have been made without my good influences.

Oh.  But.  I get ahead of myself.  On our walk home, I got a call from Kurunta, and pick up to a somewhat pathetic "Earthman...  I broke me..." I was struck a little speechless for a moment as I puzzled through the import of the statement, before prying for details and ascertaining that she'd in fact drunkenly ridden her bike into the large blue cargo container hard enough to seriously rattle herself.  Displaying shockingly good judgement for someone processing most of a 2-6 of rum; I opted to not resume my previous criticizm of her biking drunk.  We caught up, and I delegated the opportunity to look like a hero to Thixal, letting him put the chain back on her bike and white knight that shit up.

When we got back to Kurunta's place, one of the gents mentioned possibly calling Dygon to let him know that the police had been following their group after they split from us; at which point it was decided that they couldn't possibly be interested in them, they were going elsewhere.  We later learned that apparently that'd been wong, Dygon had been arrested and drunk-tank'd for apparently breaking a car window just as the cops were driving by.  Clever gent, Dygon; but amusing regardless.

Above: Diopside or tremolite, I cant remember which, but I found it at this amazing road cutting near Wilberforce.

As I have mentioned in prevoius posts, I have a book that is in with a publisher right now - its huge and will have to be trimmed down if they want to publish it. The following is an extract from my chapter on finding gem diopside crystals in Ontario ...

"According to Chris Fouts, the main face of the cutting is a pyroxenite skarn cut by coarse-grained calcite veins. The really impressive crystals occur right along the contact between the country rock and the intruding calcite veins.

No doubt, this advice is true, but as my friend, the proprietor of Starlite Gems in Wilberforce told me, the best place to dig is in the dirt right below the tree roots. Apparently last year ambitious collectors knocked over four big trees around the lip of the exposure. Chief amongst those trees was a birch whose roots had clutched several translucent tremolite crystals, some of the blocks as big as a quart of milk and "as green as grass”, he told us. He rummaged in a grubby box that he kept beneath the counter, tossing aside lesser specimens and finally, with a triumphant grin producing a sizeable spike of deep green tremolite. “I was up there a couple of weeks ago and I found this in the dirt beside the road.”

I was amazed by the discovery and even more surprised when he agreed to sell it for $5. Apparently the best diopside and tremolite crystals are buried beneath the road. It supposedly shears off the top of several calcite veins.

This exciting find, tossed aside with so little regard, suggested the existence of far more spectacular treasures somewhere under the forest floor. It set me off in a fever of poking and scavenging. I had been unable to find the toppled birch of which I had heard but I burrowed deep into the sand, further undermining the already tenuous placement of the trees on the forest side of the ridge".

Well, I'v tried my hands at different types of businesses. Once, during a vacation while I was still in Secondary School (High School), I started selling a local drink in recycled bottles. It was non alcoholic and I made variations to the local recipe so it really caught on. I could keep up with the demand and I closed shop. Another time, just after University, I opened a boutique selling fairly new clothes but I had to go to law school and the sales girl also decided to take several days off, every week. The shop was closed more than it was opened, so I folded that up too.

These are just two of countless adventures I've had. I choose to call them adventures even though my dad sees them as my failures. But how can they be failures? They are just the testing ground for the real business...this is where I get to learn what works and what does not.

I have refused to give up. I could give my bloodlines as the reason; but it's more than that. It is a fierce determination in me to eventually be the best in my chosen niche. See, I believe I have a choice and I choose to not give up.

I did the rooftop thing in 2007.  It just didn't do it for me, although I could see more barges, the fireworks were just not that close and personal.  And as it turns out, Ms. Former Scardy Cat of fireworks ( you know, back in the day when I was shy), likes to be up close and personal with the fireworks.

Without Drama!  Like 2005, with the older man I was dating.  We returned to the spot that I loved, over in Queen, right in front on the middle barge- meaning you had 3 times the fun.  However, I arrived later, and with some friends.  And did not want to sit at location older man sat it- you would only be able to see 1.5 barges worth of fireworks.  And that is simply not acceptable!

I had two other people with me that night- one who was a secret crush for years and years never to be realized.  ( Really never, we are no longer friends).  And after the show was over, secret crush and I left older man, and other friend and went home.  At the Same Time everyone else in The City went home.  So, needless to say, it took a while.  We had taken the express, and got off at 96, and decided not to risk waiting for a local, and just walk the mile. 

Upon arrival to my doorstep (scret crush lived 2 buildings away), we chatted.  For like a minute- when older gentleman, arrived.  Older gentleman lived outside of the city and had parked right outside my door.  Older gentleman was none too happy he found his 'girlfriend' talking with secret crush.  Three days later we broke up.

