I was on my way back from Millersville. I had to fuel up (went to the beer store) and when I was crossing Duke street heading home, low and behold there was an unopened half case of beer along side the road. Holy shit! I slowed down, to jump out and grab it (as any soon-t0-be-hero would), when I saw that it was Bud Light. Sorry, but I'm not bringing that shit home or anywhere; free as it may be. I quickly sped away in the Dodge van.

Go ahead, it's yours...it's probably still there.

Ahhh...today was the first day for me on the set for the filming of an independent film. Yes, I know...everyone is talking about it...yes I know...I was there.

With out knowing it, I had apparently scored the lead role. We got the news yesterday afternoon. Damn right I was nervous. The director gave me the news, and my stomach went to knots. Straight to Knottsville Nelssesee. I was a mess. I immediately started practicing my lines and went on a diet. With only twenty four hours to go until filming, I had a lot of work to do and weight to lose.

The director knew that I was a method actor, and had no problem putting the reigns into my hands. I mean, I'm a concrete worker for crying out loud...who would think for one minute that I could not handle acting as the lead man in a romantic comedy drama thriller.

No, but seriously I was nervous. With every sit-up and push-up I did between running and quitting smoking, I wondered: Can I do this? Am I the right man for the job? Can I act like anything other than a complete moron? The answer was...yes.

For the rest of the day and night I trained and practiced. I rolled the script in my hand and smashed beer cans with it...while yelling loudly. My family knew to let me alone, for they had all seen me in training before; it's not pretty. Actually it's quite ugly. When I train, I lose all senses and this machine becomes inapproachable.

That fact alone had me feeling some guilt, and the slight guilt shed some light onto the fact that: I don't have the time or energy or need to be playing the lead in some independent film. No. This is not the right time. I'm already caught up in some pipe dream of writing a stupid book that no one will ever read. Acting? Lead? C'mon dude...get a grip.

I started writing the director a very heart felt/remorseful text message about my already struggling schedule and responsibilities. I knew that this was going to break his heart, because he had his vision set with me as the lead. 'Dudes feelings are about to be crushed...

Suddenly, my phone rang. It was the director. That's it. I will tell him over the phone and let him down easy. Hell, if he needs me to I'll drive over to the set and we can talk about it face to face; just so he may not feel so much pain and hopefully he'll get where I'm coming from.

I started to tell him:

"Hey, listen man...I really appreciated the opportunity and all, but... I'd really be kidding myself and leading you along to think that I'm going to have time for any involvement in this movie for other than something minimal...I mean...I'm just not sure I will be able to play the lead-...and I'm really sorr-"

He cut me off with laughter.

"Oh...NO!....(laughter continues) No, Matt...we have REAL actors to play all the parts in the film...for tomorrow we just need some faces for some promotional shots...to help get some momentum going. (I hear him tell the others around him about me thinking I was going to be the lead, and hear raging laughter in the background) hahahahahahahah...."

I laughed also, but not with the same demeanor.

"Ok, cool. That's cool, because I wasn't sure earlier when you said that...."

He cut me off quickly to get back to his (now) mocking conversation at the bar and said he'd see me in the morning.

After my family festivities last night, I ended up drinking way way too much alcohol. Maybe I was trying to drown my feelings about losing the lead...maybe I was just letting them go down too easy on a Friday evening...whatever the reason, I did it. And, MAN was I hurting today at the photo shoot. I almost puked on my fellow 'actors' and on set props. It was that bad that I actually tried to cut the pain with a few beers- total loser move. The extra alcohol helped for a bit and then came around to bite me in the ass. I left the set early in a hissy. I was half drunk AND lost the phaux lead to Josh Eves.

Who is Josh Eves? Well he's obviously more handsome than me...he's taller, more clean cut and doesn't have gray hair in his beard. He doesn't have a beard. He's an asshole and he's the phaux lead. There you go.

I listened to the louder songs on my way home.

The traffic moved in time to the music and I had missed the setting sun by three hours on my way home from work. For some reason the sunset was something that I really wanted to see today.

I get stoked staring at the sun on the way home after crawling on concrete slabs all day in the dark. Mushy...

The grinding cartilage had crushed my afternoon ambitions for this evening. I'm stinky and grumpy and hungry. I'm pissed and sore...broke...trust me, we don't want to hang out. These songs are reading my mind. They've got me thinking about how my inspirations and destructive motives are on the same page; laid out like some sort of fucked up spread sheet...but there's not really a good formula that makes it work out right...or look right...or balance. Fuck that. I suck at math and decide to through the scratchings out the window.

You just gotta love listening to mood music so loud in the earphones that it makes your ear drums itch and burn. Don't you? I would have listened louder if it was possible.

I was sore as hell and this traffic and depressing music and missing sunset really really had me wishing for a flask of whiskey between my legs instead of a set of sore testicles.

The drive home took forty eight hours and eventually my mood moved to manic. Ahhh.

Two days later now and it is Thanksgiving Day. I'm very thankful...Ah! Dog just licked my armpit. Sweet. The Arment's are waking and stirring and getting ready to drive around the state to relatives.

I just got back from my semi-annual trip to K-mart. It's open alright. And full of anxious consumers. They're all miserable...except for me and the drunk lady. She was really loud with her descriptions to her kids about the items in different isles, and kept crashing her cart. She smelled like Gin and I bet by turkey time, she's gonna be passed out in her chair, feet in the air snoring like a bear. I bet.

I just had to run in to buy a clean pair of pants. Sadly, every article of clothing that I have ever owned (or will own) falls to quick death in the trenches of concrete work. This morning I tried to find a clean pair of something, but came up empty handed. Quickly I took the PT Cruiser to K-mart with 'Licensed to Ill' blaring to pick up two pairs of Basic Edition wrinkle resistant double pleats. I've given up on Dickies. The Basic Edition wrinkle resistant double pleats are a more comfortable (though slightly less durable) pant that is both affordable and very stylish. And for $10.99, you can't beat it! -Unless Salvation Army is open (it was not) and if your politics on China made clothing keeps you from wearing such garbage (not today).

Very Thankful, Loving America...Have a good one, people.

My main man and favorite Lancasterian Oliver Wilson is an artist.

Some of his newest paintings will be on display and 'priced to sell' on Friday, December 3rd (Lancaster's famous for it's "first Friday" art nights and party experiences) at the Keppel building on Queen street. I'm pretty sure that his exhibit will be on the upper floor. I asked for details and we joked about something that did not relate to this night, and the information was lost somewhere between a lunch break and truck ride. Hike your ass up there and meet the man, and check out his art.

Ollie paints figures and situations with an original style that warms skin and makes people smile. Many titles for pieces are a play on words and reflect images from the mind of our area's friendliest subtle genius.

Ollie Wilson. December Third. Keppel Building.

Restaurant Fart

Time stood still. I did not move, but looked from side to side with out moving my head, just maxing my peripheral. It was as though there was an elephant in the room...and nobody wanted to talk about it.

I accidentally farted very loudly in a very public place. It was at Mexitaly in York; a highly recommended Mexican/Italian restaurant (get it) with reasonably priced fresh food. It is very close to an area that I work in often...so I eat there with great pleasure some what often.

My English is shaky because I am still getting over this incident.

It was as though there was an elephant in the room...and nobody wanted to talk about it. I've never used that expression before, and am actually wondering the origin and meaning. Is it to describe an uncomfortable situation? That's my guess, and that's how I'm using it...but really...an elephant? If there was an elephant in the room, I'd probably be somewhat stoked or amazed...as long as it wasn't killing people or looking like it was about to kill people. If it was just hanging out I think it would be cool. I think I may be missing some of the phrase. I don't know.

My accidental fart left me in a very uncomfortable situation...not like an elephant in the room that nobody wanted to talk about. It was a loud fart. It was me...we don't have to talk about it...I'm guilty as hell.

It was awkward. Almost the same feeling I would imagine to have if you had to tell the bride that she's got a booger at her nose.

"Hey, yeah...congratulations! It was a great ceremony, your dress looks nice, I'm so happy for you guys and....you've got a little...there's a...you might want to...sorry but you've got this little hanger...oh hell. Darling you've got a big nasty booger! I'm so sorry!"

She runs away crying with the boogie flopping in the wind.

The restaurant just reopened with a flock of anxious customers. There was a dirty construction worker sitting in the middle of the room frozen with guilt after leaving a loud fart.

Trains, Brains and Skateboards

The thing that always surprises me about public transportation is how 'at ease' every one else seems to be. They walk through the booths, down stairs and await the transport calm and silent. I; on the other hand seem to be rushing around, dropping things, swearing under my breath and am always rooting around my bag, looking for some important item that I have some how lost or forgot to bring.

There was a man across the tracks from my waiting spot that looked like the train he was waiting for was going to take him back the year 1930. He had the hat, the long coat, clear skin and a glare about him that no one has seen for a century.

This is my second train ride. You would think that I would be a little more relaxed about public transportation by now, but I'm not. And I'm nervous that my 'friend' David will not be at the Philadelphia station to pick me up, and I'll have a nervous break down and pass out....due to the fact that I am completely incapable of surviving in a big city with out someone to hold my hand. He's not answering the phone and right now I'm hot with anger. Dammit. Settle...breathe...

