Stalking Stalking the Earth

Besides nature’s beauty, etc…One of the greatest attributes of woods walking is being completely alone with your thoughts. I realize I’m risking pretentiousness here, but there are really not many opportunities for one to really and truly be alone. When you’re at home, you’re not likely to sit in a chair and ponder things unless you’re actually a philosopher sitting in a big arm chair in Paris, smoking a pipe. When you’re home, you’re unwinding; using your leisure time to entertain yourself with books or TV or the computer and it’s really not giving your head a break.

You are alone in your car, but you’re blasting music and your brain is working all the time to operate a vehicle and follow traffic signals, not really at ease, per say. Going for a walk in the city is OK, but still always alert, crossing the street, keeping tabs on every person you see and ultimately thinking about how you’re going to get where you’re going or what time you need to be back, etc…

In the woods, there are not streets to cross, you won’t get hit by car and no one is going to bother you about buying something from them. You don’t have to concentrate on anything you’re doing, it’s just you.

I was talking to a friend last weekend who grew up in an even more remote place, with acres and acres of forest at his disposal. He agreed that the most scary aspect to being out there is not running into a bear or a wolf, but other people.

Same view of the Choconut Creek: April, September & February

April


September

February

My blog got KISS a spokesperson deal with Dr. P!

KISS!

After revisiting the darling coming-of-age film Detroit Rock City, I realized that KISS is pretty awesome. So much of their shtick is..... looking retarded..... and that kept me away from some really great classic rock. And you can really tell they're from NYC in the seventies. If someone put on a KISS song at bar, I might guess New York Dolls or The Heartbreakers. Not really anything difficult, I can see why one might be inclined to form a KISS tribute band. That being said, I still never, EVER want to hear "Rock and Roll All Nite" for as long as I live. But if you can get past that, it's a good band.

For example, I fucking HATED Lynyrd Skynyrd because "Sweet Home Alabama" is so hick-aliciously obnoxious that I never realized their self-titled record is some genuinely good rock. (That song is also NOT on it, but "Freebird" is ;)).

Point is, anthemic songs like that ruin a band's reputation and get old very, very quickly. Especially because every sporting event has the same 15 song track list.

Other songs which give a misleading representation of the band that recorded them:

1. "We're Not Gonna Take It", Twisted Sister
Bad! Same caliber of suck as "Rock And Roll All Nite"!

2. "Fight For Your Right", Beastie Boys
Ick! Everyone cues in on the gang vocals of the chorus like they've never ordered a Rick Moranis at a bar before.

3. "We Are the Champions", Queen
Queen is so SO much better than this. You know what---tie this spot with "Bohemian Rhapsody" as well. Yeah we ALL know the words to it, Broseph.

4. "Blitzkreig Bop", The Ramones
Hey Ho, Let's Go Fuck Ourselves.

5. "Mony Mony", Billy Idol
Billy is one of my favorite dudes ever. This song sounds nothing like anything else he does, but because he repeats the same word over and over, people at 50th Anniversary parties will be forming trains around the room being completely un-punk.

That is all. Listen to KISS.

Unemployed!

I've been collecting unemployment for the past few weeks and man, was it fun! $90 a week sucks! I mean, I didn't earn it, but still.

"There's a rainbow!---ON THE GROUND!"

----Cute little , upon seeing oil on the ground underneath my car

Get On Top

Let’s talk about ZZ Top. Let’s talk about how grossly underrated that band is. I think we all owe ZZ Top an apology. They deserve better. The common misconception is that ZZ Top is all about beards and sunglasses. Um…what the fuck is wrong with that? Most of you, dear blog readers, have worn beards and sunglasses. But if all you think about is ZZ Top’s campiness, you’re missing the fact that they’re actually great musicians.

A classic clean edged rock sound rooted deeply in Southern blues. If Scott Weiland sang for ZZ Top and Dave Navarro was on guitar they’d be much more famous. I think most people associate “rock star” with tight pants and scarves. (See Steven Tyler, Weiland, Chris Robinson, Axl Rose, etc…) They forgot that the point of the rock musician is to be effortlessly cool (ie: Lou Reed) with a simple leather jacket, cocaine and shades. Oh wait—that’s ZZ Top. They’re cool. Take off your feather boa, Navarro. By the way, did you actually think that Carmen Electra was going to be married to you forever? In your dreams. On a completely unrelated side note: every couple on that MTV married show is now divorced. Dave, The Blink 182 drummer and Nick Lachey. Was it worth it MTV??

Now I invite you to momentarily revisit Gimme All Your Lovin’---please hit the crank button.

