It only took an hour to get picked up this morning, but the ride turned out to be pretty useless. I was dumped in the middle of nowhere, an hour outside of Calgary.
There were no stores, no access to food or water (though fortunately I had both) if I ended up getting stuck here for days.
This spot looked pretty damn similar to the spot that me and friend had gotten stuck at for two days the year before. Great.
It was time for some cosmic manipulation.
I used my devious mind to suck the sympathy out of all the douche bags whipping by who weren't picking me up. I flipped over my sign (REGINA!) and wrote WATER? on the back.
Holding that sign high, I began to wonder... did the people passing by honestly have no water? Or did they just not give a shit about a potentially dehydrated man standing alone hours away from civilization? Whatever, fuck 'em.
Regardless, someone pulled over pretty quickly - a black dude from Kenya, who worked for CP Rail of all places. He didn't have any water, but he'd felt so bad that he pulled a U-turn a click down the road to come back and grab me.
The ride passed through stories of train hopping and railway safety and secrets; two opposite ends of the Railway spectrum. I was the criminal, he was the worker.
He dropped me off an hour down the road and left me with 20 bucks, an uplifted mood, and a new hope. These had been the first proper conversations I'd had in weeks. There was still a chance for my brain to restore itself.
Hopefully, the next ride would be from an astrophysicist - or a psychologist - and then I'd have some truly mind-bending conversations.
Alright, brain. We're getting back on track.
Tuesday 23 July 2013
Retardation 05/13/13
Finally! Time to myself.
I'd been growing tired of talking nonsense for weeks on end. Funny, yes, but talking about ass while snorting wasabi and pouring liquor into your eye doesn't satisfy any intellectual cravings.
I was alone now. I'd just woken up from my nap by the underpass. I was a bit hungover, and a bit dejected in the absence of my friends (particularly Will, seeing as this was the first day we'd spent apart in almost 2 months), but, finally - alone. There would be no more abundant stupidity, no more senseless acts of a retardation complex- so I thought.
Being alone didn't mean these ideas were going to stop. We'd unearthed parts of our psyche that were best left locked up. I stood on the highway for a few hours, thinking with mindless patterns that resonated with the word ass, and otherwise fabricating ridiculous situations in my mind. I urged myself with as much psychological power as I could to THINK! People have brains for a reason. Was this enough to blossom into a contemplative mindset?
I hoped so, but as I stood on the highway with my thumb hung half-assedly over the white line, I wondered. The sun hid itself be hind the horizon, painting the sky in a neon-orange and dumping buckets of golden-yellow across the endless plain, and I began to lose hope. I was still dumb. Maybe it didn't matter if we were together or not.
I pondered, setting up my sleeping bag under the bridge.
This was a problem we'd all started - maybe it was a problem we'd all have to fix.
Ass.
I'd been growing tired of talking nonsense for weeks on end. Funny, yes, but talking about ass while snorting wasabi and pouring liquor into your eye doesn't satisfy any intellectual cravings.
I was alone now. I'd just woken up from my nap by the underpass. I was a bit hungover, and a bit dejected in the absence of my friends (particularly Will, seeing as this was the first day we'd spent apart in almost 2 months), but, finally - alone. There would be no more abundant stupidity, no more senseless acts of a retardation complex- so I thought.
Being alone didn't mean these ideas were going to stop. We'd unearthed parts of our psyche that were best left locked up. I stood on the highway for a few hours, thinking with mindless patterns that resonated with the word ass, and otherwise fabricating ridiculous situations in my mind. I urged myself with as much psychological power as I could to THINK! People have brains for a reason. Was this enough to blossom into a contemplative mindset?
I hoped so, but as I stood on the highway with my thumb hung half-assedly over the white line, I wondered. The sun hid itself be hind the horizon, painting the sky in a neon-orange and dumping buckets of golden-yellow across the endless plain, and I began to lose hope. I was still dumb. Maybe it didn't matter if we were together or not.
I pondered, setting up my sleeping bag under the bridge.
This was a problem we'd all started - maybe it was a problem we'd all have to fix.
Ass.
Thursday 18 July 2013
Delusional 05/13/13
The day hadn't turned out as good as expected. That's not to say it wasn't a great day - it was, filled with laughter, smiles, and jokes - but it was almost too good. Our sense of humour had declined into such a simplistic state of idiocy that we were incapable of holding a normal conversation with eachother. To add to the fact, we were all pumped full of whiskey, so the thought of an interaction between us, without either
a. making a fucked up face
b. making a fucked up noise, or
c. saying something fucked up and inarticulate,
was incomprehensible.
