(David Attenborough narrates)
Ahh, but elsewhere, it is the first day of spring classes here in Colorado, home to one of the largest non-resident populations of students anywhere in the world. The temperatures are brutally cold, hovering at around zero Farenheit, and well-insulated students shuffle around on foot, or by car or even bicycle, to make it to their morning classes. Many will not have woken up from their hibernation yet, and will miss this morning's ritual.
In an upper-level science class, a small group of students gathers, tucked into a windowless corner far from the judgmental eyes of business majors and liberal arts students. A predominantly male group, the friendly males sit together and joyously recount tales from their individual hibernations, some of which required migrations of thousands of miles to their home caves. It is a ritual repeated year in and year out. Communicating primarily via grunts and phallic insinuations, they discuss meeting up later in the week for a fermented beverage popular with this species.
A building away, however, the tone is much different. This class is a mix of many different students, most of whom are not on familiar terms. The ones who have previously made each other's acquaintance may sit and share a few words, or just cautiously eye one another. Males of the species, many of them hungover and not yet fully awake from their month-long slumber, attempt to claim as much space as possible. Inevitably, however, the spots between them are filled. This is a full class, indeed.
As the classroom begins to fill up, an interesting phenomenon occurs: the males, suddenly aware of the presence of females, begin to evaluate the quality and number of mates in the class. At the same time, they are sizing up the threat that other males may pose. A few that may be of concern are noted for later, to be befriended or shunned, as the case may be. Some of the more alert males strike up a conversation with a potential mate. Others, however, communicate with each other in a series of grunts and groans as they begin to hear a lecture from a related subspecies, the Graduate Student. One can almost understand the males as they grumble to one another, as if to say "fuck this," or "heard that." Most just sip warm coffee from a sort of insulated traveling beverage container, hoping to fully shake off the residue of hibernation.
Across campus, an interesting subspecies of student, the Student Veteran, has a unique ability to recognize members of its own group, though they are often indistinguishable to casual observation from the outside. This group is almost exclusively male. Upon realization of the presence of another, the two or more student veterans will almost invariably sit together and beginning sharing information with their own unique and often incomprehensible dialect. The same sounds will be heard repeated by each member of the new group, beginning a curiously strong bond that will last at least through the end of the semester.
(cuts to commercial)
Tuesday, January 16, 2018
Tuesday, January 2, 2018
A brief note about the Doberman
As far as I can tell and read, the Doberman is one of about... five to ten "real" breeds specifically created for the protection of their human - and, as far as I can tell, the best at it. These Germans are on to something.
Bred to be fearless mountain dogs that roamed either as a pack or by themselves (plus human), they excel at both things; that is to say, mountain dogging and protecting. For instance, my Hans, who has another fantastic quality bred into him by Ze Americans - as we would say in this age of the internet, and meme-speak - what's known as "chill."
He fucking sleeps. There is no way around that. Like a motherfucking cat. An often smelly, softly noisy, 105lb cat.
BUT!
Get him in the woods. He's up, he's ready, he'll run ten fucking miles for every three of yours, and if you want, he'll come back with you long after your heels are blistered and crying and his paws leave red tracks in the snow. He does not, simply, give a fuck. (side note: part of this is that Dobermans are credited with having the highest pain tolerance of any pure breed. to a fault, at times.)
On the creek (my creek!), human[s] with gun in hand, he is at a heel, silent, nose in the air, pointing. A true game dog. He simply "gets it" to the point that he now accompanies me, at his age of 3, on my elk hunting trips.
More important. He is awake, alert, at the door, when he knows I'm off guard. Hans has gotten quite sharp at detecting that - if he thinks I'm on my game (which I usually am not, to be honest), he'll welcome anyone in with some squeaks and his wiggling lack of a tail.
However, when he thinks I am not, or when we're on unfamiliar or unfriendly ground (i.e. the boonies) he gives one bark when something is off, and when shit goes off, he is all teeth, all ferocity, and no fucking chill. I've even had to calm him down, and with some hesitation on my part. That's a lot of fucking teeth. But even at his scariest, all I have to give him is a "Hans! Heel!" and he is there, alert, but pettable. (pettable is apparently not a word. fuck it.)