Anyways, a good walk down memory lane.  But the first entry needs to be showy and flashy.  So, last night, the quest for the best fireworks in DC began.  And I may have succeeded.  IN THE FIRST ATTEMPT.

Actually, yesterday's plan was supposed to be picnic 1, picnic 2, fireworks on rooftop.  However at picnic 1, I got sidetracked, by meeting up with a girl who lives life like it's a true adventure.  I knew ditching my Plan A, and going with plan B was going to be worth it.  And it was.

We were on the mall right across the street from the WWII memorial- looking towards the Lincoln Memorial, as fireworks burst overhead.   It was upclose and personal with the fireworks, which clearly is the way I like 'em.  Before the show started, there I was sitting on the Mall, umbrella overhead, trying to stay dry.  Drinking some watermelon punch, and just having a good time with people I just meet. And simply just being part of the people. So, without further ado, some photosfor your viewing pleasure:

ETA: Yeah, and the wordpress still have some issues to figure out with the photos.  I do not want them that small.  They are sad.  They need to be large and in their glory.

As much as I would have liked to take scenic back roads across the western states, it was just more practical to stick to the interstate. We enjoyed the ever-changing landscape, frequently rolling down a window to get photos of mountains, rivers, fields, cattle, clouds, and the occasional billboard we found ironic or comical.

We passed the time by studying road maps, listening to NPR stations along the way (making good use of The NPR Map), and scrolling through Joel's ipod to create a road trip soundtrack. Frank Zappa's "Montana" was in my head for the entire state. We also read to each other from Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, by David Sedaris. This lead to many bouts of laughter and provided us with an arsenal of jokes for the rest of the trip. With a little background knowledge of the Sedaris family (after having previously listened to his books on tape), we attempted to read the dialog sections with the appropriate voices, our favorite being that of his brother, "The Rooster." It was a sad moment when the final chapter was finished.

The best drive-by birding was in South Dakota. Even in the rain, the grasslands were full of red-winged blackbirds, meadowlarks, red-tailed hawks, kestrels, goldfinches, and others. Two states stood out as having the most impressive scenery: Montana and Wyoming. Another had the nicest people, and that was Minnesota. We would have liked to stay in these places for longer, to hike in the snow-capped mountains, learn to fly fish, paddle along rivers, and ride our bikes around little towns. But our bikes stayed locked to the roof rack, and the closest we got to fishing was stepping into a fly shop and outfitter after getting coffees in downtown Missoula. Next summer we can go back. We have already started planning the trip, and it includes a little cabin at the edge of the Gallatin National Forest just north of Wyoming.

Here's a little of what we saw along the way. The full set of photos is here.

Sapphire Mountains and cattle, western Montana

the Absaroka Range and hay bales, southern Montana

storms over the Bighorn Mountains, from MT-WY border

Buffalo Gap National Grassland, South Dakota

sunset in southeast Minnesota

more pictures...

You will notice there are no photos after Minnesota. As soon as we entered Wisconsin, the view from the interstate became less impressive and the traffic more frustrating. In fact, for day 4, I would have liked a do-over. What should have been a 9-hour drive from Wisconsin to Ohio, wound up taking us 18 hours because of holiday traffic and insane construction projects. Illinois was more like Illinnoying, and Ohio ("the birthplace of aviation") seemed to be "the birthplace of aggravation." Day 5 had some interesting scenery through Pennsylvania and Connecticut, but when I was not driving, I was sleeping, so the camera stayed in the bag.

Normally, all of the galleries and shops are open, new exhibits are on view and snacks are readily available.  True on all accounts except one. . . . . . probably 80% of the galleries and shops were open since First Friday fell on the 4th of July!  Hence, not as many pictures were taken as I would have liked (not that the rain had anything to do with it!)

Lancaster Galleries is normally one of my favorite galleries.  They have a unique display with something that usually appeals to me.  The walk wasn't in vain, however, since I did find things to photograph along the way. . . . . starting with their storefront!

Across Water Street (and down just a bit) the backs of several unique buildings warrant photographing, in my estimation.  Notice the deep stone base for this building combined with old brick?  The only thing that puts it in this century (and last) is the electric service drop!  It is just beautiful!

This marble planter is part of the new Pennsylvania Academy of Music building on Prince Street.  This facility cost over 21 million, get that . . . . . million. . . . . to build.  It is exquisite!!!  Check out their website for information on this building.  It is a definite plus to an already A plus city!!

