Purple Haunted Mansions and Voodoo Priests

Sometime in Winter, 2012:

Similar to all good slasher films, this story begins with two intrepid explorers in their early twenties roaring down a country road towards an uncertain destination. How I got conned into such a trope is a simple matter of how badly I wanted to see the movie Red Tails (A poor decision), and how I didn't want to go alone. Overall it may appear that I was getting the short end of the stick, but at the time it seemed like a pretty sweet trade (Damn you George Lucas!)

What I had bargained to do was escort my friend to an interview location for our college newspaper. The thing I didn't know was: A. The interview would be taking place someone’s house(Not a public place), and B. This man’s house was in the middle of the sticks, surrounded by nothing but thick forests and fields (leaving nowhere to run).

It is also necessary to mention that the interview my friend was doing was focused on an alleged haunted house in Bellingham… We were batting ten for ten on horror movie stereotypes that day. The only pitfall we managed to avoid was splitting up at the haunted house to search for clues. No, rather than going into the abandoned house we drove around the outside and examined it from a safe distance. Long story short, long-range circling does not provide enough information for a news story, and she needed more.

After many phone calls and what I can only imagine to be journalistic wizardry she got a man via e-mail who claimed to have lived in the house at one point, and who agreed to the interview. The catch of course was that in order for us to interview him, we would have to go to his cabin in the damned woods…

As we drove down the dusty gravel (Paved concrete for the most part) roads of Blaine my fears of being murdered, stuffed, and mounted on someone’s wall grew. I’m not sure how much I bitched on the ride there about how “Sketchy” things were, but I can guess that it was quite a bit. What I had been assured was a fifteen minute drive, ended up closer to about forty-five. By the time the car turned off of the main country road we were deep into the territory of what I can only assume was hill people.

When we turned off the main road I was surprised to find that most of the houses looked normal. I felt my anxiety about the whole situation begin to melt away. Maybe he’s just an eccentric old recluse, living in a perfectly normal house, with no intention of murdering anyone and eating their skin. Wouldn’t that be nice.

“That’s the house number!” She said, pointing to the one house with a winding drive, that led through large iron-wrought gates, flanked on both sides by gnarled oak trees. Their branches reached down like claws, warning visitors not to step through the ancient gates; lest they be torn apart by ravenous tree people (I've been told they prefer Treeple).

“There’s no way. There is absolutely no way that we are going in there!” She didn't seem to be too unnerved by the situation, which considering the ominous nature of the drive before us seemed a little strange. However the gate was open as if expecting visitors.

Terrified and slightly aggravated I turned into the drive. As we passed beneath the canopy of oak branches I noticed stone busts jutting out of the tall grass on both sides of us. “You've got to be F&^ing kidding me. Those are tombstones! This is a god damned graveyard! We are not going to interview a man who lives in a graveyard! What if he traps us and feeds us to zombie pirates?!”

While this may have seemed unrelated, I can assure you it was not. I had recently watched Scooby Doo on Zombie Island, easily one of the best films ever made, and was terrified that I would be trapped by some Cajun voodoo priest and killed or zombified. All of which are legitimate fears when you’re driving through a graveyard to meet an eccentric old man who used to live in an allegedly haunted house!

In any case, none of my whining or moaning would do anything to deter my friend. She was determined to interview this dude, and so we continued our drive. At the end of the small road stood a squat, one story house with vines creeping up the sides. One of the windows glowed orange from a light inside, casting an imposing silhouette of a man on the curtains.

As we parked the booming barks of two attack dogs (Medium sized pooches) filled the air. Springing from the house like lightning, these two killing machines leapt off of the front porch and immediately surrounded the car. This is it; I’m going to get eaten by Cujo. Luckily for us, their owner followed them out shortly and called them off the attack.

He was nothing like I had expected. Rather than the creepy old hunchback, or the willowy vampire king, he was merely a small, white-haired, and well-dressed man. He reminded me of John Hammond from Jurassic Park, and so I kept a lookout for raptors or other deadly beasts of the extinct variety. He called for us to come inside, and while I protested, we ultimately ended up following him in from the front door.