He is my best friend. Sorry, other second-best friends, but y'all are humans.
Goodnight, everyone else.
Bred to be fearless mountain dogs that roamed either as a pack or by themselves (plus human), they excel at both things; that is to say, mountain dogging and protecting. For instance, my Hans, who has another fantastic quality bred into him by Ze Americans - as we would say in this age of the internet, and meme-speak - what's known as "chill."
He fucking sleeps. There is no way around that. Like a motherfucking cat. An often smelly, softly noisy, 105lb cat.
BUT!
Get him in the woods. He's up, he's ready, he'll run ten fucking miles for every three of yours, and if you want, he'll come back with you long after your heels are blistered and crying and his paws leave red tracks in the snow. He does not, simply, give a fuck. (side note: part of this is that Dobermans are credited with having the highest pain tolerance of any pure breed. to a fault, at times.)
On the creek (my creek!), human[s] with gun in hand, he is at a heel, silent, nose in the air, pointing. A true game dog. He simply "gets it" to the point that he now accompanies me, at his age of 3, on my elk hunting trips.
More important. He is awake, alert, at the door, when he knows I'm off guard. Hans has gotten quite sharp at detecting that - if he thinks I'm on my game (which I usually am not, to be honest), he'll welcome anyone in with some squeaks and his wiggling lack of a tail.
However, when he thinks I am not, or when we're on unfamiliar or unfriendly ground (i.e. the boonies) he gives one bark when something is off, and when shit goes off, he is all teeth, all ferocity, and no fucking chill. I've even had to calm him down, and with some hesitation on my part. That's a lot of fucking teeth. But even at his scariest, all I have to give him is a "Hans! Heel!" and he is there, alert, but pettable. (pettable is apparently not a word. fuck it.)
He is my best friend. Sorry, other second-best friends, but y'all are humans.
Goodnight, everyone else.
Thursday, August 17, 2017
Just the good stuff
Obviously I’ve not written anything in awhile. I guess I’ve not had much important to say, but what else is new. Between my hamster-on-meth level of perpetual twitchery, legitimate business, and the current complete clusterfuck that is the world, it’s really been hard to formalize any thoughts so far as to put them into a permanent format.
However, for the first time in awhile, I find myself alone in the mountains and with the technology to bore/offend/encourage you (depends on the reader, I guess), so here goes. In no particular order.
Easing into it – personal news. I sold my ‘vette, which I thought would hurt me infinitely more than it did. Honestly, it needed to happen – you can only stare at twenty-odd thousand dollars under a cover, not driven, for so long, before you start to think: hey, it’d be pretty fucking sweet to pay off my truck, clear out any other debt, cover a week of surfing in Costa Rica, and still have some savings, wouldn’t it? Yes, it would, other Jack. Yes it would. You’ll see me shed no tears over that breakup.
Yeah, there’ll be another Corvette in my future, but it’ll be nothing bland – either a mid-year (C2) or late 60’s (C3) of the right ilk, a C6 ZR1, or just go for broke and get a C7 Z06. It will come to me, whatever it may be. I’m leaning towards the classics.
Speaking of classics, I picked up a 1958 Smith and Wesson M10 snubnose .38 today for essentially a song. It’s one of those perfect useable classics – you can tell someone carried it once in awhile, when they felt they needed a gun, but I’d be willing to bet that it has fewer than 50 rounds through it. That’ll change, don’t worry. I can say with complete confidence that the action and trigger feel like nothing you can buy new today from a factory… just a buttery smooth double-action pull, no snags or imperfections while the cylinder rotates. Single action (hammer cocked, for you non-gun types) is the equivalent of an actual custom 1911 or a well-built precision rifle. It must be felt to be appreciated.
Ahem.
Got a proper knife today as well, a Benchmade Infidel, which replaces my Kershaw Ken Onion… something? Can’t remember the model, it’s irrelevant though. Said Kershaw has been on 5 continents, through some real shit, and has survived 13 years of my kind and gentle attention. (Read: I beat the piss out of the thing, and it shows.) It was expensive in its day at around $195 on sale, but fuck, it’s been good to me. New Benchmade is the heat, though. Out-the-fronts are really what’s up.
