He splinted the wrong ankle. He told me i fractured my right angle, when really, neither of my ankles are really fractured. My left ankle is now surrounded by a gigantic moon boot and my right has a sexy aircast on it, yes, that’s right, it’s sexy. Anyone who tells you injuries aren’t sexy is lying through their teeth. Women crave cripples.

So lying on this bed, staring at the blinded window, i’ve had much time to reflect on the past two weeks. The roadtrip has been one of the best experiences i have had in these two decades of anaerobic respiration. I had the opportunity to see great western cities and the canyons and mountains that put all human achievements to shame. Climbing and hiking around the canyons and national parks dragged me into a sense of timelessness. It placed me outside of time, whether it was 2006 or 17 BC, i wouldn’t know. These natural treasures are the gods of our time, the giants, and until we destroy them to put in a starbucks megaplex, we have some hope yet. These titans are what anchor us to the planet, and it’s history. When i was climbing those rocks, i realized how much more powerful they are than us. The rock shook me off like a fucking wet dog, and as i looked down and watched the earth come up to meet me, i thought, “damnit.” I hit the ground like a sack of wet flesh and bones, colliding into scattered rocks and wet sand. Then i laughed. It was one of those sick, desperate laughs, bordering on tears and screams of anguish-tinged insanity, but a laugh nonetheless. Then i “no, no, no, no, no, no, no!”-ed and then i said “ow.” I was lucky, because i had just fallen off a twenty foot cliff, slammed into a bunch of rocks, and somehow avoided dying or refucking up my back. But the laughing came from two things, one was just a nervousness that bordered on awkwardness, lying on the ground like a chewed up ragdoll, I stepped outside myself in order to survey what i had become, and you know what? It was funny, in a pathetic sort of way. The way my parents laughed at me when i was tyke and i fell in the toilet, screaming “HELP!” Embarassing. But the other thing i did, was check my tattoo, the third thing i did after touching my head and wiggling all my little piggies (they all wiggled fine, which was a relief.) Not the phoenix, not the ghostys, and not the man sitting on the tree stump. No. I rolled up my left t-shirt sleeve to reveal a retarded looking shark-sasquatch eating a crude trailer with stick figures flying superheroesque around them. It was unscathed. But just looking at that fucking abomination of a skin augmentation made me laugh and smile as blood tricked down my cheek. This is/was the last time i will write about the incident of my injuries.

I’m babbling, but what else can i do with two dysfunctional ankles and a belly full of pills? I dreamed last night, of the roadtrip crew, floating down a river on a raft. We were attempting to escape a flooding California, ironically escaping to a safe, non-flooding New Orleans. We made it in an hour. I tried peeing off the raft and almost fell in. I don’t know what to make of this dream, but i woke up having to pee. * I really miss being on the roadtrip and i know the 3rd leg of that bastard would have been incredible, but i value the time i was able to spend on it. * I lie back and listen to The Great Lakes Myth Society’s “Isabella County, 1992″ and try to tear up, but the drugs just make the sound all drowny. It’s a beautiful song, and props to Ethan for introducing me to this band. They create some of the most beautiful, quasi-timeless sound that contemporary music has to offer. They were the perfect auditory compainons on this fine roadtrip, the trip that i had to abandon prematurely. Check out the song and think about driving along the coast at sunset, cause that’s when it sounds the best, or maybe it would sound the best sailing on ship to Ireland, drinking whiskey. I’m not sure tho, im austrian, i think.

Anyway, i gotta go limp to the bathroom, the most adventure i get from day to day. I wish the roadtrippers the best of luck, and everyone, an injury-free summer

sorry to make you read this, im just bored. check out the song, you’ll feel that this was all worth it.


Changes and Updates

June 5th, 2006

We dropped Jesse off yesterday at the Seattle airport. I don’t think we realized what was going on at the time. We knew that the group dynamic had just changed, but we weren’t quite experiencing it yet.

We left the airport and drove into downtown Seattle, spent some time hanging out with Jeremy’s friend Lou, and then drove up to Anacortes for the ferry to Victoria. We finally sat down for dinner around 10pm. At this point the change really hit me. We ate only one box of pasta, we fit comfortably at the table, and we didn’t have enough people to carry on a side conversation.

Some things remain the same, as they should. We still have one can of Pepper Steak soup that we’re afraid to eat, and we still call our camping supplies by their proper names (Mr. Knife, Mr. Lantern, Mr. and Mrs. Pots and Pans.) The feeling has changed though, and we are all wishing for Jesse’s speedy recovery as we continue on.

Man Down!

June 5th, 2006

For those of you who don’t know yet: Yesterday, I fell off a cliff. Ruby Beach, Washington. Dropped twenty feet down and then, lots of rocks. Lots of abrasions and lacerations too. I can’t walk anymore. I went from a lot of walking, to, well, None. I hit the ground and did one of those run-hand-thru-hair-and-look-at-now-bloodied-hand. Yeah. Then i tried to walk, and my ankles like, rolled out from under me. It was gross. Then I got an ambulance ride (where they cut all the clothes off my body) and a nice four-hour hospital stay. I stayed up all night in agonizing pain, which the two vicatins (sp?) suprisingly didn’t help that much. Then i five hour flight, with a bitchy old woman and a smelly fat person squishing me inbetween the reruns of King of the Hill (i fucking hate that show). I’m back in NY, at my parents’ house. sleeping on a pullout couch, watching old episodes of the Simpsons and surrounded by cats.

