Nine?

Ok. Ok....I'm starting to settle down a little bit. BUT...part of my problem is...Ok, here we go.

Part of "what is wrong with this country" is...If a coffee shop doesn't open it's doors until NINE o' fucking clock...it's just insulting and lazy. Nine? Are you kidding me? Why not just call it a day, boys and stay home and watch the grass grow? C'mon people. No wonder many think we're headed to the shitter in a hand basket...we cant get a decent cup of Joe until mid morning. Nine?

I think it's time we re-evaluate the current state of lazieness in the nation...starting with- all coffee shops open their doors at 4 a.m. -if ever deciding to close them in the first place. No wonder small trade venues are being blown out of the water by these chain gas stations that also offer 'coffee' and 'egg' sandwiches...-your home fucking sleeping the day away while the competition is crushing you to smithereens during prime time coffee drinking hours.

I'm sorry...I have a lot more to say on this subject, but I can't sit here pecking thoughts all day. I've got much work to do, damn it. Concrete, farming...T ball coaching. There aren't enough hours in the day.

The thumb isn't quite green yet, but if you look real close....no...closer...yeah, there you go; there is a sprout of lettuce to the right of my index knuckle. Mmmmh. Looks delicious.
What the fuck? My thumb looks weird in this picture...kinda looks like a big ole chicken leg. Well, I guess they say that farming will do odd things to a person's appendages after working the soil for hours on end.
Truthfully, I was getting a little worried about the whole 'farming' (Alana insists that we have a large garden, and no such 'farm', but that phrasing sort of steals my thunder) thing for a while there...I didn't hear from my cohorts- Farmer Jeff and Farmer Jay, for a while, and I was quite convinced that I didn't have 'farming buddies'...I had made a pact with a couple of assholes who really just wanted to burn my ramp. In the back of my mind, I called them names and cursed their trust. BUT, it's all good in the field!
My god, I'm so fucking hungry for lettuce right now I can hardly stand it. It's like that picture is taunting me. Look at that shit! Fucking home grown lettuce! I know it's breakfast time (I ain't no farmer yet, but crusty concrete workers get up early too!)...it's only six fifteen and I haven't finished my first pot of coffee yet, but I'm half tempted to run out there right now and just eat some lettuce, with a spoon full of dirt. Damn, that shit looks good!
Alana and Oliver have been getting into this action full steam as well. They are planting numerous seeds for peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, some stuff I can't spell and a variety of gourds that we can eat...or make crafts and instruments out of. Yeah! plantin' some special gourds that you can shape and make a banjo out of...yup. Some of the gourds are called 'snake' gourds (Arments genetically hate snakes more than most things on the planet...'cept for my brother...that dude ain't afraid of nuthin....'cept spiders) and you can dry them and make flutes out of them. I swear I'm gonna start a band using only instruments that we grew. No, no, no. It's not gonna be like a hippie thing at all...I hate that shit. Our band will play crazy punk songs with a little bit of rap, and we smash our instruments and eat them.

farming...day two

Ok. Today we burned the ramp and began stripping the sod. We could have turned the sod over, let it rot and then tilled...but we don't have that much time. We're trying to farm a mass amount quickly with very little knowledge.
Jay was talking again today about the flowers...
Jeff and Jay were both fashioned work horses and loaded sod like animals. Otown showed up before day break and those three threw Frisbee over the molten piles of skate ramp as the morning traffikers cruised bye...wondering what sort of insane farming posse in lingering about. -Just you wait and see, non believers. We're gonna do this shit.
Alana tried convincing us that we were crazy and we may have turned her into a believer...that or she is mildly entertained with our efforts.
More news to come...we are stripping more tomorrow and getting ready to till and sow.

Wholly Shit.