Other happy stuff… let’s see. Hans is looking lean and handsome, at what I imagine will be his peak weight of 103 lbs. Fucking giant goober. He is the best dog, period. I can’t begin to express how awesome he is if you’ve never met him.
Aight. Out of fun stuff to talk about, and I am honestly trying to shut down my political intake and discourse for at least a week, so we’ll have none of that here. Suffice it to say that I welcome all reasonable political opinions, even if they differ significantly from my own, and that I think more discussion over beers (on a national level) will prove that most of us have more in common than we think.
That said, some people are just assholes, but what can you do. Fuck it.
Love,
Jack
However, for the first time in awhile, I find myself alone in the mountains and with the technology to bore/offend/encourage you (depends on the reader, I guess), so here goes. In no particular order.
Easing into it – personal news. I sold my ‘vette, which I thought would hurt me infinitely more than it did. Honestly, it needed to happen – you can only stare at twenty-odd thousand dollars under a cover, not driven, for so long, before you start to think: hey, it’d be pretty fucking sweet to pay off my truck, clear out any other debt, cover a week of surfing in Costa Rica, and still have some savings, wouldn’t it? Yes, it would, other Jack. Yes it would. You’ll see me shed no tears over that breakup.
Yeah, there’ll be another Corvette in my future, but it’ll be nothing bland – either a mid-year (C2) or late 60’s (C3) of the right ilk, a C6 ZR1, or just go for broke and get a C7 Z06. It will come to me, whatever it may be. I’m leaning towards the classics.
Speaking of classics, I picked up a 1958 Smith and Wesson M10 snubnose .38 today for essentially a song. It’s one of those perfect useable classics – you can tell someone carried it once in awhile, when they felt they needed a gun, but I’d be willing to bet that it has fewer than 50 rounds through it. That’ll change, don’t worry. I can say with complete confidence that the action and trigger feel like nothing you can buy new today from a factory… just a buttery smooth double-action pull, no snags or imperfections while the cylinder rotates. Single action (hammer cocked, for you non-gun types) is the equivalent of an actual custom 1911 or a well-built precision rifle. It must be felt to be appreciated.
Ahem.
Got a proper knife today as well, a Benchmade Infidel, which replaces my Kershaw Ken Onion… something? Can’t remember the model, it’s irrelevant though. Said Kershaw has been on 5 continents, through some real shit, and has survived 13 years of my kind and gentle attention. (Read: I beat the piss out of the thing, and it shows.) It was expensive in its day at around $195 on sale, but fuck, it’s been good to me. New Benchmade is the heat, though. Out-the-fronts are really what’s up.
Other happy stuff… let’s see. Hans is looking lean and handsome, at what I imagine will be his peak weight of 103 lbs. Fucking giant goober. He is the best dog, period. I can’t begin to express how awesome he is if you’ve never met him.
Aight. Out of fun stuff to talk about, and I am honestly trying to shut down my political intake and discourse for at least a week, so we’ll have none of that here. Suffice it to say that I welcome all reasonable political opinions, even if they differ significantly from my own, and that I think more discussion over beers (on a national level) will prove that most of us have more in common than we think.
That said, some people are just assholes, but what can you do. Fuck it.
Love,
Jack
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
10 Car Commandments
Since it seems as if most of your parents have failed you in this regard, I feel obligated to write this (notably because of all the goddamn fingerprints on my 'vette, which are tellingly ONLY on the passenger side). Here's how not to be a dick regarding someone else's car, truck, or motorcycle.
1. Don't touch the paint (or glass) if you can avoid it. This is what door handles are for, so put your greasy dickbeaters on those instead like God intended. There is no faster way to piss off a car guy than to get finger or palm prints all over his freshly washed sports car - especially if it's black. It's a surefire recipe for not getting invited back (unless you're a total babe, in which case I'll forgive a few transgressions... you get off with a verbal warning, this time).
