Why I Don't Do Drugs: part III

This is the third installment of "Why I Don't Do Drugs", a tale of prolific proportions and upset tummies. And now to briefly recap...

The Hero: nameless wanderer through trackless wastes, hottish deserts, comic horrors, and underground kingdoms. Ever driven by burning heartburn, we now find him leaving the Desert of Excruciating Prose and entering a sunlit plain. 

The hero began walking across a delightfully embracing turf. In the stillness, he tried to ignore a just apparent squeak coming from his left boot. They were good boots, perhaps the best, purchased at Gillian's Clogs for Mucky Places. Gillian was going to hear about the creaking boot on his return. Our hero hummed vaguely to block the sound, yet it began to echo. Exasperated, he knelt to examine the boot. As he drew closer to the enchanting turf, a voice sighed...

"Aaaarrren't you hungry?"

With cattish reflexes, our hero rolled to the right while drawing his sword - an impossible feat. Another voice spoke.

"What! not eaten since the 4.6 headed dragon?"

The hero shuddered and spoke an epithet under his breath, "This is an accursed place, a Suggestive Land."

For those of you who have forgotten the ancient lore, and who among us hasn't, we must digress for a moment to learn an epic mythological tale. Sadly, we haven't time for many details.

As the story-tellers say, the Suggestive Land is where Marketing Types are born and raised before entering the world of man. Although we know it as the Suggestive Land, that name came into use only after the Great Marketing Campaign, a most hideous ancient war begun by the Marketing Types. The native inhabitants of this land, a particularly moroseless form of fungal growth, have always called it Enjoyment. 

Long years ago, while there was a measure of peace between Enjoyment and Mankind, there had been a monumental sign posted at the border. "Enter and Enjoy" the sign had cheerfully pronounced in blazing neon. A very few noticed and even less read a black smudge on the bottom of the sign, casually mistaken for a misplaced apostrophe. This was of course the fine print, and it said, "Forever Need."

While the learned disagree over the outcome of the war - which has passed into mythology anyway - most Wortlanders believed that they won, or at least that it wasn't properly resolved. But a growing minority are beginning to suspect that the Marketing Types not only won, but are in fact Wortland's Overlords today. Some have gone so far as to point to the musty fungal halls of Statistical Study & Sociological Planning as proof that the mythical war was and is reality today. 

Fortunately our hero appreciates the old stories. He was well aware of the tremendous danger. Reaching inward, he searched out his inner monk and as his mind settled he felt something in his hand. Grimacing he threw the sleek, desirous "Pewter Tablet XP" as far as a hero can. It's silver and AliceBlue colours glinted in the bright sun as it arced to the horizon, sexy even in flight. The hero exhaled, for though their powers are muted in our world, in the Suggestive Land itself giving an inch will forfeit your mind and will instantly.

Travelling on, the hero came across a marvellous Hue of Green, empty but for a lone fence with neither beginning or end. Driven to distraction by the Hue, our hero climbed the fence noting that the Green grew ghastly as he did so. Turning around on the other side, another endless fence stood in his way. Irritated, the hero turned back to the fence he had just climbed over. Nothing stood there, and a chill settled on him. Too late he recalled the ancient aphorism: "Greener still the other side. On and on you will climb."

Trapped in the Hue, the hero searched desperately for an escape. Perhaps urged by a deeper force, he again scaled the fence in front of him. Now the Green became remarkably crushing. Still another fence waited on the other side, and behind him stood a nothingness greater than a Wortlander can bear. Our hero fought to think through the Green, and while he struggled Nearly the Worst Thing he had ever seen came ambling over. It looked at the hero with a grimace which passed for a smile. 

"Halt hero," it muttered, not being aware of other greetings. "Why are you crossing the fence?"

Remembering his manners, which is difficult when a question irritates you, the Hero spoke in his best monotone. 

"I am doomed. Forever crossing will be my future. Forever doomed."