I'm taking this train to Philadelphia to go look at some concrete work. I would not be doing this if local work was plentiful. But really, I don't mind traveling for work, and Philly is no big deal. Dave's mother in law has a property that needs some expert attention, so here I come. Yup, Mr. Concrete on a train. If she decides that she wants me to do the work (after a fair pricing arrangement is agreed upon), I am going to consider the option of commuting by train to do the project. Won't it be cool to get on the 5:15 with the other working commuters? They'll have their brief cases and I'll be lugging concrete tools, saws and wheel barrow through the gates and onto the train. Maybe I'll make some friends. Maybe I'll....C'MON DAVE!!! ANSWER THE DAMN PHONE! IF I GET THERE AND YOU'RE NOT THERE I'M GONNA KILL YOU.THIS TRAIN RIDE IS FUN AND ALL, BUT I'VE GOT BETTER THINGS TO DO THAN...(insert sound of received text message)....Ok, he got my panic stricken text messages and finally returned a response that he will be there and told me to 'chillax'. I don't really like that word. “Chillax”. It's another one of these 'words' that society has formed by taking two words, misspelling them and adding them to our already struggling culture. It's stupid and I really encourage any readers to stop using such words. Thank you.

Ok, next question. Is there a shitter on this train? Am I supposed to know where it's at? Does everyone else know where it's at, and they're not telling me, because I'm the new guy? And is there is something that I'm supposed to know about the shitter, but it's privileged information? If I ask someone if there is a shitter on the train, and they say “No”, am I now looking like an idiot who's got to shit, and there's no where to go? In case any one is reading and hasn't figured it out yet....I have to crap and I'm on a train.

I'm just going to sit here and ignore my discomfort and continue typing. If (really I don't) I did care at all what people think about me on this train, the laptop computer and ability to type really well must make me look like some sort of professional; not a neurotic lunatic construction worker with social fears and a steamer in the chamber.

I guess the plan is to meet David at the train station, and go from there to his mother in law's to look at this project. He doesn't have a car today, so we are taking the subway. Subway? Are they scary? I've never been on one, and admit to having great fears of things I am unfamiliar with. Yes, I know...I'm primitive.

The train is really nice. The interior is recently refurbished. I can tell because the seats are nice and new, but there are spots in the armrests where ashtrays once were. I just tried to open up my ashtray, but it's not an ashtray anymore. It's a tease for someone who really wants to light up, and for a split second was fooled to think that society would let smokers pollute public air at any location...especially the tight confines of an Amtrak.

I like the train. This subway scares me. Aren't subways littered with graphitti? Don't they contain bullies who take your tokens and working class generics that look the other way when fights break out? Isn't that the subway? I don't like the subway. I'm a train-kind-of-dude. Ok, where's the shitter. My nerves are kicking in again.

My gosh. Business's turn their backs to the train tracks and show us commuters all their dirty habits and rust problems. Over flowing dumpsters and home-done-masonry make train commuters look ahead, as though there is something else to see. There's fences with holes and ametuer graphitti under bridges. The bridge pillars are a cheap canvas to any artists longing to bless the subway someday.

The structures outside are getting larger, and I bet it means we are getting closer to the city. Just a hunch. The farms have disappeared. The train is going slower and blowing the horn more often, and quite honestly, the graphitti is getting better.

There is an inconsistent rhythm in the rails running under us that is slowly driving me crazy. I wanted to bring head phones, and sort of forgot them. I may have forgotten them, or maybe I left them on my dashboard on purpose. I knew I would want to peck thoughts on the train ride, and any sort of music would have tainted my perspective and given these thoughts a clear unbalanced view of this awkward encounter.

The train is now going annoyingly slow and my laptop battery is almost dead....alright, where's the shitter?

(Three and a half hours later....)

Philadelphia left me with sore legs and a mild beer buzz. The subway was just like in the movies, but with no graphitti. Apparently 'muma' and 'wto3 crew' just paint the surrounding bridge pillars...oh, yes, you too 'Moose'.

Dave met me at the subway station near the train station. I had to ask a smoking Chinese man with one rotted eye ball where the nearest subway station would be, and he scolded me where it was while pointing profusely. Whatever, dude.

A loud man was loudly selling umbrellas on the corner of loud street. My shoes have a hole in them, and now I was wishing that this dude was selling dry socks, instead of shitty shit from Shitville.

I followed Dave and talked with excitement. My gallon of coffee sat in an empty stomach and worked it's magic of making me a mad man. Rhythmic gestures followed every description of recent Lancaster life.
The subway tiles amplified my rantings. People huddled in the halls and no one smiled. I talked more and Dave murmured responses that I could not understand. There is a good possibility that he was high on pot. He sent text messages to people and walked through the gates with his head down reading responses. I followed him too close and awkwardly, like a puppy who is having a hard time with the master's proximity and as if the leash between them was to pull them closer together; not to keep one from running away from the other.

We rode four different subway trains, and when we arrived at the house to look at the concrete work, I swear that we were only three blocks from the train station.

It rained like crazy while we discussed the project's possibilities. I was able to use words such as 'bullshit' while describing problem areas of Dave's Mom-in-Law's porch. I used such slang because she made me feel comfortable. My tongue gets loose and my defenses drop when I am in my comfort zone...look out.

The rain didn't seem to bother Dave's M.I.L., and she chatted relentlessly. We were soaked to the bone and my skateboard was getting wet. Finally our ride 'Don' showed up. We were now free to go and jumped in his car. From here, the three of us would go across the city to ride skateboard at the Philly warehouse: a secret society's hideout that contains a mecca of transitional terrain for stunt wood.

Don drove his car across town like he was trying to win some sort of race. I said prayers in the back seat and missed my Amtrak train for travels. Dave spoke clear and freely, now that his morning bong hits had worn off. He didn't tell me, I just knew.

The warehouse was empty, and the three of us had a pretty good session. I was getting hungry and was thirsty for beer. Dave had promised to buy lunch, but I was sure that his stoner logic made him forget about it. Oops...'space'. -That's what stoners call forgetting. They don't 'forget' things, they 'space'.

Example:
“Yeah I was totally going to go to work yesterday, and then I just spaced.”

I was sure that Dave had 'spaced' about promising me lunch. THEN all of the sudden, there was cold beer and pizza on the deck of the ramp. Pabst pounders and some hot pie from “The best place in town” is what Don said.

Needless to say, I was stoked, and forgave Dave for lying to me about lunch.

The skateboards and beer and pizza and bros combo had me spacing on the fact that I live in Millersville...and I had a train to catch. If Dave would have bought more beer, I would no doubt still be in Philadelphia and smashing my walls of matrimony. But, when the beer was gone, Don Earnhardt muscled his way through town to get me to the station fifteen minutes early. You son of a bitch!

Ahh...now I am Lancaster bound on my trusty Amtrak and would like to let you know that the Downingtown Moose lodge has bingo AND karaoke this Friday at 6:30. It's right across the street from their train station. I just saw the advertisement pass as we pulled away.

Whew...I am suddenly sleepy. I'm going to try and snooze for bit. 'Hope I don't end up in Pittsburgh.

Float On!

I could preface this writing piece with many details about a wonderful weekend that I just enjoyed with my son and a great group of friends...trust me, that all happened... but then I had to drive home from the beach and deal with rising realities. Ollie and I took the Cape May to Lewes ferry. It was a great experience and I can't believe that it was fricking thirty years since my last crossing.




There's a weird air in the nostalgia that fumes thirty years deep. It was weird and at some points I was feeling like my entire life had just flown by me. My son's age and honesty were making me slightly jealous and remorseful.







(Italicized and quoted text comes from a variety of songs by modest mouse)

"Well he just drove off sometimes life's ok
I ran my mouth off a bit too much oh what did I say
Well you just laughed it off it was all ok"

The regrets and remorse were easily covered by the sound of Oliver's voice. We had a blast and the rest of this story kinda starts at the point of the van going off the boat ramp and Ollie falling asleep shortly there after.

The day of leaving the beach is always so painful. I can remember being a kid, in the back seat of my parent's station wagon whipping through the stink of Avondale, with some Fleetwood Mac crackling on the radio. I was very young and having heavy emotional issues after leaving my favorite place on earth. We were leaving, and as far as I could tell, we may never return. All the shells in the world wouldn't actually bring the beach home with me and this made my little heart hurt...and then there was this awful smell in this totally weird town with green fire trucks and this beautiful but depressing song on the radio being sung by an angel. I'm totally fucked.

Driving home from the beach depresses the shit out of me.

Today I drove 80 in 55's and listened to the loudest Modest Mouse I could find.

"Turn off the light 'cause it's night on the sun
You're hopelessly hopeless
I hope so, for you"

It wasn't helping matters that while I was at Stone Harbor I fell deeply in love with a rusty old beach cruiser bicycle named "Michelle". She had no grips on the handle bars and the kick stand would hold her up at just the last minute, and it left her leaning toward or away from me...depending on which side I left her...or approached her. Damn if there wasn't something oddly romantic about this bike.

I missed her greatly and couldn't even say good bye. When the time came, I felt really weird and it just didn't feel right...I mean, it was only a weekend, but I swore we knew each other a lifetime. And telling Alana that I had fallen deeply in love with a beach cruising bicycle named "Michelle" was not a bridge I would consider crossing.

