Big-Sur = Big Mistake

My roommates and I had big plans for our spring break to go camping in the beautiful Big-Sur coastal area of California. Though the forecast predicted several inches of rain and dangerous winds, we stuffed the butt of my my roommate's Tahoe as fully as the physics of matter would allow and set out on the beautiful California Highway 1 towards our campsite in Lampkiln state park regardless. We brought all the necessities, such as wet firewood that would prove to be immune to all forms of fire, miscellaneous articles for which it was very important to remain dry, and lots of cheap wine.

A mere 60 miles from our home and a vast 3 and a half hours later (thanks, highway 1) we get to Lampkiln, and chat briefly with a grizzled white-bearded man who looks to have kidnapped the park ranger and confiscated his clothes and his booth. He informs us that the site we have reserved is an "exposed beach-site," and that the winds for the night are expected to reach 50 miles/hour at their peak. We are not deterred. Our site is right at the mouth of a river that meets the ocean, near a very majestic powerful wave that crashes about every 10 seconds with some serious undertow.

The night that followed was horrific. We had two tents, a large 8-man tent and a small 2-man tent, and someone had had the cute idea of appointing the inferior tent to the duty of "supply tent," so we ensured that all our valuable dry goods were taken out of our air-tight vehicle and placed haphazardly within the leaky 2-man tent. After a quick dinner heated on a propane flame (since lighter-fluid, which we did not have an abundance of, was apparently our only other flammable item, not our firewood), we retired to our tent and pretended to sleep for the next 8 hours while our stakes were ripped from the ground, our bedding was sprayed with rain, and the walls of our tent flapped like a child's kite in the wind. Adding insult to injury, our tupperware container full of eggs that we'd left on a picnic table to chill had blown open, filled with water, floated the eggs to the top (we were very excited to learn that eggs float) and allowed the wind to scatter and crush our eggs across our campsite. The gusts had snapped the poles on our supply tent clear in half, too, and created a natural body of water in its base. We affectionately nicknamed it "Lake Foresight." All of our possessions were floating in it when we woke up.

The Park rangers we encountered that morning stared at us with wide eyes, speaking in hushed whispers of the forces of nature we'd resiliently defied. We had the site reserved for 3 more days, but we cooly filled out the paperwork for our reservation refund, and got the fuck out of Big Sur. It was raining when we packed, too, so we spent the 3.5 hour car ride back with wet clothes on our backs and muddy equipment in our laps to compensate for our rushed pack-job.

But the trip was not over so soon for my two roomates, who spent the remainder of spring break stricken with the worst poison oak I have ever seen. Though this is largely due to the fact that they were drunken-wrestling on a bushy hillside while foraging for firewood, noone had any idea just how bad poison oak could be. The afflicted areas became swolen, so bad in my roomates faces' that they appeared to have black eyes and could only manage a squint. Red patches spanned one's ankles, arms, neck, and face, and large and scaly bumps appeared everywhere. I'm also told that both had taken a moment to pee in the bushes, which resulted in affliction in the "land down under". Despite the obviously terrible consequences of the poison oak venom, I do find it somewhat amusing that both eventually chose to recieve large shots of cortisone in their asses to combat the effects.

Poison Oak

What's the Difference between a Moped and a Goped?

In the words of Valerie Evans, one Mo's and one Go's. What's the difference between my moped's powerful engine and an obese diseased three-legged hamster sleeping in an excercise wheel? Not much.

Towards the end of 2004, while riding the Yamaha Vino motorscooter (which I had won on The Price is Right) to campus for a final, my rear tire exploded and I found myself face to face with death. With few other options and only minutes to spare before my final, I leapt through midair into the open top of a Chrysler Lebaron that happened to be in the lane beside me; with a personalized license plate that read "STAMOS". The impact was quite violent, as my body was still travelling at the 90 or so miles an hour my 34cc Moped had propelled me to, but my fall was broken by the lap of none other than a certain Stamos. I was blinded as the moped gently tapped into a parked ford pinto which quickly erupted into a ball of flames, but with my hands, as I tried to lift myself off the stranger into the next seat could feel long flowing hair, soft feminine features, and... hard muscular pectorals? Damnit, it was John Stamos. I mumbled a few curses under my breath and fantasized breifly about Rebecca. John interrupted my fantasy with a pitch for some shitty long-distance phone company, and thrust several phone cards in my direction. I slapped him in the face and told him to "Cut-It-Out," accompanied of course by exactly the same hand motions that Uncle Joey used to use in "Full House."