I'm not sure that I could really put my weekend into words and be fair about it. Let's see...I'll start backwards I guess and try to keep it simple...starting with tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow morning at 5:30 am sharp, I will be setting my old skate ramp 'franken ramp' ablaze. It was a great ramp for years, with a lot of memories and beer cans attached to it. I'm sure the fire company will be called, because I've got it broken up into three separate piles, each willing to burn twenty feet vertically. Fire!
A crew helped dismantle the beast on Saturday evening. The ramp was just old and virtually unskateable anymore without great danger, though I did manage to get a quick run in on Saturday...luckily with no injury.
I was going to prepare the 'fire to be' today, with lots of kindling and gasoline, but didn't. My ass was tired from the long weekend I put in and I found myself napping two times today...it was great...and I kinda put together the pieces of last night. Shit. Last night was the Lancaster Bart und Schnauzer Friendship Society's 'pub night' at the Mountville inn. Hmmmm. You say 'pub night' and I say "I'm there...10 beers deep already on an empty stomach". I hit that beer pounding rhythm where food no longer matters...unless I'm trying to sneak spoonfuls of the society leader's chili. That same rhythm leads me to believe that I'm the funniest person alive, and my opinions and ideas are remarkable. 'Hey, look at me!'. Yeah, it was a good night...I threw away my shirt at the pub and wore someone's sweatshirt home. My shirt got dirty from a minor clean up incident, and I was dying to throw the damn thing out anyhow...it was gray. Ugh. I look so stupid in gray. Really, please don't anybody ever buy me a gray shirt...it makes me look fat and stupid. Last night gray made me look drunk and arrogant...I had to toss the fucker.
But, it all makes sense. Surely the reason for such thirst was due to the fact that...well...I don't know how this is going to sound, but...I've decided to become a farmer. Yes...the buzz is true. Jay and Jeff and I were stirring up some ideas on Friday night over a couple cold ones, and we decided to tear down the old ramp, and start 'croppin' some of my land. Fuck it. We're going for it. There's probably almost an acre that we could do down there and bam! Look at us now...farmers. Yup. It's gonna be hard work...and we're not really sure what we're doing just yet, but we're gonna plant the seeds and sow the earth...buddy system style. Yup. Alana is stoked too, 'cause she likes when I get super passionate about something over night and try desperately to pursue whims with everything I've got. We are going to run an organic operation with love and respect. And sweat. Yup. Fertile ground, irrigation lines, weather vane, scarecrow, shovels, compost, and dedication. We talked a lot about the crops we will be raising and harvesting. We're gonna talk to the plants a LOT. We even plan on passing out in the rows late at night, and listening to what they have to say. Hyperbarometric pressure. Photosynthesis. Rain. 'Gonna learn all the lingo to go with it. Yup. Jeff and I were talking about what it is that we'd really like to grow, and we're gonna do a shit load (17 pecs?) of cabbage, and make saurkraut. Totally, totally totally gonna grow hops too, then we can make money over fist selling that organic shit to local breweries, where they'll be crazy about us, and probably give us free beer. Cabbage, corn, potatoes, sweet corn, sweet potatoes, spinach, strawberries, lettuce, beans, green beans, peppers and yup...all organic. I would like to get into some heirloom tomatoes too. Oh, shit...get this. -We're all talking about how awesome this is going to be and then Jay is just like

"Well, I want to plant lots and lots of flowers...we'll have the prettiest farm around".

In my head, I'm like..."FLOWERS? seriously...flowers? who gives a shit about that?"

Then Jay starts pointing around to different areas of the farm "Lillies, petunias, daisies, day lillies, dragon root, filbert, begonia, camellia, goosefoot, jasmine and..RHODODENDRONS!!! Rhodo's are soooo bad ass!"

Jeff and I kinda looked the other way a little bit. I mean, yeah flowers are cool, but...what the fuck are we going to do with them? Pick up chicks? Sponsor a prom? I know you can eat some flowers, but jeez, dude. -We'll see what happens. 'Just seems like a dumb idea to spend too much of out seed money on flowers. We'll see. If Jeff and Alana think its cool, then I guess I'm down...after all, we are a co-op.

This picture is of Phil at his finest, taken by our Dave Umlauf. I'm assuming that this was taken in the rain.

I've been a Phil fan since day one.

The first time I met Phil, he and some other groms from Philadelphia were trying to dry my old ramp (frankenramp R.I.P.). It was at night in the rain. They were trying to dry it so that it would be skateable for a skate jam benefit that was taking place the next day. It was...an “effort in futility”...to say the least.

There was no possible way that the ramp would be dry. No- not even if the moon came out and became the sun and it was full moon clear as a bell all night. No way. But they tried...with Phil leading the way with enthusiasm to the nines. Efforts included tarps, “DO YOU HAVE MORE TARPS?”, fans “WHAT ABOUT SOME FANS?”, rags “MORE RAGS?” and; of course they tried using their own sweat to dry the ramp.