At this point the Worst Things in the world happily draw most people into a screaming match, and that is the end. But this was now Nearly the Worst Thing, and besides, it was preoccupied with its nails. Thinking that perhaps it noticed a damaged cuticle, it shuffled off. Our Hero watched it leave, and with nothing better to do began to follow. As he did so, the Hue of Green vanished around him, and the hero sensed that something important had happened. Sitting down he wrote out a truism on the spot. I would tell you what it is, but such things are usually forgotten for hundreds of years before they become useful.

With the disappearance of the Hue, the hero crossed into the Realm of Desire. While the naming of such things may be unabashedly asinine, it still remains that the Realm of Desire contains only two things: a beach, and a restless ocean. While going from a Suggestive Land to a place with only sand and salt water might not seem like a good thing at first glance, you must pause for a moment. Desire, be it good or bad, is not the same influence as creating need; it is most often an internal reflection. Thus, while our hero walked the beach he could not help but think back to the Starlight Maiden. 

Of course his thoughts were immediately interrupted. His stomach, which had been sunning on a Beach in Malibu, returned with a load of tacky souvenirs and immediately began to complain bitterly about going from one beach to another. The pain was quite stunning. So when I tell you that he stumbled into the ocean for no particular reason and promptly drowned, you mustn't judge him. He was quite blinded by the agony.

Why I Don't Do Drugs, part II

Our hero, though walking resolutely through the Desert of Excruciating Prose, began to stumble. A dark cloud formed itself over his head, and an indistinct pressure began to take hideous shape. The Imagination Block is sheer boredom. Fiercer than a 4.6 headed dragon, more difficult to comprehend than the Worst Thing. A living being with only one purpose: mind mangling.

Our hero braced himself. He feared no one. The Imagination Block laughed a cruel and tasteless laugh. It pushed, our hero stood firm. It pushed harder. The hero felt a slight tremor. With a final heave, the IB pushed our hero straight through the ground. He found himself falling through absolute black. He fell and fell and fell, until he found himself in Further Than Far. To his delight, a beautiful maiden was not ten steps away. No, she was not beautiful. Beautiful is a bitter word when used for one who's star lights a kingdom.

"Hello hero."

"Ah maiden, you have destroyed me with your eyes."

Fortunately, our maiden is a sucker for theatrical and obviously untrue statements. She promptly fell for him, and her love shone like the setting sun on the earth above. Our hero...didn't think he had a chance.

"Wondrous maiden, do you know the way back to the Wortland? I would gladly stay here until time stopped counting, but above I have eaten leagues of fiery marsh wort. I will live in agony if I do not reach the Hall of Tall."

The maiden wept in sorrow, and her distress puzzled our hero.

"Yes hero, I will show you the way out, but if I were to ever leave my kingdom, my people would never know light again."

She cursed her beauty, so powerful was her love for the hero, and he wondered what she meant. With a fumbled goodbye, he began the climb to the Wortland. After a long time or a short time, it does not matter, our hero saw the light of day. As the maiden's directions were superb, he emerged on the far side of the Desert of Excruciating Prose.

IB was waiting.

"Well, hero, you've returned from Further Than Far. Return now, if you can." He swelled to twice his usual size, an unstoppable force.

At this exact moment of certain defeat, little Jimmy Brown of Memphis Tennessee received his first ever essay-answer quiz. He read the words, adjusted his glasses, and read them again: Describe in 500 words how Thomas Jefferson would have felt when he realized that his legendary hospitality had brought him to the poorhouse. Little Jimmy felt an inch high. Unbeknownst to him, Imagination Block now occupied the desk behind him.

Our hero watched IB vanish in front of his eyes. Relieved, he now had another problem. After Imagination Block's assault, he was lost in the Wilds of Wortland. The hero strained to remember the starlight maiden's words, and summoned by his efforts, clear and pure as a mountain spring, her words brought comfort.

"Left's as good as right. Right's as good as ahead. You must not go back, so it's straightforward."

"Wisdom from an ancient proverb," the hero murmured, and set out once more.