Anyways, the moped was out of commission and I made the mistake of parking it in my driveway for an extended period of time. It must have caught the eye of some passerby hooligans, as one morning I awoke and the moped had vanished. A quick call to the police and the moped turned up abandoned in a neighborhood less than 2 blocks from my house. It had been hotwired and joy-ridden. The license plates and the mirrors were missing, gouges were missing from body panel where they'd accessed the ignition, and the whole thing had been wiped clean of prints. I walked it sadly back to my garage, where I tucked it in a corner and forgot all about it.

Days passed, bus rides to school drug on, tests were taken, beers were consumed, women were flirted with, chores were neglected, and then one day I recieved a check for 600 bucks for a sale I'd made on ebay. I ordered the necessary replacement parts and set Brian immediately to work with the soldering iron, restoring the electrical systems of my Moped to factory condition.

I stripped the Moped completely down to its frame. It was alot like working with legos, except bigger, and less sturdy. I expected it to get lighter as I went, and thought about race modifying it as I worked, except flimsy piece after flimsy piece came off of it and I realized that nothing but the frame served any purpose other than decoration. When the pieces finally came, I wrestled the whole thing back together and drove it proudly to the top of one of the highest hills in San Luis Obispo and took some pictures of the city. I get 106 miles to the gallon on that bad boy so I can pretty much go wherever the hell I want.

Moped theives, rot in Hell, and picture me storming your bedroom while you sleep, mounted on my moped like a cavalry fighter, wielding my KA-BAR cutlass machete of justice and delivering to you your comeuppance with a swift thrust into the empty cavity where your heart should be, then turning around and putting off into the night, back into the comfort of my good karma.

I win.

Whiskey, Knives, and Sex (Okay I lied about the Sex)

It's a Wednesday morning and I am in my underwear, minding my own business and approaching what is probably the peak of a Black-Velvet hangover. Having agreed to play a "Wicker Park" drinking game the night before, the beautiful Kelly "The Commanding Officer of Fun" Fitzjarrell enforces my promise to take a whiskey-shot every time a phone rings, or someone talks on the phone, or a phone is visible, or pretty much whenever Kelly wants to see me sneeze and make a face like an eight-year old girl getting her vaccinations. Other caveats included "Doors in any circumstance," "Kissing Scenes," and "anytime Josh Hartnett looks hot."



The doorbell rings. I creep to the door and - lo and behold! - it's the fed ex man, carrying a package towards me, one that originated in Rockville, Florida, and has taken the last 6 days to reach me by truck. I could swear I see the shimmer of a halo around his fed ex company cap, and a golden light seems to be emminating from the package as he places it into my hands. I tingle, and I sit cross-legged in the grass, admiring the "KA-BAR" insignia on the long, slender cardboard box. I clutch the parcel to my chest like a mother pressing a newborn to her bosom for the very fist time. Then, I rip into it like an only-child with attention defecit disorder on Christmas Day chewing his way into a gift box.

Holding 17 inches of manhood firmly in my right hand, tears well up in my eyes. Suddenly, everything becomes a target. I start dashing through my front yard, slicing left and right, obliterating unwanted weeds, unneccessary tree limbs, unsightly flowerbeds, offending potted plants that are looking at me in the wrong way... you get the drift. I lose conciousness to highly concentrated levels of knife lust, and when I regain it 5 minutes later, I realize that my running in circles in my front yard in my underwear flailing a dangerous weapon above my head and vanquishing the landscaping is all being observed by an elderly gentleman out walking his dog. I think he actually pulled his pet closer to himself when I made eye contact. Feeling a bit childish, I walk calmy to my garage, where, once within the confines of my own home, the mania begins anew as I frantically slash down cobwebs and skewer an unfortunate two or three of the thousands of spiders that live comfortably in our home, shrouding our every moment of residence here in fear.

The knife came with sheath that has a belt loop - needless to say the knife is dangling from my waist this very moment, a short hand grab away from dispatching the next spider, flower, or neighbor's pet that thinks its funny to shit in my front lawn. You should see the difference in height of the grass that is shat on, not to mention the exponential growth of mushrooms that are hideously large and likely to be poisonous. I'm off to go eat one and gauge wether or not there are any euphoric effects.

A Quick Note

I've changed my settings so that anyone may leave comments. No more hassle - just effortless slander.

Mobile Foot-Pillows

The other day, my friend Kristen Oato invited (forced) me to go shopping (chauferring) for shoes with her. We headed to the Pismo Beach outlets, hoping the axle on my 1989 Honda Accord would endure the trek.

I found myself in an elgegant Nine West shoe store, curiously inspecting pairs of expensive and pointy-toed women's shoes.