Now while I expected to find the inside of the house adorned with gas lamps, and unsettling oil paintings…. THAT WAS EXACTLY WHAT IT WAS!! The walls were cluttered with portraits of family members and pets long since dead, all illuminated by the flickering lights of old-timey gas lanterns (Filled in with bulbs now).

“Hello, I’m Edward.” The man said in a kindly voice, that did nothing to hide the air of malice that I was so sure was hiding just beneath his bushy white beard. I shook his hand and introduced myself, but still felt as though murder was imminent. After introductions he led us into a small sitting room, which of course was adorned with stained glass, large wood bookcases, and more oil paintings.

“Would you like some sausages? I rolled them myself this morning.” My friend, luckily had the excuse of dietary restrictions, but unfortunately I wasn't quick enough to find an excuse of my own, and soon found myself eating the no-doubt-poisoned sausage. They came arranged nicely on a silver platter, and tasted terrible.

Slowly the tension inside of me began to fall as there were no zombies busting through the floorboards, and no angry poltergeists tossing furniture. The interview began, and I sat awkwardly, watching the ancient paintings, making sure that their eyes weren't moving. You can never be too careful.

The interview culminated in Edward saying that he didn't believe in ghosts and thought that most of the myths surrounding the mansion he used to inhabit were just that, myths. After the interview he showed us around his house. Every room was packed wall to wall with precious works of art from all over the world. One of the hallways was made entirely of stone, and had little alcoves carved out for lighting. It was unlike anything I had ever seen.

From large statues of Chinese dragons, to maps of old England, the man had everything. I wish I had taken pictures, but my phone was dead from using the GPS to get there. Edward spent around thirty minutes touring us around, and then we said polite goodbyes and left. Overall one of the craziest things I have ever experienced.

In the end, neither of us were murdered, there were no voodoo rituals, and we made it out in one piece. Red Tails sucked the big one, and was by no stretch worth nearly getting eaten alive by cannibalistic ghost people or attack dogs. However the experience is something I will never forget…

"Camping" on the Columbia River

June 2011: Two intrepid explorers embark on a dangerous journey into the untamed wilds of the Columbia River. 

To begin this tale it is necessary to mention my family’s poor luck with anything camping related. Much like the famed movie family The Griswolds, we the Macaulays have a long history of vacation related accidents or mishaps. Ranging from food poisoning to nearby shark attacks shutting down beaches near a hotel, if there is something that can go wrong, it will. 

This tale is of one ill-fated summer camping expedition from long ago. It was a hot summer afternoon in late June, my father had just put the finishing touches on his newly remodeled boat and was ready to take it out for a spin. For some reason my sun-addled brain registered this as the perfect opportunity to attempt the mysterious activity known as camping. 

As a little history behind previous camping attempts: The last time we had attempted such a venture was over four years prior, and had ended up with the entire troupe of camping families being scared off by the heavy rainfalls of the Pacific North West, and instead detouring to stay at the Four Seasons in Seattle...

It  took us thrity minutes to put together what we felt was necessary for an overnight trip to one of the many islands that dot the Columbia river: A tent, some chocolate, fire wood, things to make fire with(I think they're called matches(Pronounced Ma-Chuz), but I can't be certain...), sleeping bags, water, and for good measure, a large net (You never know when you’re going to need one.) We loaded up the boat and took off for the nearest boat launch.

Of course when camping, it is always a good idea to check your dates. For us, this was a step we had skipped, and so we learned that it was Memorial Day Weekend only after we had hauled the boat thousands(ten) of miles.

 Every boat launch was full and had over a two hour wait. Defeated, we resolved to go home and try again later that night when some of the river yuppies would have gone home to their condos (Why anyone would ever buy a condo in Vancouver, I have no idea… Perhaps if they were aficionados of strip malls and fine bowling establishments?)

Later that night we tried again and were able to launch the boat. Minutes later we were on the water and searching for a campsite. It was around dusk by the time we were out on the river, but the heat was still unbearable, making the journey all the more epic and dangerous! 