Super-Duper Spectacular Motorcycle Extravaganza Extraordinaire

Yesterday afternoon I was annoyed. I mean really annoyed. There's been some kinda kerfuffle with payments on my visa, and now I can't get the shingles I need 'till next Tuesday. I was so mad. Especially since this kind of crap always seems to happen right on a holiday. I'm already late at starting the job. To add insult to injury, not one but two kind souls nearly caused accidents on the road right in front of me, and at least one other person blindly cut me off. All this happened in the space of a few hours, and I was driving a freaking truck, not some miniaturised "smart car".

Sometimes when I get that frustrated I need to do something to take my mind off the issues. Something that I love. In this instance, dirt biking came to mind. A friend of mine owns an old Suzuki enduro which I have helped repair and maintain. In return, and because he's a nice guy, he lets me ride whenever.

Check in with Dave, jump on the bike and GO. Oh yes, the freedom of rippin' and slashing up rocky terrain, and then there's that narrow track I've wondered about but never taken. Yeah, I'm definitely taking it this time.

I'm off down the trail through a lush green forest that reminds me of bygone days hiking outside Abbotsford, BC. I love it. Out of the bush, and now the trail goes through forgotten fields. Several forgotten fields. What are these farmers doing anyway? (The farms are probably owned by weekenders.) There are trails everywhere. I'm sure that I'll remember which paths I chose, and besides, I've got half a tank of fuel left. More than enough to rediscover my way out if I get disoriented.

Finally, I arrive at a beautiful scene. Beautiful is the wrong word. It's more like a quietly hidden garden, and I don't even want to describe it to you. I might ruin the feeling of the place, and I don't want any of you rabble trying to find it, dragging your muddy feet all over the place, spoiling a natural wonder. I know what you're like. It's hard to forget that creek, though. Dropping over a series of huge flat rocks through a ravine, hugged on both sides by slender trees. Magnifique.

"Whatever," I thought as I crossed a shallow spot, gunning my snarling, spewing beast, beckoning it to rip, tear, and shred wherever it wanted. Mwuh hah hah hah. Take THAT, pristine nature.

Actually, I stayed on the trail, and I was very careful: too careful. In my desire not to make a mess, I took it really easy, and stalled. No problemo. I'll just fire it up again, fire it up again, FIRE it UP again. Blast it! The freaking bike was refusing to start. In my boundless wisdom, and knowing the bike's history, I let it sit for 10 minutes while I explored on foot. That spot is incredible.

I went back, started the bike, decided to leave for home. Five minutes later, I stopped to check another interesting trail, and the bike stalled again. I had to do the same 10 minute routine, and now I was getting ticked. Especially since this bike has a history of eating spark plugs when you ride easy, and I was worried that it would leave me stranded.

Oh yeah, it was starting to rain.

I jumped on the bike, and let the trail feel my wrath. I wasn't that mad, yet, but I did want to clean out any carbon deposits which form all too readily on this bike. While I picked up the pace, Mother Nature must have thought I was playing. It began to RAIN. I tore up a nice hill, enjoying myself again, when guess what.

Chug, chug-chug, chug.

The bike died exactly as if it had run out of fuel. By this point it was raining so hard that I couldn't hear whether there was any fuel sloshing around in the tank, and I mistakenly assumed that something had gone wrong, and I was empty. What could I do? I started jogging. Visibility was very limited, and all my bike tracks were washed away. Needless to say, I got a bit disoriented. Let me give you a tip. When you've been jogging for 10 minutes and suddenly recognise terrain you saw 15 minutes ago, you've made a couple of wrong turns.

By now it was well after 6 PM, and quite grey out thanks to the low cloud ceiling. I was pondering the fact that I didn't have a flashlight, and as well as I had been doing, I figured that I wouldn't find my way out in the dark. I checked the bike again, and this time I could tell that there was still fuel in the tank, which meant that it was up to its old tricks again. I was furious. Burning the bike came to mind as fitting justice, but I didn't have a good means to light 'er up.

There was nothing for it, so I set out on foot again. I followed a trail into the bush, where it was quite dark. However, through the rain and gloom, I could make out the next trail before I got to it. Since I wanted to save time, I cut diagonally through the bush. I jogged...straight into a low, single strand of old rusty barbed wire fence. What the <>?!!? Am I in friggin' Vietnam?! Because I hit the wire at an angle, I ended up sliding along it for a moment, shredding my jeans and cutting my left leg in several places. My first thought was whether there were any deep cuts. Satisfied that I was only battered and bruised, and not pouring blood, I carried on.