We'd developed quite the bond together, having realized that the three of us were more fucked than anyone we'd ever met. We delved so deep into the farthest and most truly fucked regions of our brains, uncovering sections of insanity that even we'd been unaware of. Our words were truly fucked, (forgive the overuse of the word fucked, but there are few other words to describe this degree of delusional bullshit), our conversations would drift into sadistic, perverted monstrosities. The ideas we shared would have made Quentin Tarantino quiver in his boots.
The balance was maintained by Karla, our voice of reason. When our minds lapsed so far into perversion that we couldn't handle ourselves, we'd call on her to help us remember that we could talk about something that made at least a little bit of sense.
Anyway, I decided I needed to take a break from my husbands. Take some time to reevaluate my mind, to remember the fraction of intelligence I'd once held dear. Hopefully some time apart would do them good, too.
Once we'd finished the whiskey, Karla's boyfriend was kind enough to drive us to the highway. I decided to let my husbands and Aids head out by themselves. I stayed by the bridge we'd been dropped off at and let myself drift into an uneasy slumber.
It had been a while since I'd been on my own... tomorrow, it would be just me and the Road.
a. making a fucked up face
b. making a fucked up noise, or
c. saying something fucked up and inarticulate,
was incomprehensible.
We'd developed quite the bond together, having realized that the three of us were more fucked than anyone we'd ever met. We delved so deep into the farthest and most truly fucked regions of our brains, uncovering sections of insanity that even we'd been unaware of. Our words were truly fucked, (forgive the overuse of the word fucked, but there are few other words to describe this degree of delusional bullshit), our conversations would drift into sadistic, perverted monstrosities. The ideas we shared would have made Quentin Tarantino quiver in his boots.
The balance was maintained by Karla, our voice of reason. When our minds lapsed so far into perversion that we couldn't handle ourselves, we'd call on her to help us remember that we could talk about something that made at least a little bit of sense.
Anyway, I decided I needed to take a break from my husbands. Take some time to reevaluate my mind, to remember the fraction of intelligence I'd once held dear. Hopefully some time apart would do them good, too.
Once we'd finished the whiskey, Karla's boyfriend was kind enough to drive us to the highway. I decided to let my husbands and Aids head out by themselves. I stayed by the bridge we'd been dropped off at and let myself drift into an uneasy slumber.
It had been a while since I'd been on my own... tomorrow, it would be just me and the Road.
Wednesday 17 July 2013
Reunion (4) 05/13/13
Her face pressed up close to the window separating me from her as I sat down on a seat at the back of the bus. She waved goodbye, a tear glimmering as the sun bounced back in the reflection of her iris. Our eyes locked. Was she really leaving?
It was so perfect... our gazes recognized each other's as we shared this thought.
Just as the bus began to roll away, she tore herself from the window; swishing tendrils of fire through my heart as she tossed her crimson hair back. She dashed to the front of the bus and flagged down the driver, who slowed down and let her on.
Gallivanting to the back of the bus, she threw her arms in the air and dove into mine (despite the driver's protests about not running on a moving vehicle.)
Our lips locked for a moment as those stupid butterflies burst into flight in our bellies; her hand shooting sparks of excitement into each of our souls. She was doing it! She was coming with me!
We were together!
Finally...
At last...
At last....
At last I opened my eyes to the rude sunrays that penetrated my privacy. Fuck. That had been a dream? I tossed and turned for a bit, trying to return to the embrace of her beauty, but it didn't work, so I spent a second remembering where I was.
I was at Karla's house! Awesome!
I jumped out of bed with a surge of excitement, eager to start the day. The group was back in action.
The year prior, right before Fernweh and I had decided to begin our first cross country trip, we'd ran into Karla at a drop-in center for bums, lazy teens, and people who were genuinely in need.
We'd struck up a quick friendship, and before long, we were planning to accept her into our group.
Skeptical at first (we'd only known her for a couple hours. How could we expect her to drop everything and come traveling?), our doubts gave way into excitement as Karla kept her word and joined us in our excellent expedition.
This year, she'd settled down and gotten a place, and had been nice enough to let us stay there the night before. She was a kind, rational and understanding soul - and, to emphasize this point, I found her working on a breakfast of bacon and eggs to share with us.