"Everything that keeps me together is falling apart,
I've got this thing that I consider my only art of fucking people over
...Your heart felt good it was drippin' pitch and made of wood
And your hands and knees felt cold and wet on the grass to me
Outside naked, shiverin' looking blue, from the cold sunlight that's reflected off the moon"

The drive was now starting to drag and steam in Sunday's rain. We approached Dover with rhythmless red brake lights flashing ahead. This NASCAR traffic was killing me. I wished them all quick trips to hell and cursed the monster mile.

The toll booth attendant appreciated my sincerity and kindness, but I would bet the farm that she would have preferred a stiff drink and some pills.

"Even if things get heavy, we'll all float on.
Alright already, we'll all float on alright."

Naturally, the boy driving the loud VW in front of me began to annoy; and I imagined ripping those stupid plugs out of his stretched ear lobes and shoving them up his ass.

After his 100th unnecessary, very abrupt and loud downshift, I nearly 'rammed' into him, and hence had to 'dodge' away into the other lane. He waved a middle finger from his window, and I reached across the dash to give a 'thumbs up' toward his side view mirror.

He took my lane change as a challenge, and began racing me. He zoomed ahead quickly to annoy more drivers. He had a girl in the front seat beside him. I'm pretty sure that she hates his guts as well, but hasn't found the way to tell him yet. This kid is 'what is wrong with America', and I hated him just from the shear fact that he is contributing to the decline of our civilization. Fucking dick. And by the way, dude...I wasn't racing you...I let you and your stupid car get ahead.


"Well that is that and this is this.
You tell me what you want and I'll tell you what you get.
You get away from me. You get away from me."

The NASCAR traffic and it's participants eventually faded into the steam. Oliver woke up hungry and started to pest me into a better mood. We stopped and ate at a McDonald's and I am quickly remembering why I refused their food for so many years. It's all smoke and mirrors. It's fucking junk. BUT, my kid enjoys a happy meal here and there, just like I did at his age. I can't deny him what I know is bad for him just because now I know it is, can I? No. It's some shitty food that comes with a toy...fuck it. I'm even hating the fact that I'm admitting to consuming fast food...and it makes me feel like some sort of villain.

I had the fillet of fish, because everyone knows that fish is so much more healthy for you than red meat...ew! Red meat is so bad for you and gross! Gimme the fish! Gosh I feel so much more healthy now eating this square breaded thing on a bun.

The last leg of the drive felt easier on the heart. My little man was up and I was able to stop dreaming of "Michelle" and the smell of salt water.

The lingering traffic didn't bother me on the more and more familiar roadways. I got dangerously close to the bumper of a mini van that was littered with stickers pledging allegiance to nearly every cause under the sun. I took note to some of the causes and hoped that her advertising helped their effort. She even had one of those ribbon sort of stickers (the type that usually reminds of autism and breast cancer) posted largely on the rear window. I crept in a bit more to read what it could be that she was also passionate about...and there it read "I love my Guinea Pig."

Foot Noose

It's coming up on a year since my 'last dance'. For those of you who are unfamiliar with that statement, my last dance was an instance where I was dancing and accidentally kicked my wife Alana in the face...we both ended up in the hospital...details are listed in my first blog on Midlife Concrete. I try to never go back to that place...but for anyone wishing to visit...feel free. Just don't ever try and talk to me about 'the last dance'. Thank you.

The wounds have since healed, and I have yet to dance since then. Ok, an occasional hip swing, hand clap and sing along, yes...but no experiences to release the emotional web around me. I've found other ways to release my emotions...without...the dance. I'm getting sort of choked up here, because this isn't something that I really like to talk about but...I fucking love to dance.

My alter ego, "The Wedding Dancer" has not surfaced in well over a year, and for all I know he may be dead. (This is where it starts to get complicated...)

My cousin's wedding has been creeping up on me and my demons. Constantly I'm asking myself "...can I dance again?", and the answer from voices across my brain and beyond is "No.". Sometimes I beckon for a "Yes", for deep down I have learned to forgive myself, and am trying to move on with my life. I knew with this wedding coming I would have a big decision to make, while really having to look deep inside of myself for trust and commitment. I am at the crossroads.

I have lived and learned. And, many times it as though 'The Dance' allows me to sort of celebrate a couple's holy matrimony...it is a type of gift from me to them...hoping that their love and vows will last a lifetime. Let it be so, then. I shall dance again.

But it's not that easy.

Last week's 'super hike' has left an impression on me as well. I've had this knee/foot/ankle pain that has been getting steadily worse this week. I ignored all advice to 'take it easy' this week, and not kill myself doing concrete work. I actually tried to kill myself doing concrete work, and finally I couldn't take it anymore and had to hobble into the Mountville Family Practice yesterday to visit my doctor. I parked in the parking lot for The Mountville Inn, and almost bee lined to the bar. My head was pointed to the door for the inn, chin first while my body crossed the street toward the Dr's office. I was like a horse who was having the reigns pulled one way, while the body wanted to go a different direction...surely I looked stupid, and my neck hurt as I finally walked through the office door.

The good Doctor felt and poked. I joked with him about my skateboarding, smoking and alcohol habits. He didn't laugh and tugged some more. He seemed very concerned with the pain I was having and the length of time that I let it go before seeing him....almost like he was kind of pissed. I admitted to having a 'nine' out a ten on a pain scale. I don't want to get into a big, descriptive babble about how bad my pain is, and all that shit...listen...I'm a tough guy...who had his panties in a bunch over an injury attained hiking...that's all.

The doctor went over advice and tips and ice it and heat and blah blah....he stepped away from the observation table. I made a joke about the wedding...and he stopped me in my tracks. "Wedding?" he questioned. I told him about my cousin, and how we are traveling to West Virginia for this wedding and big party....I became concerned.

"Doc...will I be able to dance?"

His eyes widened and he shook a finger at me. "ABSOLUTELY NO DANCING."

I hung my head and left the room.

Today is Friday. We leave this afternoon. I'm walking with a cane. My brother keeps sending me mean text messages about how I am "disappointing everyone". My mother called me the other day to see how I was feeling after the hike, and was really looking forward to seeing the 'Wedding Dancer' this weekend. Naturally, I assured mom that he would be there...but now I have these Doctor's orders hanging over my head. I have never failed my own mother, but feel that now I will be writing a new chapter in my book of life called 'let downs'.

This crossroad is confusing me, and I'm not really sure where to go from here. Only time will tell. I looked at my cane this morning, and imagined how many dance moves I could do involving this thing...and then I tripped painfully without the support of this simple pole.

Concrete Columbia

It's been a while since I've spent much time in the Columbia city and able to brush elbows with some of it's inhabitants. One of my favorite 'zines (Wiener Out) once described the city as hosting 'only children...with food stains on their face and/or clothing'. For some reason, I've always loved that description, and happen to find it true on most drives through the more rural districts. Immediate apologies to anyone reading or friends of those who have come from this city and lead perfectly normal lives. -You are the exception to my lop-sided opinion on this area.

Well, "Wiener Out" was correct on the description of street mongers of this town in the late nineties and early twenties. But, I would like to remind readers that since then, the children have grown up, and now have children of their own with the food and candy stains. They walk the streets anxious for more ketchup and teeth rotting sugar snacks.

We were doing some concrete work downtown, and the manager of the job, who I was working for told me that "they would have a piece of equipment" for me to use, when it came time to spread stone for our sub-grade. This scared me a little bit, because usually other people's 'equipment' is half-assed and not serviced properly and hence...dangerous. I would have rather used a familiar piece of equipment for the minor excavation, or hire a reliable service to do the work. It seems everyone that we work for these days is "not looking to spend a lot of money on this project", and at the end of the day, that means that they will be finding shitty ways for themselves to save money and make things more of a pain in the ass for me...us.

He gave me the number for "Joe the tractor Guy" and told me that if Joe tells me he'll be in here an hour, he really means two. I figured that we would need the tractor (not my choice of equipment for grading...most are very in-efficient and weak) sometime after lunch, so I called Joe around 10:00 am and told him to bring it 'after lunch'.

"Well there's no way that I can be there until 12:00, or a little after!" -Joe hollered into the phone at my request.

"That's great! No, that'll be just fine...We'll take lunch around 11, then we will be back for whenever you get here" I said.

"....Uh...Ok...It won't be until after 12..." Joe told me again. Maybe lunch time to him was around 6 in the evening, or ...I don't know. 12 sounded great to me, and he was acting like I was nuts.

We had a terrible lunch a Subway, but were entertained to pieces by a cowboy across the street who has an interesting relationship with a corvette parked in front of his house. He sits on the porch, and occasionally comes out to the car and opens the door, sits in it...rolls down the window...rolls up the window...gets out...opens the trunk...looks in it...closes it...opens it again...grabs a can of paint...puts it on the curb...shuts the trunk...goes back to the porch...comes back to the car...opens the hood...grabs the paint...paints something under the hood...

I'm telling you we could watch this man and the car for hours on end. I was constantly wiping tears from my eyes with a Subway napkin, while eating tasteless food and choking on cherry coke.

We ate and got back to the job site, because I didn't want to be late for Joe. I've never met him, but he sounded kind of dick-head-ish on the phone and I didn't want to piss him off. Of course, he was not there when we got back and we continued working (well after 12, as he had said).

Eventually, a crappy Chevy truck(aren't they all crappy?) comes ripping into the parking lot, followed by a diesel chattering Massey Ferguson, topped by a man whom I assumed was Joe.