To make a miserable story short, I made it out before dark, hiking and jogging over eight kilometers before reaching home. Even though I was completely drenched the whole time, my burning desire to avenge myself on the treacherous bike kept me warm. But by the time I was half way back, I did start to laugh. It struck me as such an absurd situation. I recalled my thoughts about getting out. My chief worry was that my friends would actually get a search party organised if I was out all night, and that would embarrass me to no end.

I went back the next morning with Dave, and we changed the spark plug and got the blasted thing running. I tore out of there like a man possessed, and of course the bike ran perfectly.

The Crevice Cave of Diiisssspaaaaiiir

December 29, 2004, a nice day. Cold, but not bitter. The day before my birthday. A depressing day, but not in the birthday fashion. More like wondering whether I cared about existing: in the thoughts of Calvin from "Calvin and Hobbes", an infinitesimal speck on an infinitesimal speck in relation to the universe. I rather came to the conclusion that I didn't care, and with this glowing thought in mind, I decided to find the answer to a question which had nothing to do with depression or existence: the temperature of a reasonably deep cave in late December. That said, my frame of mind definitely helped.

I already knew that deep caves aren't much affected by outside temperatures. After all, that's the basic principle of geothermal heating and cooling. However, I had never physically experienced this myself. Too much theory without experience becomes assumption without authority, so it seemed high time to add some bite to my bark.

Here's the thing. I'm no doofus. (Yeah, yeah, peanut gallery.) I well know the dangers of climbing, and in particular, I'm aware of the danger of climbing in a cave...alone...without rope...with only one flashlight. Remember the frame of mind. The only particularly clever thing that I did was calling a friend and leaving a message on the machine saying that I was hiking to these crevices to explore, but there are quite a few of them.

Checklist:
- Trusty AA MagLite with headstrap -- check.
- Extra batteries -- check.
- Extra bulb in base -- check. (Hey, I've successfully swapped bulbs after dark in the middle of a forest, but that's still not complete dark.)
- Proper clothing and shoes -- check.
- A bit of water and food for backpack -- check.

Hiking to the caves was awesome. It was such a nice day. Peaceful, no goofy kids whooping it up, light snow, pretty much a winter wonderland. I had been into several of these caves before, but that was with a group of primarily inexperienced climbers, and not many of them relished the thought of crawling underground. I already had my cave in mind. It was the one which had seemed most promising before, but nobody had wanted to keep going with me.

Reaching the cliff which lead to the entrance, I climbed up and set my backpack in a safe corner where searching eyes wouldn't quickly see it. I again pondered the rope which dropped out of solid rock overhead and then disappeared into solid rock underneath. Apparently, the crevice had once been more spacious than it was now. I lowered myself into the darkness, switched on my faithful light, and headed down.

You can only walk for a few feet before you must drop down to a crawl and start making decisions. This isn't a tunnel, it's literally a crack with many adjoining cracks opening into it. Most of these are too small to explore, so it's not ridiculously crazy. Then again, I often had to squeeze myself through my chosen route, and I'm not a big guy.

I suddenly realized that I had gone in a big loop and was directly under the entrance, albeit separated by quite a bit of rock. The once free, but now tightly enclosed rope, was directly in front of me, disappearing into more rock. I kept climbing down, yada yada yada, until I climbed through a ceiling and dropped into an open area with holes in every wall. It was shaped such that if it wasn't for gravity, you would have no idea where up was. I chose wisely, and stuck my head into a really cool fissure. It had to be 25-35 feet high, was perhaps two feet wide, and had squeeze-through holes every four or five feet at my end. I popped out about three-fourths of the way up. At this point, I could hear running water.

So far the experiment was going well. The air had warmed considerably, and it was getting humid. Nonetheless, I had yet to be properly convinced. For one thing, I was determined to find that water, and what would be the point of going this far only to turn back?