Calgary was seeming like a brighter place every day, and this day was starting out to look pretty damn good.
It was so perfect... our gazes recognized each other's as we shared this thought.
Just as the bus began to roll away, she tore herself from the window; swishing tendrils of fire through my heart as she tossed her crimson hair back. She dashed to the front of the bus and flagged down the driver, who slowed down and let her on.
Gallivanting to the back of the bus, she threw her arms in the air and dove into mine (despite the driver's protests about not running on a moving vehicle.)
Our lips locked for a moment as those stupid butterflies burst into flight in our bellies; her hand shooting sparks of excitement into each of our souls. She was doing it! She was coming with me!
We were together!
Finally...
At last...
At last....
At last I opened my eyes to the rude sunrays that penetrated my privacy. Fuck. That had been a dream? I tossed and turned for a bit, trying to return to the embrace of her beauty, but it didn't work, so I spent a second remembering where I was.
I was at Karla's house! Awesome!
I jumped out of bed with a surge of excitement, eager to start the day. The group was back in action.
The year prior, right before Fernweh and I had decided to begin our first cross country trip, we'd ran into Karla at a drop-in center for bums, lazy teens, and people who were genuinely in need.
We'd struck up a quick friendship, and before long, we were planning to accept her into our group.
Skeptical at first (we'd only known her for a couple hours. How could we expect her to drop everything and come traveling?), our doubts gave way into excitement as Karla kept her word and joined us in our excellent expedition.
This year, she'd settled down and gotten a place, and had been nice enough to let us stay there the night before. She was a kind, rational and understanding soul - and, to emphasize this point, I found her working on a breakfast of bacon and eggs to share with us.
Calgary was seeming like a brighter place every day, and this day was starting out to look pretty damn good.
Saturday 13 July 2013
Kalgery 05/11/13
Here we were!
Downtown Calgary - a city I'd known before to be only drab and grumpy; a city that could frown upon the happiest child or the loneliest grandmother that stepped upon its well-maintained infrastructure.
Fortunately, Calgary's reputation was soon to change.
After Officer Swass dropped us off downtown, we'd hardly walked for ten minutes before we were met with a smiling face. We introduced ourselves to Michelle, who was sitting on the front porch of her apartment. She sympathized with our situation and brought out a bunch of beers.
Her and her happy boyfriend's happy faces began to burn away any sour opinions of Calgary, replacing them with a brighter and more solid vision.
It's not the place that makes the impression on you: it's the people.
You could bare witness to the most rundown, crack slanging ghetto in the world, but if you shared the experience with nothing but good people, it would be a good memory. If you left feeling uplifted (for reasons aside from smoking crack) it would be a good memory.
Such was this experience, and as we parted ways, we found ourselves feeling great.
Here we were, Downtown Calgary. A city I'd once thought to be plain and impersonal, but now a place I found to be promising. Tonight was bound to be a good one.
Downtown Calgary - a city I'd known before to be only drab and grumpy; a city that could frown upon the happiest child or the loneliest grandmother that stepped upon its well-maintained infrastructure.
Fortunately, Calgary's reputation was soon to change.
After Officer Swass dropped us off downtown, we'd hardly walked for ten minutes before we were met with a smiling face. We introduced ourselves to Michelle, who was sitting on the front porch of her apartment. She sympathized with our situation and brought out a bunch of beers.
Her and her happy boyfriend's happy faces began to burn away any sour opinions of Calgary, replacing them with a brighter and more solid vision.
It's not the place that makes the impression on you: it's the people.
You could bare witness to the most rundown, crack slanging ghetto in the world, but if you shared the experience with nothing but good people, it would be a good memory. If you left feeling uplifted (for reasons aside from smoking crack) it would be a good memory.
Such was this experience, and as we parted ways, we found ourselves feeling great.
Here we were, Downtown Calgary. A city I'd once thought to be plain and impersonal, but now a place I found to be promising. Tonight was bound to be a good one.
Tuesday 9 July 2013
Officer Swass (05/11/13)
Well, we were home again. We were back on the rails, soothed by the gentle rumbling of the engine, healed by the infinite scope of untouched nature that surrounded us in all directions. The four of us and our guiding force, this great Steel Snake, were alone with mother nature in all of her entirety.