Joe held his chin high, and mistook himself for Crazy horse. He held the reigns and lowered the idle whilst breathing heavily out his nose. This was no palfrey, no cart horse or pack mule he attained, but a red steaming charger. The idle now murmured and he hit the kill switch, as he has a thousand times.

Joe is a ketchup stained Colombian who still wears the same sweat pant/sneaker combo that he wore on the day he quit middle school. The pants are tight on the ankle and loose on the knee. A faded t-shirt has holes around the belly button, and I can only imagine what it smells like. I bet it smells like disease chased with whiskey diarrhea.

His cohorts left him quickly to talk around the hood of the Chevy. They made jokes that are not worth typing, and would more than likely make my readers dumber. The larger of the two men had a childish mohawk and his teeth looked like corn kernels. They yelled at each other about who had who's lighter, while dining on hot dogs and kit kat. The skinnier man wore no shirt and a backwards grease covered hat. They disappeared into a warehouse to let the sugar kick in.

Have you ever tried to have a completely normal conversation with someone, and they look at you like they want to kill you? If so, you have had a conversation with Joe. He sort of resembles "Ogre" from 'Revenge of the Nerds', but has a real psycho path air about him.

Joe wanted to kill me for some reason and tried to do so with his intense glare. I asked simple questions about the tractor's basic operations, and he gazed at my flesh, wanting to bury me.

He took the key for the tractor from a large ring of keys and stuck it into the ignition. I thanked him, and he glared at me one more time before heading to the ware house for sugar snacks. He disappeared into the shadows of shelves and I'm assuming he joined fatty and skinny.

I operated the red 'steaming' charger for about three minutes before deeming it a 'piece of shit' and granted Ollie a wish to go home without doing minor grading for me. I told him "Dude...this thing is a piece of shit. This is going to take forever...you can head out if you want and we can do the fine grading of the stone in the morning before the concrete gets here." He saw the struggle and was eager to head home bound via Lancaster's coolest Volvo.

I ran the Massey Furgesson for about ten more minutes, picking up stone from the pile and dumping into the formed areas for sub-grade below the to-be-poured wheel chair ramp. Together, the tractor and I struggled for power and efficiency. At one point, I felt a presence, and sure enough, to my left was Joe...with the physco stare in hand. I idled down the machine enough to hear him say "Sure beats putting it in there by hand, don't you think?". I nodded and said something stupid. I was nervous because he scared me. Maybe he heard my complaints about his family's pride and joy tractor. He left as eerily as he had appeared and I continued with my operation.

Sure enough, before I was done, the fuel gauge read empty, and I had to tell Joe before running this hunk of junk dry. For those of you who don't know...running a diesel engine clear of fuel can be a pain in the ass for re-starting. Don't run a diesel dry...

I told Joe about the fuel situation and he...gave me the look like he wanted to kill me. "Look, dude...I gave them a price to do the ramp...not to bully around the stone with someone else's tractor that I would be expected to fuel up! I had to buy the stone and that wasn't part of the deal...I don't have fuel...you're about to fucking run out." I told Joe and suddenly his glance changed and he was very mad at someone else. "Sorry, dude, but this thing was about fucking empty when it got here...I've got other things to do besides fill other people's fuel tanks."

Joe stormed around the lot with his hands in the air cursing some man. He brought me fuel. He apologized for some reason. I did not tell him how much I hated his tractor.

The Hike is Done...and so am I.

Yesterday's morning air was just right to make me alert quickly and perk my nipples. This was a good sign, but was no promise that I would be finishing the Keystone Trails Association's Susquehanna Super Hike. A hike that follows the Mason Dixon trail of York county from the Otter Creek Campground to the Normanwood bridge, across the Susquehanna, and up and over the rough ridges of the Conestoga trail, to the familiarity to me known as The Pequea Creek Campground...for intensive purposes, "home".

Our plan was to meet at Heidi's house at 5:15 a.m.. There we would make certain that we had all that was needed, and attach our registration numbers to our shirts, to officially make us become (and look like) legitimate participants in this event.

I made it a plan to get up early and chug a decent amount of coffee. This would surely get my stomach sweltering in an effort to churn and make my morning poop possible at Heidi's. It did. Everything is going as planned.

Together the three of us admitted our fears on the dark and cold school bus that shuttled us from Pequea to Otter. We made jokes while the rest of the bus was absolutely silent. No, really...you could have heard a pin drop with the exception of the roaring diesel and our intense laughter of repeated one liners.

The laughter helped, but did not eliminate the obnoxious family of butterflies in my stomach that seemed like they were going to be hard to digest.

Otter Creek campground was littered with stretching athletes and smiling volunteers with sleepers in their eyes. The lines for the restrooms were very long and we decided that maybe we'd better try and go here before final stretching and group prayer.

The men's room door was open and shortly inside a cluster of super jocks stood waiting for stalls. Another man came up quickly behind me and the man in front of me said "There are urinals available...if that is what you are here for", and we both said nothing and just stood in line expressionless.

I really had to do a #1, but thought it would be smart and try and stay in line and give a shot to my mornings second #2.

The men in front of me were tall and confident. They were chiseled from stone and the gear they obtained was for high performance and endurance. Their rock hard butt ox's were staring in my direction, and it made me shift my eyes to the mirror, where I caught a glimpse of myself...shoulders slouched with the weight of the world, dirty flannel shirt and concrete stained cut off shorts. I sucked in my gut, and still I was unhappy with the size it has become. It was very possible that this was some sort of trick mirror...really this thing was putting thirty pounds on me.

It was finally my turn for a stall. I did some business quickly and reminded myself to lube up one more time. I fished the small container of Vaseline from my intense back sack. I did the deed and dropped the container...it bounced around and slid under the wall to the stall next to me, out of sight. Before I could mutter a return request, the dude toe-kicked it back to my stall, as though he had done this a million times. I whispered "thank you" and returned it to it's designated pocket, washed my hands and went out side to meet my co-partners.

Heidi and Shannon were engaged in a conversation that was going over my head, so I began to stretch with out them. The stretching was necessary, but I felt silly doing it in the presence of obvious trained professionals. I was sure that they were mocking my warm up style. I jogged in place. I snapped my neck from one side to the other and I killed mosquitoes with precise karate chops.

Eventually, some official looking people started huddling around the starting line. Like loyal turkeys, we followed the masses and gathered. The officials called for the runners to be at the front of the pack. We took a step back and agreed collectively that the people in front of us were the runners. When the count down to begin ended, we were swarmed by everyone running. Like, everyone was running. People were passing us and bumping into us. It was extremely awkward. Heidi and Shannon were in a panic. "Matt! What do we do? What do we do?". They scuttled off to the side and almost started jogging. "LEON SAID 'NO RUNNING'". I told them and I held our ground...hiking.

The mass quickly calmed and we were in line going up hill at a decent hiking pace with 400 strangers.

The burn came quickly. I tried to save my breathing by not keeping up with Heidi's talking and agreed to Shannon's pace. Without too many details, I can assure you that the first hour and a half passed rather painlessly. The girls knew the checkpoints and were familiar with the map and had penned in estimated arrivals to certain points. I just kept hiking and wondered when an appropriate time would be to plug in my ipod.

Shannon was leading, setting the pace and took a bullet for me. She was stung by a bee that had my name on it, and due to the fact that I am highly allergic, I was gracious.

The peaks and valleys of the York side of the Susquehanna were new sights to my eyes. We charged inclines and passed previous joggers. We found the first rest stop an hour ahead of schedule and patted each other on the back. Heidi sent text messages to Alana and Ben, to assure that we were doing well as Shannon updated her face book status. I stretched and gobbled the free grub and bananas provided by our sponsor, Backcountry Edge (www.BackcountryEdge.com). We didn't take long (10 minutes tops) on this break and immediately started charging onward to Lock 12.

In addition to the cereal bars, water replenishment, fruit and power drinks, Back Country Edge also provided jell packets for nourishment and hydration. There were different flavors...we all decided to try the espresso flavor. The girls were sort of scared of the gel. Shannon hated it and Heidi didn't even try it...she has a caffeine problem that tends to make her act like a crack head and when she was reluctant to eat it, I urgently agreed with her to save it for Ben. I fell in love with the texture and taste. The texture was similar to (what I imagine) what it would be like to drink Elmer's glue, and the taste was something peculiar. Actually, I had every flavor of gel later on in our hike, and damn if I wouldn't have killed for a biscuit to go with the berry...'fo Shoshone!

Amazingly, Lock 12 seemed to come in no time flat from the first stop. We were tickled pink with our progress. I gave Heidi the trail rods that Leon had urged me to use. They were extremely helpful. Heidi's hands were swelling up like lumpy potatoes and I suggested that she take the poles to help with keeping her hands busier and hopefully improve circulation. I can say this now that is all said and done, but I missed the poles greatly. There was a definite advantage to being able to use your upper body to help thrust up inclines and to use them as counter weights on flatter areas. Heidi got tangled in the poles shortly after using them and wiped out in a ball of rocky dust off the trail. This was her first of many wipe outs and close calls. We re-adjusted the poles for her stature. The wipe outs continued and I denied every chance she gave me to have the poles back, because ultimately...I am a gentleman.

My morning butterflies were now digesting and occasionally I fumed the trail with butterfly farts.