Standing in the front of the Music Academy and looking across Prince Street, you get a wonderful view of the newly renovated Lancaster Quilt and Textile Museum. It was just reopened in September and has a wonderful gift store as well as a wonderful display of quilts.

Normally I am on the other side of Prince taking a picture of the Fulton Theater.  This time I stood in front of the Fulton and took a picture of the Prince Street Cafe, a great little place to get a cup of coffee and sit in front of the fireplace on a cold winter day.  We've even been known to sit at a table by the window eating a muffin, enjoying a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper on a Saturday morning.

It's kinda like "Cheers" in Boston . . . . . only it's in Lancaster and it's for the Coffee crowd!

I usually get home after 9PM and before 10PM.  Due to the rain and a couple of our favorites not open, I got home before 8PM.  Wayne headed south to his home and I crept in to ours, assuming that Jim would be taking his "pre-bedtime nap.:  I was right.

I heard him sleep as I opened the front door!  He had painted the walls in our "new TV room" and was recuperating from it.  He did not wake up when I took the picture.  The flash had absolutely no effect on him.  He did stir when I removed the remote from his chest, however, and asked me how long I'd been home!

We finished the festivities of the fourth by watching fireworks in Washington DC. . . . . via the television, of course!

Now on to the next adventure!

To my surprise, they were exceedingly nice and helpful, something I had not been used to when dealing with medical professionals during this little ordeal. On my first day, I had this guy who wanted to talk to me about video games for the entire time which is a conversation I can totally hang with for an extended period of time. He put my hand in this machine that is filled with sand and heats up and I just move my hand around, sort of like it's water. Why they don't just use water I don't know, but moving your hand around in hot sand is actually pretty cool. Ten minutes in that thing and I felt like I could move anything with my hand. Until I actually try to move something. And it hurts. So my training regimen consists of stretches, hot sand, putty, moving a hammer back and forth, and wall pushups. They are attempting to get my range of motion back to normal before starting in on strength training, which my arm needs because it has withered away and the hand has like no muscles in it. He also told me that my arm is going to get stiff when it's cold and that I'll be able to tell when rain is within thirty miles. So cut to me, seventy years old, sitting on my porch in a rocking chair, sipping on iced tea, and being all "rain's coming!" It's going to happen. I'm going to be that guy. 

Day two, I saw the other therapist. She put me back in the sand machine which I think I broke because I got sand everywhere. It was like I was at the beach. And she actually massaged my hand which was heavenly. She kept bringing up how her partner wanted to learn more about video editing, and of course I'm all, "That's what I do! It's easy." So now I think she wants to bring her in so I can talk to her while doing my hand stretches. Whatev. As long as my hand is in sand and/or the therapist is massaging it I'll talk about anything you want. The good news: she told me that my wrist is healing phenomenally and that I might not have to go for the full four weeks. Which would be nice, cause it's expensive. 

The wrist really doesn't hurt all that much. When I wake up its a little stiff (as things tend to be in the morning). But after moving it around a bit I hardly notice it. I don't even really need the arm brace anymore but I choose to wear it out because A) it's trendy (like a Power Glove!) and, B) it gets me A LOT of attention (like the individual Morgan and I met at the fireworks stand in Kyle. On, Firecraker...). 

And thus Arm Storm '08 is coming along nicely. As is Flood Storm '08. I'm back in my apartment right now. I have new carpet and you'd never know that anything happened here or that the place was completely tored up last week. I was pretty sure I would need a FEMA trailer for a few months, but now I'm planning another trip to IKEA! Yay! Once again, thank you to Billy and Gretchen and Heather and Justin for helping me out with not being homeless. I feel I need to pay them back in some way, but let's be honest. Just a few minutes in my presence is reward enough, right? Right? 

Just kidding. Also, I want to say that everyone I called DID call back eventually and in my previous post I was in no way criticizing them for not answering immediately. The point of my story was to point out the absurdity of calling everyone at six in the morning while my sister slept in the car and drugged out hookers approached me in the alleyway. So thanks to everyone for calling and sorry I woke yall up. 

I'd also like to point out that I LOVE three day weekends. Yesterday was the 4th, which we celebrated by going down to Auditorium Shores to watch the fireworks. Austin is such a pretty city and it looks that much cooler when the sky is on fire. When the aliens attack I'm going down to Town Lake cause it's going to look hella cool down there (yeah, I used hella). Afterwords, we headed to Morgan and Ashley's and attempted to burn down their house. Good times. 