The mountains slowly melted away into mundane plains as our home province submitted itself to the ferociously boring plains of Alberta.
Regardless, we didn't get much of a chance to enjoy the sights, because we were all highly irritable. We'd been together for too long, and now we were stuck together in tight quarters with hardly a few feet to move around in. The ride passed quietly.
We rode through the plains for a few boring hours. The lack of excitement sedated us into a lethargy and we soon found ourselves asleep.
Bad idea.
We awoke to the sound of the knock on the unit's door. Scrib hollered to us.
"Fuck. Get up. There's cops." The words serrated my mind like a sawblade and I jumped up, muttering curses. I stepped downstairs and looked up into the glowering eyes of a cop. We tossed our bags off the train and jumped off. I accepted the handcuffs dutifully - no sense arguing, nowhere to run. I hoped they wouldn't read up about my charges for train hopping last year.
They told us there had been a bunch of grass fires and they'd had to stop the train for safety. In doing that, they also decided to check for train hoppers. (Suspicious? Somewhat...)
The cops didn't seem too angry with us. We hadn't messed up the unit or vandalized anything, so they had no reason to be upset besides the fact that we were trespassing. "I don't give a fuck if you steal a car. I don't give a fuck if you do a BNE. Just stay the fuck off the rails, because this is my department."
They ticketed us and gave me a bit of a break. They did, indeed, look up my charges from last year, and heard that this was my third time getting caught hopping a train in Alberta (which is bullshit and tremendously confusing.) They initially planned to give me a charge and a court date for which a Canada-wide warrant would be issued, but they decided to give me the same ticket as the other hoppers (which still resulted in a court date, though only an Alberta wide warrant.)
So, here we were stuck on the side of the highway with no train to take into downtown. We charmed the cops into giving us a ride back into town, and were thus introduced to Officer Swass.
"Alright kids. As long as you don't have swass, you can get in the back of my car."
We burst out laughing and hopped into Officer Swass's car, and he drove us into town. That was an easy break. At least we'd made it into Calgary.
The mountains slowly melted away into mundane plains as our home province submitted itself to the ferociously boring plains of Alberta.
Regardless, we didn't get much of a chance to enjoy the sights, because we were all highly irritable. We'd been together for too long, and now we were stuck together in tight quarters with hardly a few feet to move around in. The ride passed quietly.
We rode through the plains for a few boring hours. The lack of excitement sedated us into a lethargy and we soon found ourselves asleep.
Bad idea.
We awoke to the sound of the knock on the unit's door. Scrib hollered to us.
"Fuck. Get up. There's cops." The words serrated my mind like a sawblade and I jumped up, muttering curses. I stepped downstairs and looked up into the glowering eyes of a cop. We tossed our bags off the train and jumped off. I accepted the handcuffs dutifully - no sense arguing, nowhere to run. I hoped they wouldn't read up about my charges for train hopping last year.
They told us there had been a bunch of grass fires and they'd had to stop the train for safety. In doing that, they also decided to check for train hoppers. (Suspicious? Somewhat...)
The cops didn't seem too angry with us. We hadn't messed up the unit or vandalized anything, so they had no reason to be upset besides the fact that we were trespassing. "I don't give a fuck if you steal a car. I don't give a fuck if you do a BNE. Just stay the fuck off the rails, because this is my department."
They ticketed us and gave me a bit of a break. They did, indeed, look up my charges from last year, and heard that this was my third time getting caught hopping a train in Alberta (which is bullshit and tremendously confusing.) They initially planned to give me a charge and a court date for which a Canada-wide warrant would be issued, but they decided to give me the same ticket as the other hoppers (which still resulted in a court date, though only an Alberta wide warrant.)
So, here we were stuck on the side of the highway with no train to take into downtown. We charmed the cops into giving us a ride back into town, and were thus introduced to Officer Swass.
"Alright kids. As long as you don't have swass, you can get in the back of my car."
We burst out laughing and hopped into Officer Swass's car, and he drove us into town. That was an easy break. At least we'd made it into Calgary.
Escape Artists (05/10/13)
Well, we figured it was time to get out of Golden.
We'd spent the last six hours getting drunk in garbage cans, puking, bothering the locals, and making homeless buffoons of ourselves. We'd relocated with Fernweh, who'd replaced his depressed demeanor with a much happier one - he'd just needed a few hours by himself to regroup his mind and make some new friends. A new friend is a surefire way to help you out of a rough time.