So it’s one man down, four to go and the odds are in their favour, as are the gods. I wish i could continue traveling with those four crazy little fuckers, but alas, i have to watch my feet swell up to the size of, well, fat man feet and listen to “Rock Lobster” a whole bunch of times to irk the rest of the household (the only sinister satisfaction i will probably be able to get in the coming weeks. The last two weeks of the trip were amazing and i’m so glad i didn’t slip off the side of mountain before seeing the majority of the west coast. The painkillers are kicking in, I doubled the dosage. It’s time to lie down now. I’ll write more tomorrow (god knows i’ll have plenty of time.) Oh, and if yr. in NY, come fucking visit my gimpy ass!

In now Seattle,
a change of place.
a change of pace.
slight change of faces…
someone stole the bases.

I’d like to give a quick shout-out to Kim for replying in exactly the manner which we would prohibit, should she be in our presence. She has no idea how much we’ve been talking about putting Manu Chao under the guillotine. Secondly, a shout-out goes to Lerman, who is currently battling the evil death schallots for a space on the appetiser plate.

“Thank You, Good Night!” says Sacarny.
“Tattoos are like jacking off with a handfull of carpet tacks, it hurts like hell, but you gotta finish” says Drat.
“Okie Dokey Karaoke!” says faithful Ethan.
ahhh yes, we are a predictable bunch. a lovely bunch, a bunch of lovely hooligans and where-agains (and Danny Gans) as we cast off towards the pacific in every which way, every waking day, shaving our faces of the stray bits of clay.


The winds are with us now, Prtlnd Orgn ho! Drunk on the moon, stoned by the stars and steered by a rather relentless young car, silver on the outside with love in its heart, and a badge declaring when its employment ends and starts, take us forth through the lagoons of the north where our fellow countrymen dance on a swash-buckling course on the whims of our feet and the balls of our limbs, our laughter rings out to the castles of kings, and the bats cannot see but to us they will sing, from the tops of the trees and the rites of our springs and the dust of our wings and the somes of our things, there sleeping she waits for the baskets we bring. what is the purpose of this bazooka circus? you’ll figure it out when we do, and by then we’ll be gone, America is changing so keep on yer feet, this old country’s grown out of its babyteeth. it’ll all grow up and by the time its done, it is us that will inherent this gunslinging mudsliding nation of fun, unity of all things under the sun, this six-sided die that knows nought but the one. “JACKPOT!” says Vegas, a new volcabulary learned. i wanna be ready for when that day comes and be able to say that i’ve breathed with my lungs the freshest of airs, the worst artistic interpretation of bears, I want to say that I’d reciprocated only the warmest of smiles, and on the fairest of mornings, in both city and country (for hundreds of miles), let the tingling in my nostrils wake me from my sleep and remind me that my birthplace is a place i shall keep in my heart and my hand, as close as i can. Yet its merely a heep, a heep of dry land, a heep with a history that went far beyond the pilgrims’ command, and as far as this goes, i’ll never understand, but i dig those surprises that life never planned.

~We, BG


June 1st, 2006

Hey everyone. I got the map working in IE. Sorry about that. You can find a link to the map on the right side of the page. Portland is nice!

Update: We are about 110 miles from Portland now. We finally have internet, so I am making this post that I wrote maybe 3 hours ago.

Ben Folds Five is pumping through the car, and the sun is setting over my left shoulder. We’re heading up the coast in northern California right now, skipping Redwood on a whim so that we can get to Portland a few hours early.

We got off Route 101 at the Fields Landing exit, which turned out to be a little bridge building town. Jesse hit it off with two young kids — he always does — while the rest of us went exploring. We were right near the coast, and we walked up to a little beachy area along the bay. On the way, we crossed some abandoned railroad tracks and passed huge piles of lumber. These were strange sights.

We met up with Jesse as we headed back to the car. He was conversing with the two kids. They led us to the post office and we took a little group shot. Then I mailed my first round of postcards. Then we headed off toward Eureka for a nice dinner. That’s where we met a trophy girl.

As for San Francisco, well, I enjoyed it much. But the bars need to calm down about the carding.

X3 made me want to die.