I pulled myself through the hole and into that marvellous fissure. It was so cool. Imagine a giant smashing a rock exactly in half, and then placing the two halves close together. You get an up-close look at the variations within the rock that you can never see from only viewing the outside. Plus, it was just too damn sweet knowing that some massive movement had created this fissure, and probably only a handful of people had ever looked at it.

I climbed down the fissure, since deep was my goal, and arrived at a single hole in the far end. Climbing through, I was disappointed when I hit a dead end after not many feet. But, I found the water! It was just a little trickle flowing across the exact end of my present tunnel. There wasn't enough room to turn around, so I crawled out backwards. I started climbing back out of the crevice, and hit my first minor decision: which hole did I use to get into the fissure?

Choosing wisely once again, I found the rock enclosed rope, and knew that I was in the right place.

"Ah, there's the crack I came through to get here. *crawl, crawl* What the...a dead end?"

I did say that I know the rules, so I began enforcing calmness upon myself. Nevertheless, I definitely picked up my pace.

"Oops, there's my crevice."

I crawled until I hit another solid rock wall.

"Oh shit. God, where is my opening?"

I scrambled out, and started searching other openings: dead end, dead end... By this point, I was repeating to myself, "Panic and you die." The other thought which came to mind was statistics. I could see newpaper headlines: Local Man Disappears in Crevice Caves. Underneath it would go on to say that I was number 6 to get lost, hurt, or die in these caves, and that nationally I was number 54, or whatever. I couldn't believe that I was in a position to become an outdoor stat. Weird, but nobody can predict what will go through their mind in these situations.

My mind was starting to race, and since that wasn't beneficial in any way, I forced myself to sit down and relax. The whole time I had been asking God for help, and trying to stay calm so that I could hear an answer, but nada. Now that I was sitting down, I started to control my reactions in a much better fashion. Once again, I asked God for help. Now, I kid you not. It felt like a hand grabbed my head and pulled it back. Wouldn't you know it, I was staring straight into a hole on the ceiling which I had completely forgotten.

Long story short, as I climbed and crawled I could smell and feel the air changing. What a feeling of relief. Somehow my thoughts about not caring whether I lived or died seemed a little hollow after that.

Peace, I'm out.

Why I Don't Do Drugs

Inspiration provided by caffeine and irregular sleeping habits. (It also helps if you like Gary Larson, Bill Watterson, have actually read Beowulf, two to three hundred old Russian fairy tales, and enjoy Seinfeld's J. Peterman. I almost forgot. Thank you too, Frank Miller, and innumerable old flicks.) This is starting to sound like an Oscar acceptance speech.


Thus spoke the bard:

...For our hero had eaten leagues of fiery marsh wort, and having an upset tummy, began the journey to the Hall of Tall. In the Wortland, only the Tall possessed the perfect combination of calcium, triglycerides, and potassium phosphate to ease the pain of fiery marsh wort.

As he journeyed over dark mountains and through bright valleys, he came upon a 4.6 headed dragon.

"Ah, hero," the dragon spoke as one who had eaten far too many wort eating Wortlanders, "From where art thou traveling, and whence is thy destination?"

Our hero beheld the misshapen dragon, covered in battle scars and reeking of outdated Worcestershire sauce, and prudently decided to parley. Sitting at meat, the hero quickly laid out a fascinating tale involving a beautiful maiden, three dozen eggs, and a hungry wolf pack. The dragon, being unable to resist a good maiden yarn, was quickly lulled into an agreeable state. This was exactly what our hero needed, as the fiery marsh wort was gradually working its way into his stomach wall. Quickly dividing Sideways Wortland with Diagonal Wortland, the two readily drew up an agreement where neither owned any land. Now parting on friendly terms, our hero was relieved that he had remembered the ancient maxim: Always deal in maidens with dragons, thus you will live a prosperous and land-free life.

Crossing the Great Lesser Mountains--the Great Greater Mountains being impassable until the month of August--our hero came upon the Worst Thing he had ever seen.

"Halt, hero," the Worst Thing quietly muttered.

The worst thing about the Worst Thing is its irascibility. Many brave men, and strong too, have been felled when drawn into an escalating argument with it. Our hero knew this, and adjusting his voice to a quiet, yet firm monotone, he replied.