2. Don't lean on, draw on, or otherwise fuck with a dirty car - every time you rub that dirt across the surface of the paint, it creates a billion little scratches. This is because some of the minerals that are in that dirt are harder than the paint itself - imagine drawing a sharp diamond across a glass window, and you'll have a very good idea of what's happening on a microscopic level. You might not notice it, but the guy or girl who spends hours at a time painstakingly detailing their most prized possession surely will. Again, the importance of this is increased tenfold if the vehicle is black or another very dark color, as these show everything.
3. No drinking or eating unless given explicit permission from the owner. And if you spill or drop something, clean it the fuck up.
4. No smoking. This is subject to waiver.
5. Clean out any trash you create.
6. Knock, brush, or otherwise clean off your dirty-ass boots. Yeah, I know my truck has all-weather floor mats, but that doesn't mean I want ten pounds of snow, mud, and gravel sloshing around in them. (Note: if you are elk hunting, this becomes less important.)
7. If not driving, the owner of the vehicle gets shotgun by default, and assumes first mate/copilot responsibilities of both navigation and DJing. This is also subject to waiver, and conditional on said owner not falling asleep on the job.
8. As a corollary to # 7, sitting in shotgun comes with navigational responsibilities in addition to DJing, unless the owner refuses to acquiesce control of the music. If you are not willing to adopt these responsibilities, or if you are going to fall asleep, sit your ass in the rear and let someone else be copilot.
9. Don't immediately demand control of the music. Ask for things, like an adult... and yeah, I'm sure that new song you heard is really fuckin' rad, but I'm sure it can wait until we reach our destination.
10. My dog is free to break all of these rules, simply because he is my dog. You are not. I don't care how good of friends we are, these rules still apply to you.
Learn it, love it, live it. Go forth and be a better person.
Sincerely,
A compulsive automotive enthusiast.
1. Don't touch the paint (or glass) if you can avoid it. This is what door handles are for, so put your greasy dickbeaters on those instead like God intended. There is no faster way to piss off a car guy than to get finger or palm prints all over his freshly washed sports car - especially if it's black. It's a surefire recipe for not getting invited back (unless you're a total babe, in which case I'll forgive a few transgressions... you get off with a verbal warning, this time).
2. Don't lean on, draw on, or otherwise fuck with a dirty car - every time you rub that dirt across the surface of the paint, it creates a billion little scratches. This is because some of the minerals that are in that dirt are harder than the paint itself - imagine drawing a sharp diamond across a glass window, and you'll have a very good idea of what's happening on a microscopic level. You might not notice it, but the guy or girl who spends hours at a time painstakingly detailing their most prized possession surely will. Again, the importance of this is increased tenfold if the vehicle is black or another very dark color, as these show everything.
3. No drinking or eating unless given explicit permission from the owner. And if you spill or drop something, clean it the fuck up.
4. No smoking. This is subject to waiver.
5. Clean out any trash you create.
6. Knock, brush, or otherwise clean off your dirty-ass boots. Yeah, I know my truck has all-weather floor mats, but that doesn't mean I want ten pounds of snow, mud, and gravel sloshing around in them. (Note: if you are elk hunting, this becomes less important.)
7. If not driving, the owner of the vehicle gets shotgun by default, and assumes first mate/copilot responsibilities of both navigation and DJing. This is also subject to waiver, and conditional on said owner not falling asleep on the job.
8. As a corollary to # 7, sitting in shotgun comes with navigational responsibilities in addition to DJing, unless the owner refuses to acquiesce control of the music. If you are not willing to adopt these responsibilities, or if you are going to fall asleep, sit your ass in the rear and let someone else be copilot.
9. Don't immediately demand control of the music. Ask for things, like an adult... and yeah, I'm sure that new song you heard is really fuckin' rad, but I'm sure it can wait until we reach our destination.
10. My dog is free to break all of these rules, simply because he is my dog. You are not. I don't care how good of friends we are, these rules still apply to you.
Learn it, love it, live it. Go forth and be a better person.
Sincerely,
A compulsive automotive enthusiast.