May 27th, 2006

As some of you may know, i am a bit of a nerd. I’ve read X-men comics since i was seven or eight, and to be honest, i haven’t really stopped since. So when the first X-men movie was coming out, i was a bit skeptical, as i should have been. It just wasn’t that great, but at least it was not a total washout like The Hulk, or Fantastic Four. Then there was X2. Better than the first, was what most people agreed upon. X2 drew a pretty decent crowd and the plot was stronger, and Bryan Singer’s addition of the Phoenix Force was a pretty ballsy move. Then, well, Bryan Singer said “fuck it” and made Kevin Spacey into Lex Luthor. So some sleezeball director waltzes in, blows some coke, hires two of the worst writers ever, and slaps together an abomination of a film, X3: The Last Stand. The first 45 minutes were semi-promising. A few major deaths (which only held any water due to the shock value and the balls it took to kill off said characters), some new characters (Shadowcat and Colossus are major players) and more of Rebecca Romijn-Stamos (or whatever her name is now) doing reptilian acrobatics, naked, covered in blue paint. But then it gets ugly. Main characters are brutally murdered, while plotlines are introduced, and then brushed aside almost instantaneously. The movie attempts to juggle many different plotlines with many different view points, which was indeed admirable, fucked it up so bad, that it was like storytelling with a rampant case of attention defeceit disorder. The major focal point is Wolverine’s love for Jean Grey, who rises from the dead to become this Omega-Mutant who just flips her shit and goes postal. The other is Magneto and his band of tattooed mutant punks with an attitude who somehow have no problem burtally murdering women and children. Then you get a shitty portrayal of Juggernaut, who spouts lines like, “I’m the Juggernaut, Bitch” and we get to hear Pyro being a cocky prick for 90+ minutes. And just to talk about the writing for a second, shit, i have heard better dialouge in Skinemax flix and b-movie hardcore porn. Maybe i fell asleep while they explained that every character dumbed down to a fifth grade reading level, with some major social disorders, but regardless, the strength that the characters’ personalities had in X2 was completely obliterated. Unlike its predecessor, X3 managed to completely botch the uniting of this trilogy. By tearing down everything the first two movies built up, it was like watching a salmon flop around in the middle of a freeway, fucking pathetic. Without even delving into how badly this movie portrayed the comics, i can safely say that this film couldn’t even stand up to the universe the first two created.
I can’t say enough bad things. This movie was fucekd up in a myraid of ways and i think i’ve made it quite clear that after paying nine bucks to see it i wanted some retribution. I wanted Stan Lee to call me up and beg for my forgiveness. “Repent!” I’d scream into the reciever as the old man who created so many great superheros would be sobbing like a little girl. But instead i got a greasy stomach full of buttered popcorn and an odd sense of shame. I’m tempted to give away the entire plotline and ending but that’s fucking mean. Instead, i’ll tell you that you should save yr money and spend yr night doing something else, like beating yourself over the head with a wooden plank with a rusty nail jutting out of it, or just binge drinking until you throw up and pass out in an alley, it’s probably a better plan.

Water: Important

May 25th, 2006

We are heading West through California, attempting to get over to Route 1 so we can drive up the pretty, pretty coast. The hills are wonderful and coated with grape vines, or whatever you call them. This is wine country.

We have already passed at least two signs reminding us not to buckle up, but rather to remember the importance of water in growing food. Why? I think this has something to do with the fact that SoCal has to import so much of the water it uses for farming. Every once in a while someone points out that this configuration is really inefficient and we ought to be growing our food elsewhere, which the regional farmers presumably don’t appreciate.

Of course I could be wrong. And this inefficient use of water has made for some nice scenery, which some people (although not me) say is priceless. Left arrow-three!

what the fuck is going on

May 25th, 2006

im in LA, and im dreading what the woman nextdoor is gonna play from her stereo.
yesterday we had to sit through the entire Lou Bega album, you know, Mambo # 5?
well, that motherfucker has like, 12 different mambos, and they all suck. they suck even more at high volume, since the woman next door has most certainly misplaced her hearing aid. I’ve been trying to shake that terrible feeling that infected my brain the past couple of days. The feeling was hoplessness and sadness. It came from Vegas. SIN CITY some have called it and I, for one, do not think it lives up to its name. If SIN CITY means old shrivs mindlessly pushing blinking plastic buttons for hours on end, watching themselves dying in the reflection of the slot machines, then yes, SIN CITY it is. The people in las vegas are the dregs of society, and they are the epitome of a dying dream.

i embodied this sense of hoplessness. at 5am, after Eth, Sac, and Josh went to sleep, Jeremy and I decided to meander around the casinotel, when we stumbled upon the most awful thing i have ever experienced, GRAVEYARD BOWLING. It is just as terrible as it sounds. A dollar per person, plus shoe rental. Lane 38 had its charm, the dirty ashtray (which i proceeded to stub out my own 10 cigarettes), the adjacent bowler who looked too manly to be a woman, but had one too many x chromosomes to be a man, etc. Playing bowling at that hour is the worst thing a man can do to himself. It was a test of self that i wasn’t prepared to take. Is a man measured by the size of his pincount? i hope not, with a whopping 48 and a handfull of gutterballs. THe radio was no less helpful in returning me to sanity and stability. Songs like “Help Me Rhonda” and “Good Morning”, were taunting me, and laughing at my grave misfortune.
And after hearing Tom Jones’ “It’s Not Unusual” for the fifth time, it’s difficult to not think about taking that heavy bowling ball and caving your own skull in.
and after the bowling is done, you can’t even keep the shoes.

anyway. im too tired to keep writing. enjoy yrselves. next stop. sanfran.

oh, and the in-n-out burger is fucking tasty.