Busy week ahead! The Wedding of the Century is on Saturday and I'm pretty sure it's going to be epic. And I would like to do some Photoshop for this post but I can think of no movie poster that goes along with this week's theme. And I'm lazy.

First stop: Asheville, North Carolina

There's nothing like driving along a winding North Carolina back road in the dead of night as your windshield is pelted mercilessly by raindrops the size of grapes and your brand-new GPS system (which you have named "Darlene") struggles to locate you.

"Dammit, Darlene!" you say, casting the blame for your navigational failures on the only other vocal presence available. "This is a U.S. HIGHWAY, for fuck's sake, not the fucking RAINFOREST or anything. Find me!"

Then you sputter along until Darlene gets her shit together and leads you back to I-26, where the torrential rain finally slows down long enough for you to make your way to a small hostel in West Asheville, North Carolina. You are greeted at the door by a friendly girl in her twenties who introduces you to some of the other guests and offers you a mug of the finest box of Franzia wine, a bathroom and a bottom bunk. You are satisfied.

--

I stayed in Asheville for five days - a bit longer than I had intended, but my poor car ("Bruce," as some of you may recall) was writhing and moaning on his deathbed, according to the mechanic to whom I brought him for a simple oil change. The repairs (for which I have since been informed I was wildly overcharged, big shocker there) took a couple of days, so I hung around, vagrant-style, until he was roadworthy once again.

Of all the places to be stranded while a mechanic is ripping your car apart and putting it back together again very shoddily, Asheville is, to my mind, right up there with the best of them. The people are friendly (can someone say "free herbal supplements"?), the climate is temperate, the mountains are ripe for hiking, and the beer, it is good. The hostel I stayed at was cheap - $13 per night if you sleep in your tent in the backyard - and the staff and guests there were generally of the Give You The Shirt Off Their Back persuasion, personality-wise. A couple of them taught me how to roll my own cigarettes (no, I haven't quit yet, blah blah bad for my health blah I KNOW), which is an excellent skill to have if you are trying to be a smoker who can also afford to buy food. One girl, a wilderness survival expert, good-naturedly dispensed a metric fuckton of useful camping/hiking knowledge to me (which included a much-needed lesson on slipknot-tying, as it relates to making sure one's tent does not collapse upon one in one's sleep). Another guy had recently broken his foot while rock-climbing, which afforded me the opportunity to use nearly every nickname I know that includes the word "gimp" and all its various synonyms (i.e., "Hey, CRUTCHY! Why the fuck are you so damn slow?")

One traveler there, to whom we all simply referred as "Creepy Naked Guy," was an unending carnival of wackiness. From his initial standard weirdness while checking in ("I think he's on something, or at least drunk," one of the staff whispered to me) to his unexpectedly nude emergence from the back porch hot tub (of which I was the only one to bear witness) to his 7 a.m. beer runs, he never ceased to inspire. Although I don't think it really took him much effort to get me to mumble "What in the ever-living holy fuck ..." at least once per hour throughout his short stay.

Shortly after Creepy Naked Guy was diplomatically asked to take his empty tallboys and leave instantly, my car was - to the naked eye, at least - ready to go. I emptied a week's worth of trash and other miscellaneous debris from its floorboards and hit the gas. I drove west.

At Sliding Rock, NC, a hostel friend captures the ingenuity of our makeshift beer cooler.

Having gotten packed and ready, I was officially ready to hit the road. Except, my car? Wasn't.

This was one of the many views from the top of Max Patch Mountain in northwestern North Carolina.

Third stop: Gilbert, Arkansas

There is a cuckoo clock in this house, and it is trying to make me throw something at it. The method it’s using to achieve this goal is one in which, every fifteen minutes, it goes SQUAWK and rings a bell. I don’t know who in the hell first imagined that “SQUAWK bonnngggg!” would be a good sound to hear as one is drifting into a sigh-heaving sleep, but whoever that person is, he ought to look into having himself beaten with a mallet.

I shouldn’t complain (however: watch me), because the offending clock is probably the only even semi-annoying thing about my current location, other than the fact that wireless internet seems to exist only in dreams here. But even that ceased to be annoying after about four seconds, when I realized that the internet can be a distraction of Hulkish proportions, without which I am finally able to gather my thoughts and write something.

My body is presently resting for a few days near the Buffalo National River in Gilbert, Arkansas - a town which proudly boasts a population of thirty-three, plus their dogs and trucks. I’m staying at a hostel run by a local man in his late fifties and his wife, a sweet Filipina woman who seems to know more Arabic than I do. I am their only guest this weekend, which means that I have the loft to myself.