In any case, my father had already pre-scouted a location for our trip, to avoid any of the traditional pitfalls that usually accompanied our trips. It was a secluded Island of the slightly ominous variety with a small beach cove, about a mile from the house. Goal within view, we sped off into the Columbia river, throwing caution to the wind, and began our long awaited trip.

As we neared the island I could see our perfect spot, somehow untainted by the flabby extremities of beached river yuppies. It was too good to be true, as we approached the anticipation mounted! Perhaps we will finally reach our goal and taste the sweet nectar of the universe that is camping! I thought, foolioshly.

Not a moment after the pleasant thought had passed through my brain the boat lurched and I was thrown forward onto the bow. Out of nowhere we were stopped, the motor was wining, and my face had been forcefully acquainted with a navy blue seat cushion.

It was at this time that I recalled one of the many dangerous geologic formations that populate the Columbia River, sandbars, second only of course to the fabled driftwood monster (More commonly known as driftwood.) The nature of the sandbar is of course to lie in wait for the river level to drop and then snag unsuspecting boaters with its muddy tentacles.

As I looked over the side of the boat, I could see that we were now in what appeared to be only about two feet of water, with murky and foreboding sand at the bottom. 

“You alright?” My father called. 

“Yeah, I think so.” The real interaction was much less pleasant, and may have involved a good deal of cursing/name calling, but end the result was the same. I was over the side of the boat, pant legs rolled up, putting all of my weight again the boat to dislodge it from the bar. A few super manly shoves and we were floating again.

“Ok, this time I think we’ll go a little slower.” My father, the captain said, confident that this was the last error we would make on this journey. Just as the captain of the Titanic before us, our confidence was foolishly misplaced in a boat that was "unsinkable"...

I hopped on the bow and looked for our campsite. After the sandbar there was only a matter of a few hundred feet through a narrow channel, and we would be there. Soon we would be sipping cokes and roasting hot dogs (Which we forgot), on the beach.

My Dad started the engine and we were all ahead slow….

Straight into another sandbar! Once again I found myself in the water, using my rippling (Underwhelming) biceps to move the massive(Somewhat small) boat. With a triumphant roar(whimper) I dislodged the boat and we were off!

 As we threaded the mouth of the channel, I knew that we had come to the end of our sand-bar ridden hell. The island was less than fifty feet away, and I could almost feel the gorgeous white sand(Brown mud) beneath my toes. That was until I heard a sickening scraping come from the underside of the boat. The all too familiar lurch came.

“That’s no sandbar…” Is what I like to imagine I said, but the truth was once again probably much closer to a host of  expletives and unsavory nomenclature for both the boat and the captain. 

We had "High Centered" the boat, which for those of you who are unfamiliar with nautical terms, means that the boat was balanced on a rock, with the point on its midsection. Or as it known to the layperson: "Totally Screwed".

The cursing continued as we tried to figure out a solution. The motor was now whining loudly, trying its to push us anywhere but on the rock. But this would not happen as it had been lifted part way out of the water. The boat made sounds that I had previously thought to be reserved for dying animals, or birds of prey. In short we were up a creek, and had broken the paddle through repeated abuse. 

Eventually we figured that if we both stood on the back of the boat, it ought to tip us so that the motor would dip back into the water, and for the first time that day we were correct. The back end of the boat tilted lazily into the water and my father gunned the engine to pull us off of the rock. We flew backwards momentarily, and then once again we were moving through the water with ease.

At this point in time a normal group of people might have given up, called it a wash, gone to one of the more populated campsites and had a lovely evening. My father and I are not normal people. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing multiple times and expecting a different result. Normally I like to think of myself as sane, but I can't say that we stopped trying to reach our ill-positioned campsite.

We were hell bent on having this camping trip, and so we moved to try further up the river. Never-mind the fact that we might have put a hole in the boat, we were going to continue on until we had a "manly" bonding experience. 

To make a long story slightly longer, we found a campsite and made it there safely, having the camping trip we had always dreamed of achieving....

