This was sent to me by my mom, courtesy of her very own Dancing Leaf Farm. She apparently had just finished dyeing wool in the farmhouse’s basement dye kitchen. When she returned to find out why the dogs were acting queer, she found a turkey vulture nervously flapping in the corner. Eventually, my older brother Aramin was brought in to evict the foul fowl.
Barnesville, Maryland: Where the Redneck Comes to You!
My hope is that this adequately explains my absence over the last couple days without having to go into any excruciating detail concerning the second panel.
True* story: The late Jacques Cousteau was my great-uncle and on several different occasions invited me along on his expeditions. We would drink mojitos after each dive to celebrate that day’s discoveries.
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Walking down my street with Sara yesterday, I commented on the beauty of my neighbor’s dogwood tree. “Isn’t the dogwood native to Asia?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, “we had a dogwood festival back in Tennessee. I don’t think there’d be a festival for a non-native species.”
At which point I yelled “Kudzu Fest ’08!”
The fact that I am still considering the implications of such a celebration – everything from merchandising to themed rides – is a rather stark testament to my ability to take a joke too far.
While visiting an old friend in Miami, Florida a few weeks ago, I had the chance to join him on one of his frequent trips to the Everglades to research alligators. The entire park is teeming with wildlife, an incredibly stark contrast to the suburban sprawl we left behind in Miami.
The alligators in particular were amazing; gnarly reminders that really big lizards used to run the show around here. Someone should really look into the scientific possibility of bringing back dinosaurs via alligator DNA. I’m fairly confident no one has considered this option yet.
First, the ridiculous graphic for today. Then I’ll explain myself.
I’ve found that the recipe for naming a sports team is very similar to that of naming a band; pull a random pop culture reference out of a hat, spice with some in-your-face attitude, and finish strong with an over-the-top, probably offensive graphic.
The reason I say this is because I was trying to Photoshop up an accompaniment to a classic story of mine, but ended up with a potential jersey for my next tryst in sports teams.
While visiting my parents in Cambridge, England, my mother, brother and I took a break from a bike ride to grab tea outside of town. After a few minutes, a curious expression came across both their faces as they looked past me. I heard a faint buzzing sound, and turned around to see Professor/Demigod Stephen Hawking whirring our direction with a trio of ladies following along. They settled into the table next to us and one of the ladies ran to fetch some tea.
For the length of time that they sat there, an uncomfortable silence came over my family and I. Not only because we were in the presence of awkwardly-positioned greatness, but because for the entire time that they sat there, he spoke only in beeps.
Beep beep, motherfucker.
Two years ago today, I was on a plane home from Portland, Oregon after finishing a 2-month bicycle trip across the country with my dad. We averaged 70 miles a day, ran into more than a couple tornadoes, met Americans of all shapes and sizes, sampled the best food the Midwest has to offer, nearly got hypothermia, witnessed the poverty of the Native American population, camped on rivers and cringed in motels (many of which rent “by the hour”), pushed through headwinds, celebrated tailwinds, drank beer, ate 6,000 calories a day and – most importantly (and no less cheesy) – really discovered what life is about.
Really, not a day goes by that I am somehow not reminded of this trip. It was life-changing, because it showed me that there’s more than daily routine and day jobs and living the 9-5, five-and-two (weekdays versus weekends) grind. It was the longest two months of my life, and there were times when I would question the sanity of what we were doing, especially when we were hiding from tornado in a campground bathroom or huddling under a tarp as rain and lighting poured down on either side. But it was the spirit of adventure and the love of taking it all in, one slow breath at a time.
For a couple weeks, I noticed a healthy squeak developing in my left bike pedal (the bike, for those interested, is named Blue Steel, although she is actually made of aluminum. Consult Google Image Search for a quick explanation of the name. Blue Steel also features prominently in a past blog, Bike Dust). I didn’t become completely aware of what it was until I was riding back from my friends’ house late at night and the pedal snapped off, clinging desperately via clip to my shoe.
I heard the clanging of a bolt somewhere along Massachusetts Avenue, and frantically hopped off, clumsily tearing off the loose pedal from my shoe. Picking my bike up to use the front light as a flashlight, I searched to no avail for the little black bolt. I was about three blocks north of Chinatown, and D.C. drivers aren’t known for their kindness towards the metal cowboys that clog the roads. Manning up, I decided that the five miles home can’t be so bad with only one leg clipped in to the remaining pedal.
I put the orphan pedal into my backpack, hopped on and started chugging along. I was streaking steadily at 5 mph. Turning onto Pennsylvania and approaching the White House, I knew that my plan was a best, nearly impossible. There was a cluster of cops gathered in front of the White House gates, all of whom looked up as I came squeaking by. After 5 seconds of silence, they burst out laughing, turning their heads as I tried desperately to push myself past faster. D.C.’s finest my ass.
At the end of the block, I was spurred along in my escape from embarrassment, pushing 8 mph. And then, the final nail in the coffin.
“You got two legs, son! Use ‘em!” a homeless man yelled from the corner across the street. Sound advice from a man who had most likely been drunk since 10 a.m. Admitting defeat, I called in a rescue from my friends whose house I had just left, who were fortunately good-natured about picking me up from the lonely streets of Washington at midnight.
Update: Blue Steel has since been fixed with a brand-new crank set. She damn well better appreciate the love I show her.