Part One: In which the Dead Body of a Car is Discovered in an Abandon Lot

-Let’s say for example, you’ve known me at some point within the past five years, you’ll know that I drive a big fat red Buick. This Buick is named Karen. (The Yeah Yeah Yeahs were in their heyday at the time of purchase.) Now what’s interesting about this car is that I’ve driven a fucking lot in this thing, major road trips and plenty of back and forths.

I’ve been away from this here blogger.com because in a summer camp with 150 staff members, there’s two functioning computers. One of these hellish “computers” is a Mac, which is creepy and ugly. The glorious ebony tower in the city of Dell is where I want to go and there’s always ALWAYS a Hungarian sitting in front of it, changing the language of facebook and never NEVER changing it back to English.

So the car. I’m leaving camp the next day. Now I’ve noticed that my steering wheel is having a hard time. So LB and I get into our friend Lee’s roof and windowless Jeep. I’m sitting in the lap of a muscularly pitbull. No, he’s not sitting in my lap, I am sitting in his. I’m a writer. I know what I’m doing. After our delicious ice cream, (Thanks, Lee) I pick up a $4.00 bottle of power steering fluid. Back at camp, as I’m pulling the car out of the lot, to get to the Maintenance Shed, I suddenly can’t turn the wheel at all, it’s spinning right round, baby, right round.

Now, LB has fallen in love with a boy at camp. Being Scottish, her non-transferrable flight home the day after camp is forsaken. She’s just not going to go. Her and I are going to drive to Pittsburgh to see this boy, because after all, life throws you shit like that sometimes and you’re in your early twenties, so you are impulsive like that. Fuck you, Hollywood, this is my story.

The very last night of camp is a free for all. Free of kids, Free alcohol, free food and free sex from whomever has dredged their desperate ass through the summer without a sorry and regretful hook-up. (Some people enjoy this!) I however, end up wasted in a flower bed bawling because my new boyfriend had to leave early, and is not currently at the party. And not the cool bawlin’.

So the car. Karen. In the morning, as it turns out, the reason the wheel was spinning around and around is because when the motor and the transmission fell out, it ripped the power steering out. The motor and transmission FELL OUT. As in: on the ground. As in: a pile of junk. When the A Frame rusts through, it drops. And everything is was holding in, drops. It would be like if your skin got too thin and burst open. There’s nothing else holding your guts in, son. If that goes, you’re fucked.

That's the corner of the A-Frame on the ground.

And now that I’ve promised this epic road trip to LB, we are both fucked. And possibly stranded in the Adirondacks. Although it’s good this hadn’t happened while we were on the road because it probably would have killed us. Really. Terrible, terrible image.

PART Two: In Which Caito and LB Say “Pittsburgh or Bust!”

So do I cry? Do I freak out? After all, my second favorite thing in the world, my car, is dead. (My first favorite thing is Claudia, assholes.) No, I take it in stride. Ok, how do we get out of here? At this point, most of the counselors have left on the bus to New York City. Let’s rent a car. Ok, wait, I’m not 25 and my credit card is maxed out. Great! So our friend Graeme is driving the camp van, another pile of shit, to a dealer to trade in for a new one and he’ll give us a ride to the Albany airport. Awesome, that’s closer to Pittsburgh than here.
After the trade-in, we hop into a brand new Nissan Rogue which totally mocks the fact that I will not see a new car in a very very long time. So here we are, outside of the airport with all of our shit—I have SO much shit, on a balls hot day, with no intention of taking any flights whatsoever. My father heroically drives the two hours from Binghamton to pick us up.
You think you’re a grown-up sometimes don’t you? Oh yes, I’m so independent, making my own way until you take away my car and remind me that I’m a grand in debt. Daddy, bail me out please. I should be making my millions as a school teacher like you and mom said. Oh well, LB and I arrive in Binghamton, NY and have a night’s rest in my little house, I reunite with Claudia and tomorrow we’ll figure something out.

After many, many attempts we find a locally owned car dealership that will give us a rental despite my age and cash-only situation. Up rolls a fucking PT Cruiser. And it’s PURPLE. I’m driving a purple PT Cruiser to Pittsburgh and back in 24 hours. But we will do this because youth and determination are fuelling it. LB needs to get to this boy no matter what it takes! Or how many people are involved, for that matter!

Of course we get lost and show up late at night, but she’s there! And of course, on the way back, I think I’m doing so well, I’m going to get the car back on time all is well---HOLY SHIT IS THAT A………woodchuck. I killed it. First roadkill ever. And so now I’m crying in the PT Cruiser, saying phrases like “I didn’t mean it” and “I couldn’t swerve” twice, maybe ten times. That miserable latching on to a phrase and repeating it, sniveling all the while, syndrome.

Punks: 1. Woodchucks: 0.