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Well Crap

Michael considered fate at 14:09   |   Permalink   |   Post a Comment

So I wander off for a long weekend leaving this place looking like a pig sty what with all the broken links and whatnot.

As punishment, perhaps, I got bit on the ass.. by a dog. Don't get me wrong - if it's the right person biting my ass, maybe I'd be okay with it.. or at least put up with it. But a dog biting my ass, um no.



I was running the 5 mile loop near my camp early in the afternoon just minding my own business. I was listening to the tree bugs make their droning sound and just chugging along when up ahead I saw a man outside his house with his two dogs. Border Collie sized yap dogs, so I didn't even think twice. In general I don't mind dogs and they don't mind me.. we usually get along quite nicely. This dog, however, seeing me jogging along past his domain, decided that I was prey and he was predator and, barking with mad delight, he came after me. Like all dogs his tiny little peon-brain was not able to compute a future vector in which our paths would cross so he just galloped straight for me which caused his path, as I ran, to describe a sort of parabola. This, of course, left him directly behind my hindquarters by the time he caught up with me and he leapt in delight at my juicy piece of ass. A few teeth chomps later and I jumped like a mexican bean but thought it was best to stop and have a discussion with my assailant. The minute I came to rest the dog was friendly, sniffing me up and down and licking my hand.. he just got excited about the chase, that's all. I don't blame him.

I do, however, have to wonder about the owner of the dog who, while chasing his dog as his dog chased me, yelled out to me "Don't worry, he doesn't bite!".

Anyhow, small dog. I'm still in one piece.

Yet somehow that wasn't enough.. had to have a spill with the motorcycle and by spill I mean oil. Came home from camp and went to check the oil in the bike, topped it off, and then went inside. A few hours later I came out, hopped on, and started her up.. sat in the driveway letting her warm up to a nice purr and then off down the road I went.. 5 minutes down the highway I had one of those typical panic-attacks CRAP, I forgot to put the oil cap back on, didn't I??. Yup, I did. Damnit. I looked down at my right foot and groaned when I saw my entire pant leg below the knee and my shoe covered in a spray of nice, dark, rich, $6/quart synthetic. WONDERFUL.

Sometimes I can be a real asstart. I limped back home being careful not to lean the bike over too much, fearing that my rear tire was as lubbed up as Jenna Jaimson by this point, and I sulkily went and changed my pants, socks, and shoes. I sat for a second to appreciate that what they say about the Ducati 900SS engine is true - it's a solid piece of mechanics that doesn't break at the slightest glance - it truly is an anvil of an engine. Sure, maybe they don't always purr like a kitten, maybe they're finicky about watery gas, maybe they need constant adjustment and frequent valve-checks.. but at least when you abuse them they don't sieze right up on you.

I don't know how much oil I am down at this point but based on what I could see on my leg it's at least 3/4 of a quart. Maybe more.

So what do I do to relieve my mind of these (admittedly minor) woes? Drink, of course. Return from a nice long weekend and, when I should be climbing into bed to get a good night's rest in preparation for the first five day work week I've had in well over a month, I am off to another long long night of imbibment. Is imbibement a word? Well it is now.

Was asked if the blonde farmergirls were really what I grew up with and I have to say yes, that was one part of growing up in Maine. No, that post doesn't describe ever girl I've ever known to come out of Maine - of course not.. but it does describe a certain subsect of the population that I often admired - usually from afar - as I made my way through high school and college. Even still to this day, I guess. No they aren't the end all be all or the final choice or the only option.. just part of the greater whole..

Speaking of holes this weekend we purchased both Fleet laxative (medical-strength - for use before medical procedures) and Children's chocolate flavoured laxative. The odd man out, the man who had to show up late because he had to spend time with his wittle-meghan (insert lovey-dovey voice of a recently married husband here) - well he was the man to get stuck with the practical joke this weekend and from the minute he showed up at camp we had food or drink in front of him laced with the good stuff. First, as if the laxative was not enough, we had him chowing down on some Bush's baked beans with chocolate laxative drops. Then it was chocolate milk, simiarly laced. Then, during poker, it was some Moxie soda with the Fleet brand - strong stuff. Each time he sensed that something was wrong. He asked how old the milk was. He said the beans tasted strange. He struggled to finish the Moxie. Luckily he was not suspicious so when 3:00AM rolled around and he started complaining of cramps and a gurgling lower unit the rest of us were on the floor in fits of laughter. Another half-hour and he was finally in the bathroom sluffing off the remains of anything even resembling solid waste.. and then, for the next hour, as we all rolled around practically peeing our pants, we got a constant running commentary from the bathroom as he described his every gurgle and plop. It usually went something like this:

Scene: Zach sitting in easy-chair holding his stomach

Zach: "Man, I don't know what I ate.. This is awful. God!"

zach gets up and stands, pensively, starring off into space as if communicating with his inner self. "is it time?".. more silence, and then a hurried rush to the bathroom, door swinging closed, and then.. more silence

Zach (muffled from behind the door): "... oh shit.."

silence

Zach: ".. oh dear lord"

splatter

Zach: " oh my word... it hurts.. it hurts so bad!

The tears in our eyes were almost as painful as we busted our guts trying not to laugh out loud.

So maybe the motor oil and the dog bite were just karma swinging around on me, paying me back for putting someone else in such doubled-over intestinal pain. Who knows. I'm not sure if I believe in that crap.

Talked to someone this weekend about the girl and they had to say, about fate and dreams and belief, that it was all about communication in this world and that everything happened, all of it, because of language. They said they thought that action was a product of communication and that by talking about it, by believing in it and sharing it with others then I could, effectively, write my own future. Honestly, wish I could be so optimistic but I'm not. Wish I could have the sort of belief that everything works out in the end. Well, I do.. I do believe everything works out in the end - it just doesn't work out the way you plan it to.. the pieces of the puzzle that you start with are not the same pieces you end with but they fit together regardless.. it's just that, from here, I'd like to put these pieces here in front of me together.. I don't want new pieces. I have a vague sense of the picture these pieces will paint and I like it just the way it is. I want to see this canvas whole, the way it is right this instant..

But I can't. Can't ever see the real future, the one beyond the fog that works out but in a way you couldn't even imagine if you tried. The one where you've broken it off with the fiance that you absolutely love because you just can't do the fighting anymore. The one where you met the strangest stranger in line at the grocery store and his sister, his brother, they're cute and they meet you at a bar, at his birthday party - a complete fluke that you even ran into this same strange guy from the grocery store here in this bar, on his birthday no less, and you're talking with his sibling and there is this strange odd connection other-wordly like and it makes you forget forget forget you ever even had a fiance. It makes you forget about your car's repair bill and it makes you forget that you have to work in the morning. You just look straight into them, straight into their smile and you don't even know it but the pieces of the puzzle have just changed right there in front of your eyes.

I like the pieces I got right now, thank you very much, I'm just having a hard time putting them together. They don't want to fit and, unlike box-puzzles, I have no picture of the finished product to work off of. The greens, the blues, the pink splotches on the pieces.. I have no reference. I don't know what they mean. I don't know how they fit together. If they do then it will surprise me. If they don't then it will surprise me. What won't surprise me at all is when I wake up years from now, look down at my hands, and see a jumbled pile of puzzle pieces very very different then the ones I hold now. It won't be a surprise but, as good as those new pieces may be, I will be sad that the old ones are gone. I'll miss these pieces that I play with here, now. I don't want to lose them.

So I'll do my best to communicate about it. Talk about her and how wonderful she is and how I'd be so lucky to one day be somewhere, someplace that is even close to her - close to her heart. I'll talk about how much I want it, how badly I feel it, how much it means to me. If people will listen I'll talk about my secret fears - the loneliness inside that spreads like a virus through me, fearing, freaking, scared out of my wits that certain things, certain traits, certain facts of life - facts of my life - will make for me, an old old man, alone and sighing, alone and dying, alone and not so sure there was anything I could have done about it. Scared that even if she did come back it would be a false positive. Fearful that she isn't what I see, that I'm blinded by the beauty of the person - unable to see the flaws for the glare of the sunshine beam is directly in my eye, shining, shining, reflecting off the polished skin of the apple.. of my eye.