Leon and some of his co-friends were at the Lock 12 check point. They were happy to meet us and I spent more time talking with him than I should have. This time should have been spent stretching religiously and doing a better job of filling my hydration pack. Maybe there was a fold in it or something, but I ended up running out of water before the next check point, which harmed my mentality greatly...but that is yet to come.

We left Lock 12 and began over the Normanwood bridge. We were extremely high in spirit and enjoyed the view greatly. There was a four-pack in front of us that I was assuming we would pass easily (it's not a race) but the distance between us never seemed to change, nor did the incline as we headed east.

Son of a bitch, this hill was lasting forever. The bridge itself has an incline that you would kinda notice in a car, but was very present on foot. Once over the bridge, the incline increased, as did the temperature of our hiking surface. The feet burned now with pain, and this was a first during the trek. The incline and the hot, hard surface was slowly killing us. We began to complain profusely. Finally, forty minutes after leaving Lock 12 we were back to trails via Holtwood park.

It didn't take us long to realize that we were trail hikers and not road runners. The trail massaged our feet back to normal, but we had various intense pains from the road. Knees and hips swelled and beckoned our permission to stop performing. Permission was denied. I stubbed my slowly becoming sorer toe, and almost had to begin running to submerse the pain. I took the lead and ground my teeth. This would be a perfect time to toss in the towel and call it a day. I couldn't hear the girls behind me and and no idea if they were even there. The trail was before me and I kept Shannon's pace, trying to bury all the pain. I broke my stick (since prince charming gave Heidi his poles, he now resorted to old fashioned oak branches for trail support...I wonder if hiking with a forty pound tree limb was actually contributing to my increase in fatigue?) and now used a shorter portion that dug into my palm. Whatever happened in the last twenty minutes was helping the pain go away and I could once again see 'going on' a prospect.

The Conestoga trail was quick to prove it's aggressiveness by testing agility over sharp rocks, intense inclines and loose, untrustworthy descents. Together, we talked less an sweat more.

Thinking that I had more than enough water was a big mistake. I drank and drank without considering the horror of running out. During one of the larger rock climbs (was this a hike or a climb?) I took a break in the early afternoon sun, and sucked on my hydration pack's straw only to suck and suck with no water coming forth. This for some reason weakened me. The thought of not having water made my nerves race and I felt like I could shit my pants.

I didn't want to ask the girls for their water (it's not like they were offering) because I wouldn't want anyone else to feel the way I felt at that moment, and, that includes the feeling of crapping one's self.

Forward.

We made it up the rest of the rock climb and it led to a dried up grassy incline. I stopped for two three second breaks. Before my third stop for three seconds I could hear the cheering of sponsor's volunteers. Hike on, dude...it won't be long now. My stick kept slipping in the grass on the way up, and I tried not to think about Heidi using the Black Diamond ultra light hiking poles...(available at www.backcountryedge.com)

The Pinnacle point was a beautiful overlook, but I couldn't help but sense the shadow of decent from this point.


I filled the hydration pack to the brim and dodged hundreds of bees at the check point. I wasn't hungry, but tried to eat a sandwich and sucked down a packet of gel that was about ninety degrees in temperature. MMMmm good!

What I heard about this descent was absolutely true. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if we were fresh, but at this point we are about 21 miles into our hike. My knees trembled vigorously in the first minute of a twenty minute decline. The girls didn't complain so much, so I tried not to...while wanting to scream. Near the bottom, I had to stop and take something for the pain. I popped four generic ibuprofen and swallowed with very minimal water. The thought of running out of water again scared the shit out of me.

Maybe it was my intense metabolism, but the medicine worked in mere minutes. Back to 100%? No, but definitely feeling like I could go on. We all sort of complained mildly occasionally, and when there was any dead air, Heidi would start yacking about some paper she wrote at school, or some other shit. Clearly it was too late in the day for me to suddenly jam my earphones in and drown her out with music...it would have been too awkward.

We were getting near the end. Shannon was hurting as well, but really felt the need to burn through it by going faster. This was not possible for me, and I urged her to move on and not wait, I knew if I needed it, Heidi would hold my hand.

We were now cresting 'the worst of the last of it' at a section known as House Rock. It was at this time that Leon and his equally athletic friend came charging over the trail from the ending point to meet us. They were fresh. They were happy to see us. I hated them from head to toe.

Heidi was refreshed by having someone new to talk to. Leon shot back with glee and interesting statements. I started to get a headache and tried to drown them out...I would have choked them both if I had the strength. I was silently dying with a mile to go. I was not being fair by comparing this 27.4 mile experience to what 'hiking' is like in general. Luckily Leon's friend was being respectively silent, and in doing so was avoiding my imaginary wrath of violence.

"One more little switch back and you guys are home free!" Leon encouraged as we crossed a newly paved section of Pequea roadway. Admittedly, his words were encouraging and I forgot about the choke hold and charged up the steep bank with the last of my energy...I left the three of them ten yards behind and stopped quickly for a drink of water from my hydration pack....wait a minute...nothing is coming out. I sucked harder until the rubber tip on the straw device pulled off. No water. I fell to the ground in dismay and failure. The sweat poured from my brow, nose and chin. Breathing in the rocky trail dust did nothing for my thirst and I...(I'm not exaggerating for effect) could feel the cold sense of failure. Goosebumps popped up on my forearms and I heard speed boats on the yonder river. I tried to keep my eyes open, for maybe then I could hold back the tears. Breathe heavily out the nose and keep your mouth shut. Words will extract emotion and then the dam will break and the tears will come. Everything about me hurt and I was ready for a full on mental break down with sobbing and snot running...dust sticking to my wet cheeks. This break down will be followed by an out right demand that these monsters following, just leave me here. I'm done.

The monsters that followed came closer.

Leon said something and smiled large enough that I could see his teeth through the mask of beard. I did not hear him, but was sure that he was tossing humorous advice my way; advice that I was surely deflecting with intense defense mechanisms and the urge not to cry in public.

Heidi was talking and no one was listening. She now used the poles effortlessly and naturally. I stared at my stupid stick on the ground before me; covered in sweat from my palm, and my palm caked with bark dirt. Indeed a gentleman I am...and I'm about to bawl my eyes out in front of two good friends and a man I've only known for 12 minutes. All hope was gone, and I really could give two shits about this stupid hike.

Leon's tall friend reached into his pocket without anyone seeing him but me. He pulled his hand from the pocket clenched, as though he was holding something. He rose the hand to his chin and opened his palm in front of his mouth and blew a mixture of fine dirt and dust in my direction and winked with a nod at the same time. Sparkles glistened across the trail in my direction and I heard echoes of an Indian flute playing an inspirational hymn that I'd never heard before, but it soothed me. The wind caressed the tall branches above and the leaves danced merrily in shadows of the sun. Could this be? yes. It was.

Trail magic.

I rose to my feet. I laughed at Leon's joke, and adored Heidi's talking. We walked the streets of Pequea and people cheered us on from the rooftops. Once on Trolley lane, people called our names and handed us beer. Children congratulated us. Leon and the magic man left our side to let us cross the finish line victors. Thank you.

set...set...blue...huthuthut hut...Hike!

Coffee is on. I'm up and getting ready to lube...as soon as I'm done writing this. 'Scored a small container of Vaseline at the store last night...I just hope it's enough.

The back sack seems kind of heavy with all the water and bananas in it, but I guess that will just get lighter as the day goes on. I'm packing my 'chill' shoes in the bag, as a sense of inspiration. -That way every time I grab a pbnj out of there, I'll see the shoes and get stoked on chilling later this eve.

My evening stretches weren't that great. Poured some concrete yesterday morning and kinda wrenched my back a little bit (I'm complaining real quick, so that in the instance that I don't make it today, there is evidence of my prior condition) hopefully the trail will loosen it up a bit.

I was thinking that I KNOW I can crawl on concrete, finishing it with trowel for 12 hour easily, so maybe I should take two trowels, and if the going gets too rough, I could just get on all fours and crawl backwards, and swipe the trail behind me with concrete tools?

Ok...enough. Time to go chug coffee and see if I can actually do this shit. HIke!

One more day till Hike City!

Yeah Yeah! Just got back from Leon's...hooked up!

First of all, this "under armour" is a bunch of crap. The name brand stuff is just a rip off of product that other suppliers have been making for years. 'Compression' under wear is the proper name for it. It's like that biker short stuff. It makes even a tug boat like myself look all lean and slender. "Under Armour" is like McDonalds. If you want a burger and fries, yeah they have it, but you have to eat all that corporate America bull shit with it too.

Anyhow. Leon gave me some compression underwear, that, he said I "absolutely did not need". I tried them on, and that was it! I looked like an athlete! All slick and slender lookin'...jeez! You should see it!

He gave me 'Darn Tough' socks to match. He has admitted to becoming a sock snob, and mostly due to this brand of sock. They are made in America by a family run company for generations.

I wasn't expecting anything but maybe some more advice...but today he texted me and told me to come over for some out fitting. That sure as hell beat my plan of rummaging through K-mart later this evening, looking for some bullshit hiking gear and dealing with the...ok, I'm not going to go on about the type of people that hang out at K-mart and work there. That's not right...besides, technically, I am one of those people.