I was not trying to stop them, or shake their pride. No, I was on their side for sure. Besides, it was cute. The crew made rain jackets out of trash bags “DO YOU HAVE SOME TRASH BAGS!?”, and all eagerly looked forward to skating in the morning. For lack of better words, it was cute.

The next day, the ramp was slightly drier than what it was that night, and we all skated and tried convincing ourselves it wasn't wetter, as we dodged broken bones learning the hard way, with slams decreasing the number of skaters by the minute...with Phil being the leader and longest survivor.

One of the other times I got the privilege to hang out with Phil, he and some dudes came to my house to skate the recently constructed concrete bowl. It was raining, of course, because at this point I considered Phil a rain dancer. He tried drying the bowl and attempted to cover it frantically with plastic, whilst taking dangerous runs trying to convince us that it was dry enough to skate. Finally, he lost the debate with mother nature and we headed for shelter in the house.

In the kitchen, there was day (three?) old rice in a pot on the range that...looked less than appetizing. I was almost embarrassed at the appearance of my kitchen, and now I had visitors.

Phil says to me...”I have two questions for you...”, quite honestly I don't remember what the first question was, but the second question was “...and may I eat that rice?”. Well, of course he could eat the rice, and I may have offered to make fresh.

Phil didn't look at the rice like he hadn't eaten in days...he looked at the rice like he hadn't seen or thought about food for days. He ate it cold with the manners of a very hungry dog. While eating, he heard no one's words of conversation and growled politely. I fucking like Phil. He is the most courteous skater I've ever met (I've met hundreds) and he skates like an artist would paint the canvas as the ship was going down. -There's no time for perfect brush strokes or time to chose color for pallet perfection. The composition is a whirl whim and it's just perfect. I fucking like Phil and miss him the moments before he leaves.

Play T Ball

Ok, this may be a great mistake, but I'm about to accept the nomination for coaching my son's T-ball team. I know, I know...I'm a horrible team player and he can't catch or throw for shit (...he'll be starting!), but I feel this is something I could do. I feel this is something that I could do well.
I want my team to win. I could very well see us being the league champions, and we'll stop at nothing for the Manor Township T-ball championship trophy. My guys will run if they're late for practice. My guys will run if they fall out of line. These kids will come to me doughie little punks and will leave boys. There will be no ice cream celebrations for a loss. After a loss, we will return to the practice field and review tapes and concentrate on mistakes. We will practice in the pouring rain. Thunderstorms? Are you kidding? That's what makes real t-ball players...a little lightning to get your ass running around the bases. That's right.
Oh, don't worry...I'm not going to be the type of coach to let an umpire's bad call get the best of our road to victory...no no no. I will memorize every damn rule there is to this game and keep the rule book in my back pocket for reference at all times. I plan on being thrown out of many games red faced and swearing at the line judges...all in devout pride for our team and our reluctant hunger for victory. I can see it now...

"Foul Ball!"

"A foul? A foul?...You're kidding right? A foul? The ball was clearly fair play."


"Take a seat, Coach...let's move along here...T up!"

"Take a seat? What next? Go home and watch (at this point, I wrestle the rule book from my back pocket, having a hard time, because my cut off jean shorts are so damn tight, you'd think they were painted on)...and watch the grass grow?"

"Coach...Please."

"Please what, DUDE? I can show you right here in the damn book what a damn foul ball is...You gonna tell me now that we're not gonna play by the damn rules? My boys aren't going for the effing championship trophy based on a bunch of damn..."

"Coach...please watch your mouth...I apologize for the call, but I gotta call 'em like I see 'em"

At this point...my senses let loose. Maybe it's the damn too tight cut off's I got on, or the 12 cups of coffee I had before the game...dunno. But, my clip board is let go from my free hand, sending my paper work and notes of play to the April winds and I dart to the poor volunteer line judge in a raging fury...
"Call 'em like you see em? and I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL!!!!"

Luckily my rampage gets stopped before it gets out of hand. The local police chief and Jr. Karate instructor took me down easily before I was four steps away from the dugout.
People turn their heads in embarrassment as I am growling obscenities into the sod, with the two local heroes pinning me down, helpless.