Thursday, March 30, 2017
The Double Standard of Violence
One of my rare forays into politics on here - I much prefer to keep these discussions to in-person with a select few people and generally over a few beers, but I honestly cannot keep my mouth shut about this anymore.
I've noticed a disturbing trend among the more hardcore left in recent months, what with the election of President Trump (or Satan, depending on who you ask). Now let's get one thing straight - I'm not a Trump fan any more than I was an Obama fan. One of the benefits of being an American (and one that many don't take advantage of) is theability freedom to think critically and independently; I was always quick to criticize the last president, but also freely admitted when he did something I thought was beneficial to this great nation we live in. Trump is no different. But I digress.
This disturbing trend is the overt threatening of violence - against Trump supporters, against the White House (ahem, Madonna), and against the president himself... and people are cheering it on.
Three days ago, in Phoenix, AZ (look it up, I can't get links to work right, it's in smaller news outlets though), around 40 members of various left-wing political groups showed up to protest a pro-Trump rally in some just adorable matching red neckerchiefs (OMG!)... oh yeah, and a bunch of "tactical gear," armed with various semi-automatic rifles and wearing some holstered sidearms, chest rigs, plate carriers, etc. etc.
Oh, so now you remember what the second amendment is all about... interesting. So am I still a racist/bigot/Nazi for owning guns, or how does that work, exactly?
Anyway, various members of this ragtag band of self-proclaimed Reds voiced their concerns about an impending civil war, making various ominously open-ended claims about their readiness and willingness. (To clarify - I'm not against them exercising their rights or protesting, this is America, after all. If you want my thoughts on open carry of rifles, look in the July, 2014 section over there. ==>)
Quick tangent - I don't think these guys have thought this through. From their budget-ass gear to their perfect hair, I don't think most of these guys (and girls) could fight their way out of a hair salon with an M240. A lot of those same people that they're advocating or threatening violence against have spent at least one enlistment swapping rounds with much scarier people than these - combat experience (however limited) is a hell of a thing, something that I suspect remains lodged in one's subconscious, hiding in there with all the preconditioned responses to getting shot at. I'd bet good money that the first couple rounds cracking overhead would result in sheer panic - whereas if by some miracle they got the first round off at a fireteam of experienced infantry dudes, the response would be a wall of gunfire and the violence of action that will win a firefight every time.
My question is this: at what point did advocating (or perpetrating) violence against those with differing views become acceptable? When right-wing nutjobs did the same thing during the last presidency, it was a complete outrage, all over the news, and the response was overwhelming disgust (and for good reason). But now, it's okay, because it's not your candidate in office? No. That's not how this works... that's not how any of this works. Madonna gives a speech to thousands during a worldwide broadcast saying she wants to bomb the White House, and she gets FUCKING APPLAUDED for it?
You either respect the rule of law, or you don't. It's become clear to me that this element of society does not.
More double standards from the Tolerant Far Left.
Rant off.
I've noticed a disturbing trend among the more hardcore left in recent months, what with the election of President Trump (or Satan, depending on who you ask). Now let's get one thing straight - I'm not a Trump fan any more than I was an Obama fan. One of the benefits of being an American (and one that many don't take advantage of) is the
This disturbing trend is the overt threatening of violence - against Trump supporters, against the White House (ahem, Madonna), and against the president himself... and people are cheering it on.
Three days ago, in Phoenix, AZ (look it up, I can't get links to work right, it's in smaller news outlets though), around 40 members of various left-wing political groups showed up to protest a pro-Trump rally in some just adorable matching red neckerchiefs (OMG!)... oh yeah, and a bunch of "tactical gear," armed with various semi-automatic rifles and wearing some holstered sidearms, chest rigs, plate carriers, etc. etc.
Oh, so now you remember what the second amendment is all about... interesting. So am I still a racist/bigot/Nazi for owning guns, or how does that work, exactly?