...But anyhow, Leon also had friggin' shoes for me! They are already broken in, and are extremely similar to the New Balances that I've been wearing all summer. They are a little bit heavier, but have some more ankle support...and they are dripping with fashion sense.

I'm telling you that if Lewis, Clark and Sagagewea had the gear I have...they probably could have discovered the moon.

Hmmm....I'm forgetting something....the back sack.

I was just gonna get one of those 'camel back's' or whatever you call it. It's just a back sack that only carries water. ...Dude. This back sack that he gave me has all the bells and whistles. Hydration system, clamps, straps...I can't stop looking at it. There's enough room in this thing for many sandwiches, extra water (the hydration system holds two liters itself), iphone, flannel shirt, carton of smokes, extra shoes...all that and more...and then there is a little string that you tug on, and it like...squeezes the whole thing together. It's boss.

I'm going to try and find some more bananas tomorrow. Friggin' Turkey Hill was out this morning, so I just drank a shit load of coffee...and OH SHIT! They have the fricking 'tasty claires' again...so I've been 'housing' a few of them here and there between my hikers training diet.

two or three days till super hike?

Call me stupid...the hike is on Saturday...it's now Wednesday evening...so does that mean it's two or three days until the hike? Oh who cares. It's Saturday. 'Got my hiking rods from Leon today...then he posts this blog about how people shouldn't use them, or something like he couldn't find the rhythm? BUT he said they make great counter weights. Ok. Great. That's what I need.

Now it's getting to the point where everyone around me is starting to tell me what I need. Energy gels, emergency blanket, water pills, band aids, cortozone, sunscreen, camel back pack, nail clippers...on and on, dude. Shit, Lewis and Clark didn't have any of that shit and they did just fine. Just fine. Plus Heidi and Shannon are going with me, (the marine dude pussed out). I don't know Shannon too well (probably will after this hell on Saturday) but I know Heidi's like a natural Sacagawea. Yup, my friend the Shoshone.

I guess last year only twenty people didn't finish the hike. Shit! I thought there would only be twenty people on the hike. Here, there's like four hundred! What? Holy shit! I hope that Heidi and Shannon realize that we are going to have to be kicking people out of our way in order to finish on time. It could be a full out brawl.

I'm so uninformed about this whole thing. I know Leon is at half way...that's about it. I did some stretching today and it felt good.

What if I can't finish? I'm a little nervous about major cramps. I'm drinking a lot of water this week and have already eaten like five bananas. That's good, right? I'll be like a friggin monkey swinging from branches on this hike. Another major worry is this chafing issue. I don't know what shorts or pants to wear.

All of my clothing is handy downs or Salvation Army issued...none of which resembles athletic attire in form or view. I've been told to absolutely wear athletic shorts and underwear of the same liking. Ok.

All of my shorts are cut offs (stained and crusted with concrete and mortar...trust me, I'm not making that up and it's kind of become my 'look') and all of my underwear comes from K-mart...like rain man(who, as we may remember was no super hiker...he was a lazy prick who knew a lot about something...I forget...and I shouldn't talk badly about him like that...it will give me bad karma before my hike, and I need all the help I can get...sorry Rain Man, I take it back...you're fucking cool dude!).

I'm worried about my fat hairy thighs rubbing with my...other stuff down there, and getting sore. BUT I gotta stick to Tim's advice to 'lube up'. Well shit, if that's the answer, I'll put so much lube down there that people will report a petroleum leak on the banks of the Susquehanna.

Other than that...Heidi isn't answering her phone and Leon is impossible to get a hold of...and if Shannon has better gear than me I'm going to be pissed. I will keep all interested posted on news of this historical event, and may even post status updates on the FB during the trech...maybe. We'll see. That was Jay's idea...and I'm not sure if I like the idea of informing curious, out of shape, over aged college students on the state of my physical well (or not well) being.

Training my ass...Gear!

Four days till super hike...

Along with the shitty advice that I've been given by everyone, I've also attained some pretty primo gear for this hike.
The same friend who told me to 'lube up down there' also gave me a shirt. He said he's 'sponsoring' me. I'm wearing the shirt right now for the first time...and it looks pretty gay. Trust me, I tried taking a picture of it ten different ways, and every time this thing just isn't me. Please no one take offense to the 'gay' term...it's a bad habit. I mean nothing by it. Trust me, I'm half a homo.

I also scored some diabetic shoe supports. My good friend Joshua helped my cause by throwing a pair of these beauties my way. You are supposed to put them in the toaster oven and cook them just until they won't really burn you, and then stick them on your feet so they take your foot's impression. Then I guess you just fuckin hike away! They're pretty cool. AND they're saving me cash from just buying new shoes. I'm just going to wear the same pieces of shit that I've been wearing all summer....with these bitchin' new inserts. I already tried them out a little bit, and my heels kinda hurt in them, but I haven't cooked them yet...and I had no socks on; which also made my feet sort of fart as I trotted out to the shop to grab this shirt.

PLEASE. I'm not writing this to have everyone (my two readers) to start giving me shit to take on my hike. Thank you. No thank you. All I really need yet is a canteen of some sort and these hiking rods from Leon. I just kept imagining all day the shit that people may start to give me.

"Here...take this...it's good luck. It's my brother's foot ball helmet that he wore when they won the regional s... "

"Oh...wear this chain that my sister made out of her first bicycle..."

"Eat this...it's an heirloom pepper from Cogg's garden"

I could see this going on and on until I'm clonkin on down to Normanwood with a fist full of good luck charms and looking like a retard. I'll be fine, friends don't you worry. Trust me, I'm going to have my hands full dragging Heidi and Shannon up and over the last few ridges...I'm sure of that.

I should be training.

It's less than a week until the 'super hike'. This event takes place on the skirts of the Susquehanna river. Twenty Eight point four miles...up and down all day. Twelve hours to completion. I mentioned on a thread devoted to the event that I am “excited” for the day. What a crock of shit. “Excited” like I'm ready for it to be over.

My 'friend' Heidi asked me to join her on this hike. I was not paying attention to the details, just trying to be a good friend and agreed to do it. She was being sort of desperate and pathetic...so being the nice guy that I am I was just like “sure...I'll do it”.

She's been training and doing the practice hikes...I told myself all summer that I would also do such things, and now here there is less than a week to go and I'm sitting around on a beautiful day, trying to beat the Sonic wii game with my son. We get heavily involved in beating stupid video games to a pulp. -Yet another thing that I said I would 'never' do as a parent...play video games all day? No way. Not in my house...My kid's not going to be one of these...and on and on. Hypocrite. Damn right, that's me! In the big picture...we're not melting our brains into the video game (here comes my defense). I can say that I prefer our gaming to simply watching Sponge Bob (I fucking love Sponge Bob), or other zombie beckoning television. Yes. It's true. -Listen...these games take patience. I have no patience. I don't think I ever really swear in front of Ollie until we get neck deep in beating one of these stupid games. I yell at the screen rather loudly and he believes in my skills. He will hand me the controller at certain points, for me to take over...and at those times I will stop at nothing for the blessings of my five year old. We both get overly frustrated and overly joyous at the peaks of different levels. It's fun. Whatever...I'm spending time with my number one little man. It rules.

Twenty eight point four miles? What the hell am I thinking?

Sure, hiking buckets of mortar up scaffolding all summer could be considered some sort of training, and yes...I did some stretches two weeks ago. Stretches I swore I was going to do daily. I don't do anything daily and I don't do anything super. Super hike. What a stupid name. (Am I really starting to hate the whole idea of this event?). I guess it's coming down to me losing a little bit of my confidence. Well...not losing my confidence just yet...I'm actually extremely confident. -Which scares me...and that could be what this little rumble of emotion is. Yup, just a few butterflies. I eat butterflies for breakfast.

I haven't been training whatsoever, but I have been gathering lots of advice from seasoned hikers and runners. Well, I've been taking advice from those friends of mine who choose to live a healthier life than myself.

I was 'super' stoked because Leon told me to 'pack a lunch...eat a sandwich'. And I liked that advice. I liked it so much, that I may ad to the lunch idea and bring a couple of cold ones. I think that cracking a beer at Normanwood would be something to look forward to; and could give me the extra incentive to 1) make it half way and 2) finish the hike so that I may enjoy more beer. Damn that thought made a lot of sense and didn't seem so, so stupid until I wrote it out.

Other advice that I've taken, and may elaborate with as well. “Make sure you lube up down 'there' so that you don't chafe'. Wow. I wasn't even thinking of that. Shit. Ok, ok, ok...what if I just don't wear any pants or under wear at all? I won't chafe, and I'll be able to clear the trail of those in my way of victory. “Ahhh...look out! Theres a fucking NAKED dude coming down the trail! Ewww...gross!”

I kinda like that plan the best. Full on naked dude ripping down the trail, eating a big old sub from Nino's, cracking a beer and using hiking poles awkwardly for the first time. I'm headed to Normanwood. From then back up to Pequea...naked as a jay bird, leading the way. Super!

Surf Trip!!!!

Two weeks ago, I got to go on a much needed surf trip.

My wife can be really cool, and during one of these (very common) times, she urged me to go to the beach for some wave action. We had got word from a good friend of mine (who resides in OCMD) that there were to be waves, which made my decision: to leave my son at my parents and send Alana to work for the weekend; an easy one.

I packed up the Jeep with my skateboard, surfboard, beer and half a box of Cheezits. Ok, I'm ready.