"From far I have journeyed, through passes too dangerous to describe, swamps rife with little tiny incredibly aggravating blood sucking flies, dark scary mountains, and bright cheerful valleys. I have negotiated my land away with the 4.6 headed dragon, and eaten leagues of fiery marsh wort."

As he spoke in this careful monotone, the Worst Thing began to writhe and beg for mercy. Seizing the moment, the hero quickly recommended a reliable stylist and an exceptional aesthetician. Stunned, the Worst Thing shook his hand and ambled off. Our hero reflected on the wisdom of the ancients who had said, "The Worst Things in the world are soothed with an even tone, a good haircut, and someone to fuss over their nails."

Journeying yet farther into the Wortland, our hero quietly chanted "Battle Hymn of the Republic" to cover what would have been fear, were he you or I. And then, stretching before him to the horizon, the Desert of Excruciating Prose beckoned. Stopping his chanting, he listened quietly, quieter, really-really terribly quietly, and then he heard it.

"It was a dark night, filled with unknown enemies, but Joe felt safe. Why? Because his .44 magnum, Juliet, was tucked against his side. He gently felt the handle, like a lover in a honeymoon suit, and asked himself for the hundredth time, 'Who would have wanted Cherise dead?' His mind strayed back to their last night together, and as he tramped through the flower gardens of miscellaneous thought, he felt icy fingers closing around his throat. Momentarily wondering about the dangers of an overactive imagination, his own wheezing breath snapped him back to reality. Juliet screamed into the cold dark night..."

Were he an ordinary man, our hero would have blithely stumbled into the desert, wooed by the dark sensual metaphors, there to be painfully consumed by Western Harlequins. But our hero possesses a vocabulary of note, and quietly reciting Edgar Allen Poe, and certain passages from the book of Deuteronomy, began steadfastly walking the desert.


Does our hero eventually fall prey to the Desert of Excruciating Prose, thus failing to reach the Hall of Tall, possessors of the ideal antacid?

You'll have to check in later. My brain can only handle so much of this ridiculous writing.

Once upon a long time ago...

The wiring demanded full focus. I could do that, but for the kid scrambling under my feet. I tried to ignore him, and sure enough, he seemed to disappear.

"Now I'm getting somewhere. But where did that lighter get to?"

I played the hunch.

Not ten steps toward the barn and the little fella came out in a hurry. I listened attentively. Judging from his speech patterns, he seemed to have stumbled across a better way to slice bread, or an alien invasion was under way. Either one would be worth my time.

Funny thing about fires, they only get two reactions.

"Holy shit!"

The words floated down from somewhere. I sprinted back to the shop, my brain narrowing vision into a gloriously intense tunnel. Grab the fire extinguisher. Get back to the barn.

"Good thing the extinguisher's been recharged..."

I cursed while it spat out a trickle not worthy of a rat-dog marking territory. There was only one more chance, and then the kids appeared. The little feller went and grabbed his sister, both in tears, wanted to help.

"Get out!"

More tears.

"GET--OUT--NOW!"

Without touching the floor, I transfered myself downstairs, tunnel vision in full effect.

Coil hose, water on. By a trick of the wind, smoke was pouring through the hay access and into my lungs. Not much time, I threw the hose.

"Come on!"

The hose slithered away from danger, coiling itself at my feet. My tunnel-mode brain tapped me on the shoulder.

"One more chance, boy-o, then you pass out."

I heaved, and the hose stayed put, water surging. Back upstairs, and then the miracle.

The Fire was giddy; old wooden barn, straw pile. No chance. Augustus Gloop falling into a river of chocolate.

Makes you wonder, how I felt the presence of two angels with me, especially in the smoke downstairs. Like I said, no chance at getting a man-eater away from its kill, but I did. The barn stands today, scorch marks and all.

I still feel for those kids. Thrust into danger, the hand of discipline-future heavy, and then a man yells at you. But they lived.

NOTE: The floor had been swept into a pile of straw that week. Without that, a bad situation would have been impossible in moments.