I’ve been conventionally unproductive this summer, which means I’ve been a whir of happy inefficiency. I raised no pigs, sold my chickens, the homestead looks like shit, and the firewood ain’t stacked. Do I care? Not really. Why care about little shit when you’re in the Bidenverse? Whatever tectonic movements are afoot, they’re huge and happening well above my pay grade. It’s a good time to go fishing.
Don’t shoulder the burdens you didn’t make! Gone Gault? Burned out? Chilled out? Leveled up? Gotten lazy? I can hardly tell the difference.
My Walkabouts page tells me I’ve written 29 posts about not much of anything; mostly about camping with my cheap little farm bike (affectionately named Honey Badger). (Some posts involve other things; like a roasting ride on my “adult” sized motorcycle, random bitching about Covidians, and sushi robots.)
What the hell does it mean? No idea! I’ve done nothing serious. Which is either dumb or gloriously wise.
I’ve been swarmed by mosquitoes, menaced by ticks, outwitted by fish, marveled at flowers, listened to birds, ran over a snake, and frightened a mama bear with her cub. I’ve been dehydrated, rehydrated, chugged ice water from a motorcycle mount, and drank myself silly while completely alone.* I’ve pissed on rocks, tripped through mud, played with chainsaws, did field expedient motorcycle maintenance, and started a fire with flint. I’ve scouted, camped, hiked, explored, wandered, ambled, shuffled, and drifted. I’ve been rained on, got lost, got found, cooked good food, cooked bad food, cooked expensive freeze dried food, cooked cheap canned food, and got cooked in the sun. I spent a pittance on motorcycle fuel, whined while topping off my Dodge, spent a fortune on a jacket, was too cheap to pay for a campsite, and paid off my bike. I ripped a fart with my ass hanging out of ripped chaps, met Odin and his side piece, avoided UTVs, slipped unnoticed past hikers, made a scene at a bar, and setup two tents for one guy. I’ve listened to blues from another time zone, ignored National Public Radio’s infuriating propaganda, enjoyed bassa nova on Radio Free Cuba’s propaganda in Spanish, and listened to nothing but the wind.
What better things could I have been doing? I think none.
I probably sound just as lame as Calvin’s Dad:
Hat tip to The View From Lady Lake.
A.C.
*When I was a kid they said “never drink alone, it’s a sign you’re an alcoholic”. When I was young I believed them. I’m older now. I’ve concluded they can go fuck themselves. You’re a grown ass man. Drink alone if you want. Don’t if you don’t. The sign that you’re an alcoholic is being an alcoholic. Drinking alone might just mean you’re not a clingy little bitch who’s afraid of his own company. Plus, it’s a good song. Nothing sums up the Bidenverse like the fact that the only link I could find to the very well done 1985 video is a sketchy link out of Russia. Maybe someday we’ll only hear George Thorogood on shortwave from Radio Free Moscow?