Shoe Sales Lady: SIR! Sir, you are damaging that shoe with your girthful feet! That is a women's size 5 hot-pink stilleto, you must unhand it immediately!

Daniel (Wielding the Stilleto Teasingly): Why, there are no men here. Let's not fight amongst us girls, darling. I am madame Gingrasoiselle.

Shoe Sales Lady: Sir, I am going to have to call the police if you continue to manhandle our - Is that rotting fruit I smell?

Daniel (Wielding the Stilleto Fiercely): Back Off, Bitch!

Shoe Sales Lady (Removes her own shoe and hurtles it at Daniel. It narrowley misses his head and strikes a display case behind him, which falls over and buries an unsuspecting young girl in a mountain of shoes): Take that you WENCH!

Daniel (Lowers his shoulder and, charging the woman): Do you have anything in a size "BURN IN HELL!"

(Locked together, clawing at each other's faces and resembling anorexic sumo wrestlers gone berserk, the two move into a display, knocking the limbs off manequins and toppling others over, and come crashing through the window into the sidewalk)

Kristen: Daniel, how do these look?
Kristen: Daniel?
Kristen: Daniel. Daniel, wake up.

Daniel (sleepily): What, huh? They look lovely. They match your ankles nicely. They compliment your arches. Excuse me.

At this point I walked into a real (man's) shoe store, and bought a lovely pair of authentic minnetonka moccasin slippers. It had something to do with my really sore feet, having hiked bishops early that day, and the moccasins, with their white fluffy insides and sleek leather outsides, having seductively whispered my name as I walked into the store and saw them sitting there, virginally, SCREAMING for me to penetrate them with my battered foot-paws.

I'm going to kick them off and go to bed now. More exciting literary romps to come for all you faithful alaskagrown.net fans (my parents) out there.

G'night.

Ground Beef

The following is a reenactment of events that are true, and believed to have taken place on Wednesday, Februaru 23rd, 2005. The setting is outside a rsidence in a quiet, geriatric neighborhood located on the south side of San Luis Obispo. Police responded to the scene of a biological threat. Names have been altered to proctect hte identities of the innocent.

Kristen X (steps into a white 1989 Honda Accord and closes the door, making an extremely unpleasant face): Do you have rotting fruit in here?

Daniel X (behind the wheel): No. I just burped.

I'd like to excuse my emmissions on account of the delightful item on Firestone's Bar and Grill menu known as the "Monster Burger," or to locals as the "Heart Cork." Why waste a complete bun and an entire set of toppings on just one hamburger patty when you can easily fit two, or more? Why excercise and eat healthy when you can experience the unspeakable pleasure of large quantities of ground beef and grow an attractive set of love handles at the same time. Words like "lean" and "fit" are trivial buzz words associated with the passing fads of "health" and "long lives," and should be ignored diligently.

Speaking of ignorance and things to ignore, I'd like to take a word on vegiterianism. This is not to criticize the ones who do it for healthy purposes (so long as they are responsible enough to do it properly, preferrably choosing not to starve themselves and use an occaisional pinto bean or sprig of alfalfa as a pretense for a diet), but the ones who do it with the animals in mind. The animals. The animals. Just because you don't eat them doesn't mean you don't use toothpaste, paint brushes, soap, shellac, silk, leather, glue, jelly, down, or any other number of products that are typically the byproduct of animal slaughter. An animal slaughter that feeds the masses and fuels the economy I might add, benefiting the everyman in a multitude of indirect ways. Yes, It's true that stock animals are grown in horrific, inhuman conditions, but the broader and more important truth is that human beings do whatever they need to to survive. Our remorseless and indiferrent cultivation of stock animals for our own satiations is no different than a parasitic relationship in nature, or a virus that survives of the demise of victim cells. It is neither good nor evil; it is a survival mechanism. And I'd bet my life that if given the choice between ethics and death by starvation, you'd be scarce to find many unwaivering vegetarians. If you want to change the world, be farmer and grow your own food, and if you deal in animals, kiss them goodnight and tuck them into bed before you eat them in the morning. Masquerading around as the meat-free Champions of the Animal Kingdom is silly. Why is there even any difference from "harvest-slaughter" we deliver to the millions of plants we grow in the first place? Or to be genetically altering them, mutating them to suit our own needs? Where does one draw the line? Why is it a tragedy when a puppy dies of natural causes, but a celebration when a rat, eliminated, is found with its head clenched in the maws of a deadly man-made trap? the issue is muddled and there is no point to wading around in it, trying to find the moral high ground... Just do as the dinosaurs do: Eat or be eaten. Though it may be to some politically incorrect, a double-hamburger with cheese is spiritually unblemishing.