It had been a good day, but we figured we'd already expended Golden for all of its resources. We'd made 70 bucks and a bunch of friends, and figured that the small town didn't really offer much more. We headed down to the train bridge to make camp.
The walk was short but rewarding. When we arrived at the bridge, we saw a tag dedicated to our old travel "friend," aka travel pet, from Portland (henceforth known as Portland.) The tag said Dear Portland John: Go suck so many dicks that you end up in jail and get deported.
We busted a gut and promptly passed out because we were wasted, thus sleeping through however many trains rolled through at night. We awoke at sunlight and realized how visible we were to passers by, train workers and police, so we headed down the highway to find a more viable spot.
There wasn't one, but a train rolled up and stopped right beside us. We double checked the road for traffic. There was some, but not much, considering it was only 7 am. This was our only chance though, so we ran the risk of the few cars we saw calling the cops as we formed into the alpha position and bolted towards the slave. Two of us hit the front door of the unit, two of us hit the back.
For my first time in a few years of train hopping, I found the door of the unit locked. Me and Aids frantically looked around. Should we run to the back of the train? There were too many cars now, but we had no other choice but to expose ourselves again. Before doing so, we hammered on the door.
Fortunately, just as another car turned the corner behind us, Scrib opened the front door for us and we bolted inside, throwing ourselves to the floor and hiding beneath the guise of the unit's wall.
Before long, we were rolling out of Golden. We'd made it - again.
We'd spent the last six hours getting drunk in garbage cans, puking, bothering the locals, and making homeless buffoons of ourselves. We'd relocated with Fernweh, who'd replaced his depressed demeanor with a much happier one - he'd just needed a few hours by himself to regroup his mind and make some new friends. A new friend is a surefire way to help you out of a rough time.
It had been a good day, but we figured we'd already expended Golden for all of its resources. We'd made 70 bucks and a bunch of friends, and figured that the small town didn't really offer much more. We headed down to the train bridge to make camp.
The walk was short but rewarding. When we arrived at the bridge, we saw a tag dedicated to our old travel "friend," aka travel pet, from Portland (henceforth known as Portland.) The tag said Dear Portland John: Go suck so many dicks that you end up in jail and get deported.
We busted a gut and promptly passed out because we were wasted, thus sleeping through however many trains rolled through at night. We awoke at sunlight and realized how visible we were to passers by, train workers and police, so we headed down the highway to find a more viable spot.
There wasn't one, but a train rolled up and stopped right beside us. We double checked the road for traffic. There was some, but not much, considering it was only 7 am. This was our only chance though, so we ran the risk of the few cars we saw calling the cops as we formed into the alpha position and bolted towards the slave. Two of us hit the front door of the unit, two of us hit the back.
For my first time in a few years of train hopping, I found the door of the unit locked. Me and Aids frantically looked around. Should we run to the back of the train? There were too many cars now, but we had no other choice but to expose ourselves again. Before doing so, we hammered on the door.
Fortunately, just as another car turned the corner behind us, Scrib opened the front door for us and we bolted inside, throwing ourselves to the floor and hiding beneath the guise of the unit's wall.
Before long, we were rolling out of Golden. We'd made it - again.
Monday 8 July 2013
Reunion (3) (Poetic stance)
A reunion with someone you've never met
will never feel so good.
Intertwined prior to encounter,
two souls can meet long before their bodies can.
Forever to remainremnants of each other's trust,
The universe has powerful hands to push so many souls together.
Frolicking on planes we'd never seen before,
our spirits danced like wildfire,
hand in hand, forever more,
our words soon spun together like silk,
twisting tales and lore to pass from one to another through the ages.
We broke free
from our interpersonal cages
to set the stages of our lives,
to show our guiding forces who was really the boss;
the headmaster of our reality
is not only ourselves,
but all of us.
We're setting rules to break,
to keep the safety of friendship at stake.
will never feel so good.
Intertwined prior to encounter,
two souls can meet long before their bodies can.
Forever to remainremnants of each other's trust,
The universe has powerful hands to push so many souls together.
Frolicking on planes we'd never seen before,
our spirits danced like wildfire,
hand in hand, forever more,
our words soon spun together like silk,
twisting tales and lore to pass from one to another through the ages.
We broke free
from our interpersonal cages
to set the stages of our lives,
to show our guiding forces who was really the boss;
the headmaster of our reality
is not only ourselves,
but all of us.