Anyway, various members of this ragtag band of self-proclaimed Reds voiced their concerns about an impending civil war, making various ominously open-ended claims about their readiness and willingness. (To clarify - I'm not against them exercising their rights or protesting, this is America, after all. If you want my thoughts on open carry of rifles, look in the July, 2014 section over there. ==>)
Quick tangent - I don't think these guys have thought this through. From their budget-ass gear to their perfect hair, I don't think most of these guys (and girls) could fight their way out of a hair salon with an M240. A lot of those same people that they're advocating or threatening violence against have spent at least one enlistment swapping rounds with much scarier people than these - combat experience (however limited) is a hell of a thing, something that I suspect remains lodged in one's subconscious, hiding in there with all the preconditioned responses to getting shot at. I'd bet good money that the first couple rounds cracking overhead would result in sheer panic - whereas if by some miracle they got the first round off at a fireteam of experienced infantry dudes, the response would be a wall of gunfire and the violence of action that will win a firefight every time.
My question is this: at what point did advocating (or perpetrating) violence against those with differing views become acceptable? When right-wing nutjobs did the same thing during the last presidency, it was a complete outrage, all over the news, and the response was overwhelming disgust (and for good reason). But now, it's okay, because it's not your candidate in office? No. That's not how this works... that's not how any of this works. Madonna gives a speech to thousands during a worldwide broadcast saying she wants to bomb the White House, and she gets FUCKING APPLAUDED for it?
You either respect the rule of law, or you don't. It's become clear to me that this element of society does not.
More double standards from the Tolerant Far Left.
Rant off.
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
My dog is right, as usual
Becoming less jet lagged, thank the gods.
I had a thought this morning that is more or less the conclusion of an idea I've had for awhile - that while you don't get to pick your family, you do (at least in my case) get to choose which of them you spend time with, and you also get to choose your friends. I'm also fortunate in the regard that I actually want to spend time with my immediate family members, which is a huge plus for a variety of reasons. Moving on.
Hans, and all good dogs, have their own familiar behavior... while he didn't really choose me so much as I chose him, he has picked the rest of you people and decided that he loves you (or doesn't).
A lot of people forget that dogs are pack animals in the wild, and their family loyalties lie therein; there's none of this mandatory family love that seems to be a more or less human social construct - wolves have more of a mutual contract of defense and protection, with a genetic predisposition towards the well-being of the pack and the understanding that the weak will be sacrificed should push and shove come together. To be fair, some dogs have been so domesticated and removed from that element that this is no longer a part of their functionality. If you've ever seen a retriever hide behind its human and bark at the door, you know exactly what I'm talking about (it's not restricted to certain breeds, but some do show it more than others, in my experience). This is why there are different breeds - there are as many kinds of hounds as there are beers and individual tastes.
That said, having a Doberman has taught me a fair amount about the importance of loyalty. While he may be a complete fucking goober the majority of the time, Hans is also a killer, which is a quality I've also encountered in a few humans in the Army - fun, mellow, entertaining, but let someone shoot at or otherwise threaten their people and watch 'em go. (Side note - I'd actually say this applies to most of the paratroopers I've met, and probably the infantry community as a whole. Of course, some are scarier than others, as with canines.) This is when humanity is at its finest and when dogs are, well, just being dogs.
The point I'm rambling towards here is that while the civilized community can lead to "hive mind", the savage origins we all have in our ancestry give us quite the opposite. Hans still has it, and I can think of several of my close friends that wear that shit on their sleeves, while many others keep it hidden until necessary (and some don't have it at all, but that's not the point). Personally, I think camouflage is a useful thing, but I'll trade loyalty for subtlety any day.
The difference between us and our noble four-legged servants is that we get the luxury of picking our pack.
I know who's in mine, and I'm proud to say that we'd all shed blood for one another if we haven't already.
Much love. Off to human, be good.
I had a thought this morning that is more or less the conclusion of an idea I've had for awhile - that while you don't get to pick your family, you do (at least in my case) get to choose which of them you spend time with, and you also get to choose your friends. I'm also fortunate in the regard that I actually want to spend time with my immediate family members, which is a huge plus for a variety of reasons. Moving on.
Hans, and all good dogs, have their own familiar behavior... while he didn't really choose me so much as I chose him, he has picked the rest of you people and decided that he loves you (or doesn't).