Is what I would like to say had happened. The reality is that on the way to the next site we managed to find three more sandbars before finally saying "F%$# it!" After the fifth sandbar that day we found that our camping trip was doomed from the start, and resolved that next time we attempted such an adventure, we would do so on land. 

That night we went home and had a campfire in the backyard, where we took pictures that looked like we were "roughing it" and sent them to my stepmother. We burnt the hotdogs and ate a frozen pizza instead. Overall, pretty solid camping trip....

Bears: Part 2

2:4  Canada, a Country for the Bears

The country of Canada is a backwards one. While most civilized areas of the world view them as a whimsical hat-like addition to the Americas, it cannot be ignored altogether. While their main exports are ice and brutal blood sport, Canada can also be said to possess a beauty and majesty unparalleled by an other place on earth…

Of course, this statement would probably have been made by a Canadian, which in itself is astounding as somehow they managed to learn to read and write. Canada’s surface is covered mostly by ice. In the few spots where land can be seen breaking through, it is barren and harsh. The only animals fit to survive here, are moose, hicks, tiny mice, and of course bears.

It is truly remarkable that the minuscule population of this dark splotch on the map has managed to survive so long. With their igloos constantly being attacked by bears, and children being carried away to be “Bear-Wives”, their standard of living has fallen to one of survival.

While Canada did once attempt to have a government, it was almost overthrown by the French… If you’d like to learn more, I encourage you to look up documentation on The October Crisis in Quebec, but as this is a non-factual-factual document, I will be providing no such information here.  This government was later overthrown and then subsequently run by a rowdy group of grizzly bears, who while enforcing some rather raucous policies of murder and merriment, also managed to improve the economic crisis, by providing empty houses and jobs for the homeless as grave diggers.

Up to this day, the frozen tundra that is our hat remains a mystery. Scholars maintain that the last living Canadian died long ago, and now there are only remnants of the Eskimos

 that once lived. I fear the day when the bears will trudge out of their igloos, and try to take the south. While we have the largest military in the world at present, I find it hard to believe that we will match the cold, calculating mind of the bear.

2:5 Polynesian Cave Bears

The male Polynesian cave bear or Oursus Massacurous Can grow to be fifteen feet tall, and weigh up to three tons. They have a coat of pure white, and are fond of the soft drink Coca-Cola. As the most aggressive member of the bear family, these are not beasts to be trifled with. Stories ranging from kidnapping, to dismembering, or highway robbery have all been attributed to this ferocious bear.

Artist rendition of a PCB on the hunt

The name: Polynesian Cave Bear, is actually somewhat of a misnomer. These bears dwell in the frigid regions of the north pole, in one of the farthest regions from Polynesia possible. They also do not live in caves, mostly they break into igloos, eat the Eskimo who lives inside, and then adorn themselves with the entrails. A Polynesian Cave Bear (PCB for short) is able to display their status by the length of Eskimo entrails that they wear. While most choose to wear them as decorative scarves, some are more liberal with their usage, and will actually use them to construct elaborate headdresses, held together by the bones of old women who wander where they’re not supposed to.

When encountering a PCB it is wise to maintain a firm posture, pull a big breath of air into your lungs, and then wait for the end. It is unwise to run from a PCB as running will only succeed in sexually exciting them, and with a top speed of over sixty miles an hour, it is unlikely for a human to outrun them.

These sexually conquered humans are later turned into what the PCBs refer to as: “Bear Wives”. While the fate of these poor souls is all but uncertain, we gather what we can from the remains. Sir Carl Whethers, an explorer of Canada and expert on fossilized bear genitals writes on the subject: “The human remains found in the igloo all seemed to share one puncture mark on the back of the skull. It appears that some sort of ritual occurred among the bears and their wives that culminated in death. With the recent addition of a fully preserved bear in the mounting position behind its “wife’s” head, we can assume that the PCB shows affection through the process of mating with the human head.”

The male PCB is the only known animal to possess a penis that is actually larger than its own body length.  Measuring over twenty feet in length and at some places three feet in girth, and with a barbed tip, it is truly a miracle of nature that females survive the mating season...