We're setting rules to break,
to keep the safety of friendship at stake.
Golden in Golden 05/09/13
It didn't take long to figure out why Golden was called Golden. The people were beautiful, the architecture was splendid, the weather was gleaming, and the small-town vibe brought with it a wave of nostalgia reminiscent of the town I grew up in.
Within ten minutes of being in town, we'd been invited to sit down at a patio outside a restaurant. Mike, the man who'd invited us over, was quick to order us each a beer, and he let us share the rest of his meal.
Mike had some strange stories. He claimed that he'd once inherited just under a million dollars, and had given it all to charity. Since then, he'd fallen into a deep depression which led into alcoholism. Despite repeated A.A. meetings, he was hitting the bottle pretty hard. Still, he said, he loved to share; what was his was everyone's.
He invited us back to his dilapidated trailer to have a few drinks. The scent within the trailer (undoubtedly wafting from the moist blankets strewn across the floor and unwashed dishes in the sink) was repulsive at first, but, like any smell, it soon subsided as we got used to it.
He had a sixty pounder full of whiskey on the table. We pulled our sixty pounder out of our backpack.
Things began to go awry quite quickly.
A few drinks turned into a few dozen quickly, and our voices rose into vocal eruptions. The whiskey mixed itself maliciously into our bloodstream and brought forth our anger; Fernweh and Scrib began to front, insinuating a fight but never following through enough to lay hands on eachother. Mike, pretending to be a voice of reason, threatened to still all violence with his own two fists and crush all those who portrayed violence around him (funny, since he'd only just been talking about how he couldn't and wouldn't ever find himself in a fight.)
While Scrib and Fernweh were verbally duking it out outside, Mike went back into his trailer and sat with Aids, begging her to kiss him. Repeatedly. We figured it was time to leave.
Amongst the deafening blare of Fernweh and Scrib trying to overcome eachother's egos, we hardly noticed Mike as he jumped onto his bike. "I've gotta go to the fucking bar. Right now! Take anything in my house."
He sped off, leaving us confused. He hadn't even finished a quarter of his own 60. Whatever.
We packed up our stuff and headed back downtown. It seemed that Scrib's ego had conquered Fernweh's for today, as Fernweh had taken on a whole new persona. It seemed that since he hadn't been able to step on Scrib's psyche, he was now drowning in insecurity. He wallowed in self-pity, his words became a soft mutter, and a half-cut grin hung off his face in a melancholy way. He abjectly followed us around, promising that he wouldn't take our money, that he wasn't worth our time, until eventually he wandered off.
Moments after this, I ran into the right person at the right time. He wanted to hear some didgeridoo, so I played a decent riff and he dropped us 70 dollars. We decided to go grab lunch at an Asian restaurant around the corner. We didn't bother looking for Fernweh - we knew that he wanted us to feed him, but his shattered ego wouldn't let him accept any food. If he found us, the meal would have been filled with useless confrontation. We'd offer him food, he'd refuse, then he'd sit with us staring hungrily at our plates.
Once we settled down at our table, Fernweh strolled in. He had his shirt hoisted up around his midsection, and wore his mandolin on its strap underneath his shirt. With a sway in his step, he looked as if he had down syndrome and a massive, ridiculously shaped abdominal tumor. He ordered a glass of water, glanced at our table, then stumbled out of the restaurant.
We finished our meal, and, several hours later, Fernweh found us as I was sitting in a garbage can with the 60 pounder. He was in a much better mood, but that story is for another day.
Within ten minutes of being in town, we'd been invited to sit down at a patio outside a restaurant. Mike, the man who'd invited us over, was quick to order us each a beer, and he let us share the rest of his meal.
Mike had some strange stories. He claimed that he'd once inherited just under a million dollars, and had given it all to charity. Since then, he'd fallen into a deep depression which led into alcoholism. Despite repeated A.A. meetings, he was hitting the bottle pretty hard. Still, he said, he loved to share; what was his was everyone's.
He invited us back to his dilapidated trailer to have a few drinks. The scent within the trailer (undoubtedly wafting from the moist blankets strewn across the floor and unwashed dishes in the sink) was repulsive at first, but, like any smell, it soon subsided as we got used to it.
He had a sixty pounder full of whiskey on the table. We pulled our sixty pounder out of our backpack.