A lot of people forget that dogs are pack animals in the wild, and their family loyalties lie therein; there's none of this mandatory family love that seems to be a more or less human social construct - wolves have more of a mutual contract of defense and protection, with a genetic predisposition towards the well-being of the pack and the understanding that the weak will be sacrificed should push and shove come together. To be fair, some dogs have been so domesticated and removed from that element that this is no longer a part of their functionality. If you've ever seen a retriever hide behind its human and bark at the door, you know exactly what I'm talking about (it's not restricted to certain breeds, but some do show it more than others, in my experience). This is why there are different breeds - there are as many kinds of hounds as there are beers and individual tastes.
That said, having a Doberman has taught me a fair amount about the importance of loyalty. While he may be a complete fucking goober the majority of the time, Hans is also a killer, which is a quality I've also encountered in a few humans in the Army - fun, mellow, entertaining, but let someone shoot at or otherwise threaten their people and watch 'em go. (Side note - I'd actually say this applies to most of the paratroopers I've met, and probably the infantry community as a whole. Of course, some are scarier than others, as with canines.) This is when humanity is at its finest and when dogs are, well, just being dogs.
The point I'm rambling towards here is that while the civilized community can lead to "hive mind", the savage origins we all have in our ancestry give us quite the opposite. Hans still has it, and I can think of several of my close friends that wear that shit on their sleeves, while many others keep it hidden until necessary (and some don't have it at all, but that's not the point). Personally, I think camouflage is a useful thing, but I'll trade loyalty for subtlety any day.
The difference between us and our noble four-legged servants is that we get the luxury of picking our pack.
I know who's in mine, and I'm proud to say that we'd all shed blood for one another if we haven't already.
Much love. Off to human, be good.
Friday, March 17, 2017
South of France, Pt 6
Happy St. Paddy's day, friends!
I'm savegely hammered as I write this, as I had to be.
Dropping the Harley off today at the rental place (MotorbikeTrip, highly recommended) was one of the more depressing things I've done in awhile. It was the end of my independence, and also of the south of France's liberation tours (I hope everyone reading this knows it's an endeavor in humor).
I celebrated this holiday (Saint Patrick's Day, for the weak among you) properly, by being the first person at the only right Irish pub in old town Nice - which is of course staffed by proper ex-pat Irish types, good people all around, who were sufficiently receptive to wild asshole Americans such as myself - drinking Guinness and Jameson in large, perhaps even horrifying, quantities. Given my sadness at leaving and at returning the Harley, walking down the Promenade des Anglais a couple miles on a beautiful Côte d'Azur day to the right bar was the only thing I could really do.
Leaving tomorrow is going to be completely miserable, primarily because it involves 20 hours of travel and that extremely rare experience of traveling backwards in time. Honestly, the only good aspects of this that I can find are that I'll get to see Hans and my own bed again. Seeing my good friends also won't suck... you know who you are.
I'm going to be in a shit mood for at least a couple of days.
Love, the American,
Jack.
I'm savegely hammered as I write this, as I had to be.
Dropping the Harley off today at the rental place (MotorbikeTrip, highly recommended) was one of the more depressing things I've done in awhile. It was the end of my independence, and also of the south of France's liberation tours (I hope everyone reading this knows it's an endeavor in humor).
I celebrated this holiday (Saint Patrick's Day, for the weak among you) properly, by being the first person at the only right Irish pub in old town Nice - which is of course staffed by proper ex-pat Irish types, good people all around, who were sufficiently receptive to wild asshole Americans such as myself - drinking Guinness and Jameson in large, perhaps even horrifying, quantities. Given my sadness at leaving and at returning the Harley, walking down the Promenade des Anglais a couple miles on a beautiful Côte d'Azur day to the right bar was the only thing I could really do.
Leaving tomorrow is going to be completely miserable, primarily because it involves 20 hours of travel and that extremely rare experience of traveling backwards in time. Honestly, the only good aspects of this that I can find are that I'll get to see Hans and my own bed again. Seeing my good friends also won't suck... you know who you are.
I'm going to be in a shit mood for at least a couple of days.
Love, the American,
Jack.
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