Wasps & Bacon: A Battle to Remember

The following is a true story, about the first time I killed a wasp’s nest a few nights ago. The story is true, but some of the details have been tweaked to protect the identities and badass rankings of those involved.

July 2013: Exterior night. Two intrepid heroes make their way through the dense underbrush of a suburban Canadian lawn. In the distance a wild Chihuahua howls, indicating the truly perilous nature of the wilderness surrounding them.

It was a dark night, darker than any I have other experienced. My grandfather and I crept silently across the lawn, flashlight and can of raid in hand. The grass whispered sweet nothings in the wind, as if they would be the last sounds would ever here. The task at hand was one of life and death, not a job to be taken lightly. Fifty meters ahead there was a wasp’s nest, bigger than any I had ever seen (About 3 inches across).

If my grandfather was frightened at all, he did not show it. No emotions penetrated his stony resolve, and so I was left alone with my thoughts, worrying about the battle to come. Above our heads the last of the wasps made their way back to the hive, no doubt to prepare for another day of tyranny, harassing poor families at breakfast when all they want to do is eat their damn bacon.

12 Hours Earlier:

An American wasp looking scumbaggy

“DAMN YOU WASP!” a battle had been raging for over ten minutes between me and a pair of aggressive wasps attempting to spirit away my bacon. It was a bleak breakfast, filled with fear of losing fried pork products and the potential of being stung by terrifying beasts of the air.

Breakfast ended all to early, and there was no time for the post-bacon cup of coffee, throwing off my routine for the rest of the day, and deeply saddening my poor grandparents. Something had to be done, but at the time I did not know what.

“Someday wasps, someday…”

5 Hours Before Battle:

The store clerk looked at me as if she knew what I was about to do. I set down the can of raid along with the dozen chocolate chip cookies on the counter. The cookies were a ploy to distract her from my true intentions.

“Got a wasp problem?”

She was a sharp one, seeing instantly through my thick veil of mystery and misdirection.

“Yeah, they kept trying to take my ham.” I said nonchalantly attempting to make the subject matter seem lighter than it truly was. It is a well-known fact that ham is not worth revenge killing.

“Make sure you spray them at night, you run less of a risk for getting stung.”

I shrugged off her comment, keeping up the façade that I had no intention of killing these beasts. I paid and walked away, enjoying one of the chocolaty distractions I had purchased.

Present Time:

Revenge was in the air, even the animals could smell it. Lucky for us, wasps aren’t animals, as they lack a soul with which to feel animal-like. Never again would I eat bacon in fear, never again would I have to defend myself at the breakfast table, and never again would I cut my post-bacon coffee. As we closed in on the wasp’s nest I could see hundreds (Seven) of them working themselves into the deep honeycombs of the nest.

They had clearly taken a position of power for their stronghold. Hanging directly beneath the coil hook of the garden hose, if it was so much as jostled they would be on the offensive. It rested like a landmine, waiting for unsuspecting humans to disturb its rest, and subsequently have their days/lives ruined.

Sweat beaded down my forehead the closer we got. I swore I could hear the buzzing of sentries close by, but I couldn’t see any  to confirm my suspicions. It was pitch black, and the wind had stopped, creating an eerie silence. I was sure the wasps would hear our approach, but it appeared my stealthy choice of footwear (Socks) had paid off. The wasps did not so much as stir.

I readied the can in my hand and motioned to my grandfather for the flashlight. “Make sure you get right up underneath the nest, or they might get a chance to attack.” He said, valiantly.

In a wildlife survival guide written by reputable source, it states: “A wasp charge is akin to a herd of charging rhinos in both size and ferocity. In the documentary Daffy Duck it has been seen that these hostile relatives of the common honey bee will even take the shape of larger, more threatening animals to intimidate their prey. In the animal kingdom there is nothing as terrifying or deadly as an organized group of angry wasps.” (See: The Bible Too, Section 9:1 Wasps, I hate them.)