Things began to go awry quite quickly.
A few drinks turned into a few dozen quickly, and our voices rose into vocal eruptions. The whiskey mixed itself maliciously into our bloodstream and brought forth our anger; Fernweh and Scrib began to front, insinuating a fight but never following through enough to lay hands on eachother. Mike, pretending to be a voice of reason, threatened to still all violence with his own two fists and crush all those who portrayed violence around him (funny, since he'd only just been talking about how he couldn't and wouldn't ever find himself in a fight.)
While Scrib and Fernweh were verbally duking it out outside, Mike went back into his trailer and sat with Aids, begging her to kiss him. Repeatedly. We figured it was time to leave.
Amongst the deafening blare of Fernweh and Scrib trying to overcome eachother's egos, we hardly noticed Mike as he jumped onto his bike. "I've gotta go to the fucking bar. Right now! Take anything in my house."
He sped off, leaving us confused. He hadn't even finished a quarter of his own 60. Whatever.
We packed up our stuff and headed back downtown. It seemed that Scrib's ego had conquered Fernweh's for today, as Fernweh had taken on a whole new persona. It seemed that since he hadn't been able to step on Scrib's psyche, he was now drowning in insecurity. He wallowed in self-pity, his words became a soft mutter, and a half-cut grin hung off his face in a melancholy way. He abjectly followed us around, promising that he wouldn't take our money, that he wasn't worth our time, until eventually he wandered off.
Moments after this, I ran into the right person at the right time. He wanted to hear some didgeridoo, so I played a decent riff and he dropped us 70 dollars. We decided to go grab lunch at an Asian restaurant around the corner. We didn't bother looking for Fernweh - we knew that he wanted us to feed him, but his shattered ego wouldn't let him accept any food. If he found us, the meal would have been filled with useless confrontation. We'd offer him food, he'd refuse, then he'd sit with us staring hungrily at our plates.
Once we settled down at our table, Fernweh strolled in. He had his shirt hoisted up around his midsection, and wore his mandolin on its strap underneath his shirt. With a sway in his step, he looked as if he had down syndrome and a massive, ridiculously shaped abdominal tumor. He ordered a glass of water, glanced at our table, then stumbled out of the restaurant.
We finished our meal, and, several hours later, Fernweh found us as I was sitting in a garbage can with the 60 pounder. He was in a much better mood, but that story is for another day.
Friday 5 July 2013
Halftime 05/08/13
"Yes, that's right. We'll be stopping to refuel in Golden."
Shit. It was a damn good thing that we'd remembered the radio channel for Canadian Pacific, otherwise we would've been screwed. The voice of the conductor crippled our excitement, battering it down into a frenzy of hyped emotion. We had to get off before we pulled into the train yard for refueling, lest the refueler check the unit that we were camped out in and blow our cover.
The only problem with this was that the train was still ripping down the tracks, each second bringing us closer to inevitable incarceration.
We gaped at the speedometer until it reached 11mp/h steady. Once we realized that it wasn't going to slow down any more, we hoisted our bags on, hustled down the steps of the unit, and tore open the back door.
Debilitating anxiety crashed over all of us in an instant. We closed the door just as soon as we opened it because we realized we were staring into the eyes of a railway worker, standing on the tracks. We crouched back down, waited a few minutes until we were sure he was out of sight, then peeked back out. We were good, now - it was just us, the tracks, and a fuckload of bushes on either side. We didn't seem too terribly close to civilization, or a fueling station, but we sure didn't want to take the risk.
A train always seems to be going too fast before you hop off. Hanging from the railing of the unit, I reconsidered for only a second as I tried to pick out a single rock on the blurred terrain flying by beneath me. There was no such luck; but there was no other choice.
First off was Fernweh. With nothing near a majestic step, he flailed himself from the train, dropping the two didgeridoos and biffing shit onto the rocks. Next up was Scrib, who disappeared in a flash. When I saw him from a distance, he was realigning himself with an awkward looking barrel roll in an attempt to get back onto his feet. Aids took the third jump, hanging from the handrail facing the wrong direction. She jumped against the direction of the train, and I watched her hit the rocks hard, flipping herself over and landing on her backpack (probably saving herself from a concussion.)
Curious as to why the fuck none of them took their backpacks off before they jumped (and concerned more for the safety of my guitar than any cuts, bruises, or limbs I might lose,) I tossed my bag off along with a prayer for the safety of the bottle of whiskey within. I hung off the rail, running alongside the train for a moment, holding onto it as if it were an old companion supporting me for dear life, before I let go and came to a stop.