The game is postponed, because parents got upset with the line judge as well, and started getting the kids off the bench before the inning was up. My wife and son leave in tears as the chief and karate coach finally release me; drained and very apologetic. The assistant to the volunteer line coach tells me that my coaching privileges could be revoked, if another such out burst takes place. I try to reason with him and start to open my rule book to the chapter on 'fair play', but now the pages are ripped, grass stained and not really legible. He pleas with me to put the rule book down and go home. I leave peacefully. I walk home delighted...we are still undefeated.

The running shoes are new. My passion for running is also new...and possibly a hot trend for me for about another run...maybe. Some friends of mine run, and they think it's really cool. Like any normal person, I want to be cool in some form or another, and decided to add running to my list of personal passions.
I bought these beauties last night, caught in instinct after buying work boots for summer. Buying running shoes does not make you a runner. Shit, running didn't really make me a runner, and I found out quickly just how much I hate running after a half mile or so. -A half mile, I may add, that was mostly down hill. In no time flat, I was sweating, coughing and crying. If these were symptoms of a great run, and part of the joy my friends were finding...this activity was going to be a hard sell. BUT, I already bought these damn shoes, so I decided to press on, through the wind and driving rain. I tried to notice simple natural surroundings, but was most content running with my head looking straight down at my immediate path and new shoes pounding the pavement laying ahead of me. Also, by looking around at my surroundings, I was sure to notice more often the distance left ahead of me, that only grew shorter very slowly.
Walking became a natural part of my running. My heavy panting and coughing was sure to wake up innocent sleepers as I paused hands on knees. Bees Knees, that is.
I did not throw up, but came visibly close; hacking flem from the lung's lower portion. Cars slowed down when they passed me on their way to church and I waived them bye, to assure that I was not dying in this roadside manner. Manor. Roadside Manor. No, no, no...keep driving...I'll pull through.
Obviously I'm an amateur, and my initial thought was that maybe I shouldn't have bought the cheapest shoes that 'super shoes' had to offer. My training for a May marathon was going shitty as hell and I will no doubt be letting down the other 3/4 of my team...if they will still have me. But...this is what I do. I get all wrapped up in instinctive passions and disappoint the masses. I'm a natural.
By the mid point of my run, I felt the burn. I also felt foolish. 'Damn sure I looked stupid. I couldn't decide weather I wanted to wear my knit hat, or keep my hood pulled up. Running with out head protection was not an option...my scalp is very sensitive to weather...even when the going got sweaty, and I felt the need to run bare-headed...I quickly felt shiverish on the top and covered quickly. The knit hat felt good on my head, but was hot as hell. The hood let my body heat rise from my back and warmed my head and ears nicely, while keeping the rain off my stylin' hair, but...damn it was loud. The fabric of the jacket hood rubbed against itself with mild, gentle friction, and it was too much for me. There's a lot of noise in my head already when I'm out for a good run. I'm out here letting loose and blowing some steam, you know...I don't need this hood's racket slowing down my complex thought process. Surely other runners know what I'm talking about. If you don't run, then...well I feel sorry for you, because this is an elite club that I am now a part of for life and we have piles of issues that can only be understood from our point of view.
Yeah, the runner's burn was taking me over, but I was really looking for the high. I pressed on, awaiting a sense of euphoria to take me over. My vision was impaired slightly several times through sweat (tears?) in my eyes, but I was never quite 'stoned' by the run. 'Talk about disappointment.
Even though walking consumed some of my run time, I truly tried to push it in the last quarter. -Quarter mile, that is. My strides became longer and I found a rhythm in my breathing that allowed my cough to subside and I pulled in all the oxygen this engine could handle. Burn! Push!
The tears of sweat were running down my cheeks and I tasted them. I had not far to go now and saw my beer drinkin' neighbor pulling out of his driveway. Shit...-not that I care what anyone thinks, but...I wasn't really ready to go public with my running habit just yet. Shit...he would be sure to stop and give me an earful of shit if he recognized me. Shit. I reached back over my shoulder (in mid-stride, never losing my rhythm) and pulled my hood far over my head and it's edge to my brow. -A clever disguise? No. But a needed guise none the less. He passed and I pressed on...pushing, burning.
When my house finally approached, I envisioned myself passing the baton onto my marathon partner, and slowed my sprint (god knows this was no sprint) down to a jog, then a healing walk through the yard. I turned down offered water from our team's sponsor and looked to the horizon where my teammate ran. I cheered. I laughed and I cried.