Operation Ivy has recently found it's way back into my music selections, and it was on high volume as I left Millersville last Friday afternoon.

"All I know is that I don't know nothing!"

I was on my way south bound jamming gears after cutting out of work early. Damn! This felt good and irresponsible! Thirty six is the new eighteen!

I had to stop once to re-strap the surfboard...the straps were rubbing on the roof and creating an annoying hum/buzz that the blaring speakers were unable to drown out...

"SOUND...SYSTEM! SOUND! SYSTEM!!!"

The coolness of my self-image-'cool'-surfer-dude, started to wear off after about five minutes. A guilt worm meandered through my cavities of conscience and left me hurting. You little fucker. These emotions had me dangling on the decision to go in the first place. Grrrr...BUT luckily these feelings could easily be drown out with alcohol once at my destination ( and they were).

Friday's drive to Maryland was shorter than expected and hotter than I had hoped for. Once in town, I parked in the 60's and ran from my slamming car door to the ocean. While running over the dune, the off-shore breeze nearly pushed me to the water. I ran faster, and when my feet hit the water, I immediately urinated in my shorts and fell into the waves in one swift motion. Blessed.

My need to rage a town's bar scene has simmered since my last dance. Really, all I really wanted to be able to do was sit bay-side with a cold one and a good conversation with my old friend. So far, so good.

Saturday, 6:30 AM
The surf is here for the taking, but few waves have my name on them.

We met early and were in the water by 6:30. Nothing...repeat, Nothing starts your day like a paddling out beyond the breaking waves. The salt water sneaks up my nose while I pierced the crests of a few waves on the way out, and I admit that this is my favorite smell in the world.

Eric (the old friend whom I had come to see and stay with) is not shy to try and drop in on the same waves and 5 other people at the same time. This being said, he got way more rides than me...I am a timid and respectful surfer who really comes for the smell of the salt water and the view. I was getting what I came for.

The morning got late quickly, and by 9:15, the waves were less than desirable for those who desired, and my host was quick to change my plans of sitting in the water all day.

"Dude...let's go snorkeling. There's a spot over at the bay, near the inlet. I have extra gear. You can use it. We can try to spear fish. Or, we can spear crabs. I found this crab hole that has a shitload of clean crabs. There's a bunch of rocks there too..."

Everything about his idea seemed a bit absurd to me; due to the fact that I'm less of a crusader these days and more of an observing bore. When he took a wave in, I asked a friend in the water about this snorkeling and spearing....and rounding up crabs to shallow water over rocks.

"Hey, Aarron...what do you think of the snorkeling and spearing and crab herding? You into that? Done it much? Is it cool?" Before he took a wave in, Eric actually talked about 'herding' the crabs into shallow water...yup, just like a couple of cowboys herding some steer...but we would herd blue crabs? Yee ha.

I asked a quick few questions to my fellow friend who would more than likely give me an extremely honest answer due to the fact that he was no where nearly as passionate about things as Eric...few are.

"It's very dangerous"

Fuck. That was his only real answer...and he didn't laugh or crack a smile. Fuck...'Dangerous' hasn't been part of my quest for 'fun' in years. Shit. Eric was paddling back out toward us, and when he arrived, he did a good job of convincing me that this was to be a good time. Shit.

We walked a few blocks to his van. Eric is a Heating and Air conditioning technician. He was on call for the weekend and did a good job of answering important calls and ignoring others. He drove the van with reckless abandonment wherever we went for the weekend, rounding every corner with two wheels of the van off the ground and tools and tanks and hose gauges clanging around the back in a loud commotion between our relaxing conversation.

I swear, man.

Every time I do something with someone that requires 'gear' of some sort and they have extra 'gear' that I can use...dude...it's just bound for failure.

We borrowed some dude's shit for me...we raced the van to his place and he let me use his flippers...flippers that were designed for a little extra push while 'boogie boarding', not to navigate a first time spear fishing crabber like myself around a dangerous area of the bay and inlet area. Strike one.

We get to the area and Eric is giving me specific instructions. I asked if he had the 'diver safety buoy', so that we may be seen by boat traffic. Gave me a mean look, and then went back inside to get it. With his instructions, he says:

"Do you have a pocket?"

Me: "Yeah"

Eric: "Here...take this"

He hands me the shittiest knife I've ever seen. It's like a generic swiss army knife that is falling apart and it's all rusted together.

Eric: "Put it in your pocket...Can you get to it?"

Me: "Yes."

Eric: "you may need it to cut yourself free from fishing line, in case there is line and you get caught, you can cut yourself free."

Me: "Ok."

He was so, so serious when he gave me the knife and vivid instructions. He was very serious, but something about it gave me uncontrollable giggles and I continuously had to wipe snot from my nose and tears from my eyes.

We get to the spot on the bay near the inlet, and it's nestled between a large dock and the coast guard station. Eric was quick to strap his knife to his leg. His knife was razor sharp and about ten inches long. I studied his blade, and felt the generic swiss army ruster in my thigh pocket. He then quickly got his goggles, snorkel and flippers on and in a flash was out in the bay, thrashing around with a homemade spear in hand.

The spear had a large rubber band on one end that you could wrap around your elbow, pull the blade end (a crudely configured spike made from an old bolt, probably from an air-conditioning mount) into the same hand as the elbow...then simply release your grip, and the spike end rockets through the water toward your kill. When we were borrowing the 'gear' from his heavily tattooed neighbor, Eric showed them how the spear worked, and accidentally speared the side of their garage, leaving tattooed buddies bummed. If you can't picture what I'm talking about, let me know and I'll show you some time. He described his home made spear as 'something' he 'saw on Jackass one time'. Aarrons words echoed in my head..."It's Dangerous".

I anchored the diver safety buoy. No matter where I anchored the buoy, it seemed to drift within five feet of the shore. Fuck it. Ok...now I'm trying to swim around with the shittiest of shitty gear...I can't see shit. Breathe and GULP! Ugh. I just kept on breathing in water. Eventually, my stomach had enough (eventually, like very quickly) and started rejecting the matter. My eyes watered and snot shot from my nose inside of the mask often. The dock beside us started filling up with pedestrians anxious to ride the "OC Rocket", obviously the town's pride and joy of a speed boat, that was now parked at the dock, with it's heavy engines at idle and letting the fumes work their way into my already struggling breathing procedure. Fuck.

A woman shouted from the dock as I struggled with my mask and snorkel...

"What are you doing?!!!"

Me: "We are spear fishing and gathering crabs!"

Obviously we (I?) looked idiotic, and questioning was highly reasonable.

Eric gave me the signal to come around the rocks and help 'chase' crabs from the deeper waters to the shallow and then I could net them with the...'net'. Ok...you guessed it that the net I have is a total TOTAL piece of shit. It was like, made of a coat hanger and an old mesh jersey. I'm not kidding. It kept cutting my hand as I tried to wrangle fish or crabs from extremely murky water.

I followed Eric around the rocks and sure enough, felt myself drifting with the current toward the inlet. Fuck! Now I'm struggling trying to swim toward the crab den with this fucking net above my head and fuckin boogie board flippers on. I grabbed onto the rock for dear life and my hand got sliced by aging muscle shells. Great. Now I'm bleeding and the sharks are gonna come.

"It's Dangerous"

With a lot of struggle, I was able to make it into the 'crab den' and join Eric. He was asking what my problem was, and I complained about my 'gear'. He was quick to trade mask and snorkel with me, and I was able to see and breathe, and hence; get what was so fun about this. I stopped choking on bay water and was able to dive to the shallow depths to study some marine life at a close proximity. Yes, the water was very cloudy, but if you got within 12 inches of the sea floor, you could see great and it was...quite entertaining.

The rest of my weekend included some cold beers by the bay and more lay back surfing on Sunday morning. It wasn't until my ride home that I realized that I had not brought a shirt.

Again, Big thanks to those in my life who enable me to occasionally have the life of a younger me.

Tuesday's Gone

Computer problems make me mental. I was mental enough today without the fucking computer. 'Things got a virus and so do I, judging my poor excuses for bowel movements throughout the last twenty four hours....trust me, you don't want to hear about it.

Anyhow, this computer is sick. My buddy Dave tried helping me today with extensive text messages and links to help. The hours passed and I got closer to fixing the problem, with a constant image of me throwing the thing off the roof looming in the brain. Throwing the computer from my roof would be the greatest feeling in the world right now, besides a solid bowel movement.
Maybe I just need to be done with the pc...maybe it's time to graduate to an IMac. I just feel like this thing has been holding me back for years and it's time to get out of my abusive relationship and move over to Apple. If an Apple computer works anything like my iphone...I'm in love. The frickin' phone is like a mind reader...and it's so smart and caring! I'm in love with my phone!
This computer probleming and upset stomach left me with a little rub of depression today. I wasn't able to make it to work, and we've got a deadline coming up...I checked some of my balances on my laptop, and...I'm fucking broke too! Damn.
Look...I know my minor problems today could have been cured with some pepto and more patience with my data consultant. Yes, I know that my problems are minor and a good kick in the ass could get me going, but some days, man...I don't fucking know. It's like some days you just get really really bummed out and then you can't leave the house. Ever get that?
I swear I only get it like two or three times a year, but fuckin' A. After a while, it's just like..."why bother?"..."this day is fucking shot"..."I'm a total fucking loser"..."What if someone sees me, or wants to talk to me?"...