The others were brushing off their wounds as I made my way up, and as we regrouped, we hustled off into a dry marsh to hide from any potential railworkers.
The first order of business was to check on the 60 pounder. I tore open my backpack, threw my sleeping bag from within, and pulled out the glass bottle. It was fine! I held it to my chest as if it were an gleaming, glass infant saved from a miscarriage.
We took a celebratory round of 9 AM shots before we stumbled around in the marsh for a while, trying to figure out how the fuck to get back to the highway. Eventually, we ended up trailing back along the traintracks, surreptitious in ensuring that the bushes shielded us from any potential workers.
Eventually, we wound up at some rustic road, dotted with a few trailers and horses alongside what was supposed to be a sidewalk. We walked for a few minutes before we heard a truck rumbling behind us, and we all turned around and stuck out our thumbs. Might as well give it a try, eh?
Just as we didn't expect, the truck pulled over beside us. The driver beckoned us in, asked us what the hell we were doing so far out here, and then drove us the few miles into Golden. Once we'd arrived, we began to formulate our plan for escape.
Shit. It was a damn good thing that we'd remembered the radio channel for Canadian Pacific, otherwise we would've been screwed. The voice of the conductor crippled our excitement, battering it down into a frenzy of hyped emotion. We had to get off before we pulled into the train yard for refueling, lest the refueler check the unit that we were camped out in and blow our cover.
The only problem with this was that the train was still ripping down the tracks, each second bringing us closer to inevitable incarceration.
We gaped at the speedometer until it reached 11mp/h steady. Once we realized that it wasn't going to slow down any more, we hoisted our bags on, hustled down the steps of the unit, and tore open the back door.
Debilitating anxiety crashed over all of us in an instant. We closed the door just as soon as we opened it because we realized we were staring into the eyes of a railway worker, standing on the tracks. We crouched back down, waited a few minutes until we were sure he was out of sight, then peeked back out. We were good, now - it was just us, the tracks, and a fuckload of bushes on either side. We didn't seem too terribly close to civilization, or a fueling station, but we sure didn't want to take the risk.
A train always seems to be going too fast before you hop off. Hanging from the railing of the unit, I reconsidered for only a second as I tried to pick out a single rock on the blurred terrain flying by beneath me. There was no such luck; but there was no other choice.
First off was Fernweh. With nothing near a majestic step, he flailed himself from the train, dropping the two didgeridoos and biffing shit onto the rocks. Next up was Scrib, who disappeared in a flash. When I saw him from a distance, he was realigning himself with an awkward looking barrel roll in an attempt to get back onto his feet. Aids took the third jump, hanging from the handrail facing the wrong direction. She jumped against the direction of the train, and I watched her hit the rocks hard, flipping herself over and landing on her backpack (probably saving herself from a concussion.)
Curious as to why the fuck none of them took their backpacks off before they jumped (and concerned more for the safety of my guitar than any cuts, bruises, or limbs I might lose,) I tossed my bag off along with a prayer for the safety of the bottle of whiskey within. I hung off the rail, running alongside the train for a moment, holding onto it as if it were an old companion supporting me for dear life, before I let go and came to a stop.
The others were brushing off their wounds as I made my way up, and as we regrouped, we hustled off into a dry marsh to hide from any potential railworkers.
The first order of business was to check on the 60 pounder. I tore open my backpack, threw my sleeping bag from within, and pulled out the glass bottle. It was fine! I held it to my chest as if it were an gleaming, glass infant saved from a miscarriage.
We took a celebratory round of 9 AM shots before we stumbled around in the marsh for a while, trying to figure out how the fuck to get back to the highway. Eventually, we ended up trailing back along the traintracks, surreptitious in ensuring that the bushes shielded us from any potential workers.
Eventually, we wound up at some rustic road, dotted with a few trailers and horses alongside what was supposed to be a sidewalk. We walked for a few minutes before we heard a truck rumbling behind us, and we all turned around and stuck out our thumbs. Might as well give it a try, eh?
Just as we didn't expect, the truck pulled over beside us. The driver beckoned us in, asked us what the hell we were doing so far out here, and then drove us the few miles into Golden. Once we'd arrived, we began to formulate our plan for escape.
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