The house is rustic and has that old-wood smell that I learned to love as a tiny, young, tattoo-less child, before I went through my Vacations in the Adirondacks are Lame phase. There are hundreds of books stacked on shelves that wrap around nearly every visible surface - if I had fifty years and a few key provisions (hint: peanut butter, meatballs and quality marijuana), I could possibly get through the ones upstairs. (“Upstairs,” by the way, is accessible only by climbing a narrow, twisted, wrought-iron staircase, of the sort on which I have been known to sustain injuries. Let us pray.) I am momentarily torn between spending my time here exploring the house, or stomping jubilantly through the woods, water and mountains that surround it.

--

After an Ambien-fueled nap (hey - you try driving fourteen hours by yourself and then abruptly sleeping. Your brain will not allow it), the urge to Be In Nature pulled me about 400 yards down the road to the banks of the Buffalo National River. I rented a kayak, packed my tent and sleeping bag inside it, and requested to be dropped off ten miles up the river.

It took me a minute to get used to kayaking again, and to remind my arms that, no, this was not a joke, but after the initial struggle (Me: "I will paddle down the river!" My arms: "But wouldn't you rather just float?" Me: "No, I'm going to paddle. Wheee!" My arms: "Um, no."), I moved along at a fairly brisk pace.

That day, a Sunday, the river was full of canoes and kayaks - most likely due to the previous day having been the sort of wet and rainy type that spawns activities like Moping Around and Finishing That Pint of Ben & Jerry's. I was one of the only solo floaters (ha ha! Like a turd!), so I attracted a bit of attention - although this could also have been due to my excellent paddling method, which made me look somewhat as though I was punishing the water for stealing my man. Either way, I made several new friends along the river. It was a good thing, too, as all I had brought with me, sustenance-wise, was food and water. My new friends provided the beer and bowl, and a pleasant time was had by all.

Oh, and my arms had their revenge the next day, when it hurt me to lift a fork to my mouth. Luckily, all I had on my schedule that day was a three hundred and eighteen-mile drive to Oklahoma City. Onward and westward!

Who says a town can't have a little healthy self-esteem?

I couldn't stop staring at the gorges along the river ... which is probably why my kayak is turned in not exactly the right direction.

Early morning fog on the river made it look like I had passed into another dimension.

Fifth stop: Albuquerque, New Mexico

Whenever I hear “Albuquerque,” it makes me think of those old Looney Tunes episodes - the ones where Bugs Bunny pops out of a hole in the middle of Siberia or somewhere and announces, “I shoulda taken that left at Albakoikey.” For the longest time I thought it was a fictional place, like Narnia or Middle Earth or a store where you can buy jeans that compliment both your ass and your hips, but eventually New Mexico seeped into my consciousness and lodged itself firmly there.

That’s how I found myself speeding down I-40 early Wednesday morning, giving my speedometer the shits at 112 miles per hour, heading toward - of all places - the desert. I inexplicably had no idea what northern New Mexico looked like, but I knew it had three things with which I wanted to get better acquainted: excellent Mexican food, American Spirit cigarettes … and Albuquerque.

As the sun rose behind me that morning, my thoughts went something like this: “Fucking interstate is a soulless bastard … only 45 minutes to go … why is there no food except CHEETOS in this car … tangled up in bluuuuue holy SHIT look at that mountain.”

Ahem. Why did nobody tell me that northern New Mexico is full of giant, hulking, take-your-breath-away mountain ranges? For shame, people. By the time I pulled into the Route 66 Hostel in Albuquerque, I was practically delirious with glee. You can see them from everywhere in the city. Getting ice cream at Dairy Queen? Look outside, there are mountains. Sitting on the front porch of the hostel? Oh, hey, mountains. Walking around pretty much anywhere? Perhaps you should turn your head slightly, because did I mention that if you do, you will see mountains?

I wasted no time getting up close and personal with the mountains (which, you may recall, are everywhere), and probably would have wandered around in them forever, had it not been for the fact that all the trails up the slopes were closed due to an “extreme fire hazard” warning. Pshaw! So I settled for meandering around the foothills, dodging cacti and swatting unfamiliar insects away from my face.

Albuquerque did not disappoint. Now, on to Utopia … or maybe Santa Fe.

That mountain took me fully by surprise.

I took the Sandia Peak Tramway to the top of the Sandia Mountains - an elevation of 10,378 feet. All I can say is ... DAMN.

Like my new hat? The designer is Texas Gas Station. Also note: MOUNTAINS.

Oh, and if you want to see the rest of the photos (for I have been taking them by the hundreds), go to my Flickr site here.

More to follow ...