And then, basically this cloud covers you and you get really nervous and the coffee you drank with no real breakfast at all rots your stomach some more. Eventually, you kinda get the shakes and eat a toasted cheese sandwich...which of course makes you very very sleepy. What the hell...lay down for a bit and ignore phone calls...go ahead, dude...after all, you're a fucking loser! Ahhh...no no no...don't get up and be productive...all this stress and failure makes you..zzzzzzz.

So, sometime later in the day, you wake up and feel like a pile of shit because you weren't productive all day and the problems are still on the counter top. Hmmmm...what to do, what to do? Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....

Yeah, that'll help.

Now I feel just a little bit better, and the poison on my leg is not oozing so much puss right now. The self-loathing has subsided, probably due to the fact that the day is about over, and my internal time card is telling my brain that work should be about done for the day, and it is ok to unwind a bit. Hmmmm. It's as though I fooled the boss and was actually at the bar all day, and he didn't even know it!

For some dumb reason, I feel totally awesome right now and feel like tomorrow I could take on the world. Fuck it. Ready for a ragin' Wednesday.

Cheap Date?

It was a long day of work this Saturday. I don’t particularly like working Saturdays…come to think of it; I don’t like working Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays or the rest of the weekdays either. Work sucks. It’s for the birds. Tweet tweet.

I finished my day with a solo date to Valentino’s Café. What a place. It’s warm and welcoming with a slew of locals who are personable. The ones who know my name call it out, and I feel welcome, even though I would not consider myself a local to this establishment, or any other drinking/eating joint for that matter. But, nonetheless, they make me feel welcome.

The best way to enjoy a pasta dinner after a hard day’s work of grinding out mortar joints (the dirtiest, dustiest task asked of man) is to drink five cold beers and two glasses of ice water as fast as humanly possible. My mouth hydrates and my spirit becomes merry, whilst the kitchen’s finest prepare my feast.

The coaster that my beer beverage sits on says, “We are glad you’re here” and I admit, it makes me a little mushy inside. The man beside me is clearly drunk and merry as well. We make small talk and I thank god for social spaces with such souls.

Menus can disturb my appetite into a fit of indecision, and the stomach and I pitch insults to one another while the waitress sighs with a grin. There was no such disturbance and I was quick to order spaghetti with “chunky tomato” sauce and mushrooms. There was an assortment of meat sauce based dishes with sausage, meat balls or chicken to accompany the starch; but even though I am carnivorous, I chose a meat less meal for two reasons: the simplicity was cheaper and meat is not the healthiest substance. Clearly, I am a health conscious consumer.

The sun settled in the western window and the drunken gentleman beside me invited himself into a game of darts taking place behind me. He shot once and said, “I’ve made a very bad decision…I don’t know how to fix it”. And, immediately I began laughing profusely with beer running out of my nose. Quickly composed, I made sure that he was talking about the dart game, and not a fatal error in his complex lifestyle. “Are you talking about the dart game?”, I asked. “Yes.” He said, and I continued my laughter. It wasn’t that a mistake is funny, or that he landed a perfect line like from a joke book. No, my reaction was based purely on how sincere and concerned he was about the current position of his thrown darts. -‘Not like it was a tournament or anything…he just stomped into their game and took his first round. And, I may add that this is not the type of social gathering café that hosts dart sharks. Anyone knows better than to sway their way into a dart game at Hildy’s or Your Place Pizza…no no…we were among friends. Surely his game could be saved; if not even lost in the company of high-life slugging peers. It’s gonna be just fine, dude.

I ate my pasta like a beer buzzed hungry savage and complimented the bar maid’s taste in music, as random Beatle’s songs whispered from the liquor shelf.

Taste the River, Tito

I am a witness. Technically there were nine of us...the witnesses. I'm assuming that I'll be the only one reporting on the action, so anyone reading will have to trust that this article contains the truth.

I'll bring this whole thing up to speed...

We were skating last night at the bowl. It was a good session with a good mix of heads...including some that I haven't seen in far too long. There was only a few skaters left skating. I was posted up in corner with O-town and Seber. We nursed our injuries with ice cold beer.

Being the last skaters on such nights can be a chore...it's as though sometimes you are the entertainment for the drunks on deck who want you to keep skating so that they are not left staring at an empty bowl. Tito felt no pressure from the mob, skating freely into the night with a crowd and slurry encouragement rubbing him.

Tito took run after run as the crowd called out for more. Finally, he was apparently done skating. He tossed his board into the night lit bush. He threw up his arms and claimed "I'm done". Then, from the shallow end deck side, he did a one handed hand spring into the flat area of the bowl off of the love seat. It happened pretty quickly and quite honestly I was very impressed with his cat-like agility. He landed on his feet,facing away from the benches, did a quick ninety degree turn whilst launching himself into a round off cart-wheel that happened so fast that when he flipped over and landed onto his feet, the fucking back flip that followed happened in pure slow motion. My jaw was open and chins hit the floor! What the hell is going on here? This dude just got done skating by himself (for our enjoyment) in the heat of the summer night and he tops it off with a trio of gymnastics in the flat bottom? Look a him! He's doing a fucking head-high back flip!

Gravity finally kicked in and Tito's flight had ended. He landed with might onto both feet and immediately started complaining of a bruised heel, and we all felt slight guilt for loving his shenanigans so much. We threw beer cans into the bowl and hand fulls of stone.

As of late, when someone pulls off stunt wood maneuvers of great difficulty, it has become a sort of ritual to through stones into the bowl; to show utmost appreciation for their dedication and commitment. You can sort of smell the irony. 'Dude just gets done landing something that he's been trying all night and his fans immediately toss aggregate into the bowl that basically makes the bowl unskateable for the rest of his run. This is a cruel sort of encouragement brainstormed by none other that O-town Wilson. -Now even if someone is getting closer and closer to landing a big trick, we will begin to sift the stones with our hands and feet and it creates an eerie sound that may even hinder the skater from ultimate commitment...like "do I really want to land this now? These assholes are going to through STONES into the bowl if I do?". So far, the skaters involved have liked the stoning...well maybe, I don't know...I think Doug was kind of pissed. Oh well...fuck him. Anyhow, Tito breaks out a back flip off the flat bottom, so we stoned his ass.

Now 'Teets' is sitting deck side shoeless, rubbing his feet and nearly crying about a very badly bruised heel. We all tried to sooth him verbally by telling him that his shoes were cool, but basically they were pieces of shit. Telling him that "Your shoes suck" surely helped ease the pain. Vans are cool shoes, but the support system is a little less than friendly.

Tito now stands up and grabs a 'zip zinger' style board (this is a board with a sort of banana shape and narrow trucks, which are loosely fashioned for amazing steering capabilities). He starts rolling around the deck, and from no where, just rolls into the stone and beer can filled bowl. I don't know if anyone reading this can really picture what I'm talking about...the bowl is made of concrete...it's littered with 3/4" stones and an assortment of beer cans. Everyone in the world has a story about trying to ride a skateboard and then getting tossed off of it due to hitting a stone or a crack and GENERALLY most try to avoid such situations for lifetimes...Tito is charging this shit shoeless on a novelty board, with a bruised heel.

We were fascinted and delighted to no end with Tito's dance with death. We annointed his skating with more empty beer cans and very profane flattery. Some one even offered a cylinder shaped cooler to the bowl's litter. The cooler was red and white. It measured approximately 22 inches high and 12 inches in diameter. Tito charged the concrete walls and rammed the cooler out of his way, sending the cooler itself up the transitions and to the coping, where the cooler did a rock-to-fakie as Tito and stones rounded the corner. Tito held the strings...he commanded respect and called the shots.

Brian leans into me and says "He didn't come here the whole way from Puerto Rico for NOTHING!"
"Indeed" I say "This kid has a story to tell"

We watched this sweaty Puerto Rican Magician make history in front of our very eyes. The sound coming from the bowl was like nothing I'd ever heard before. Cans crunched and skidded. The stones danced up the walls, out of danger's way and then rattled down again into the danger zone. Sometimes the stones would get caught under his wheels and protested loudly that the board stop immediately, but none such action occured. The odd 'stopping' sound echoed into the night, and our hero carved victoriously. The nose of the zip zinger pelted a red and white cooler up the walls and above lip, performing a variety of tricks while master rounded with prevailing urethane humming under his bruised bare feet.

"Best ride I seen...I especially liked the flip of the cooler"

I was star struck with Tito's existence. I hailed his name. He punched me in the chest and smiled. "Fucking right, you sidewalk-makin-mother-fucker"-is what he said to me. I was flattered that he aknowleged me and grabbed another cold round for myself and O-town Wilson.

Tito became bored with the littered terrain and began scooping stone and can mixture with a plastic dust pan while skating. He the grabbed a push broom and rolled even faster around the structure, carving high and shoving dust, stone and trash above the deck with swift motions of a stiff bristled push broom.

Occasionally Tito would wreck, but he fixed himself quickly with the light of a 8 inch long Newport. We called his name and he delivered.

Eventually he walked away. There were no protests from the witnesses. There was nothing left for us to say...not that just anyone would understand. I was scared and afraid I was so alone. We're Neurotic! I've had it.

Thank you Tito. Taste the River! There's a Q in our name. It stands for quality boards, and a quest for fun in every run.