I found myself with my hand directly below the wasp’s nest, finger on the trigger, and can aimed directly at the sleeping wasp horde. My grandfather nodded to me in a solemn gesture, letting me know both that it was time, I was becoming a man, and that he was proud. Feeling confident, I pulled the trigger and unleashed the white, foamy stream of death onto the bug-eyed menace.

The wasps didn’t see it coming. It was a blitzkrieg in the night, a shot in the dark, a knife in the back. As they fell, I swore I could hear one shouting: “Nooooooooo.” It was a massacre in five seconds flat. As quickly as

it had begun, it was over…

While I can respect them as a species for their love of bacon, I sleep well at night knowing it was the only option. While I know that this was only one battle of many, it means that I get one day to rest, a day to eat my bacon in piece, and if they should return I will be ready for them…

Bears, and the Taxonomy of Bears

Today's post requires a different kind of introduction (Twighlight zone anyone?). This story does not come from real life, or anywhere near it, instead it is pulled from a short encyclopedia-type-thing that I have been writing for some time now. Here is part of Chapter two from The Bible Too: An Encyclopedia for the Unholy.

The male grizzly bear, or oursus erecti.

2: Bears

Bears are a majestic creature. They are one of the few natural born killers that have somehow in our minds been transformed into snuggly play things for our children (When I say our children I of course mean your children, the only children I have are the ones in my basement. They will tell me the location of the girlscout base.). Now as disturbing as this transformation is, there is something that cannot be ignored about the bear’s majestic ferocity.

For this reason I feel that bears deserve their own section in the New New Testament. This one is for you bears!

2:1 The Taxonomy of Bears

The juvenile bear emerging from its mother's egg

A little known fact about bears is that they are the only known land mammal to lay eggs. Now I know what you are thinking; “But science says that mammals have to give live birth!” Well let it be the first and not the last time for me to say: Fuck Science! If I have learned anything from science in my life it is that there is a bullshit explanation for every magical phenomenon on earth and in another ten years that explanation will change to something else, and so on and so forth.

The male bear or Oursus Erectai, can stand up to twenty feet tall (Only in some extreme cases like that of the Polynesian Cave Bear). The male bear can also in some cases have tusks over five feet in length (Again also only in the case of the Polynesian Cave Bear). The male bear is a ferocious beast and cares about nothing other than defending its honey and ripping faces off of people who piss it off. Bears have been known to collect the faces of hikers, dry them out using hot sand and then either wear them over their own faces in a macabre show of hunting prowess, or they hang them in their bear dens as conversation starters.

Female bears are no slouch. If you thought the male bear was a loose cannon wait until you hear this. Female bears are the rulers of the bear world (Democratically elected of course). They can often be found in the back of the den either raising their young, or eating them if they feel so inclined. That’s right! Maybe one night papa bear took too long getting home with the food and bam! Suddenly his son Jimmy is dead and his bones have been displayed as an ornamental wind chime at the front of the den as a reminder to be quicker next time.

Now both genders of bear can be found almost anywhere in the world. Bears are one of the most adaptable creatures on this green earth. They can live anywhere from the fetid sewers of India to the highest peaks of the Andes. This versatility leads to a high population of bears, of course when they aren’t being hunted by redneck assholes (Don’t worry we’ll get to you later! See Polynesian Cave Bears 2:5). The bear population is dwindling, but rest assured that one day they will be our new overlords, that is if squid don’t take to land first (See 6:6 Squids are scary as hell).

I for one welcome our new bear masters…

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How Balloons and Coffee Can Lead to Trouble With the Law

It was a bright summer day, June of 2006, the prime of my long career of mischief and mayhem. On that particular day my friend Michael and I were driving to get coffee and arguing the problems of the world, such as physics, mutant animals taking over, and which summer movies would be the best. 

That day we were arguing over balloons...

“I’m telling you man, if you light a match under a balloon full of water, it won’t pop.” I told him emphatically. My friend had just shown me this trick the other day, and thus I was feeling pretty confident in my position,

“That balloon is going to &^#ing pop! There’s no way!” Sorry for the expletives, but that's the way we talked when we were teenagers. Swear words were like a foreign spice, used to kick up conversations, and make them something fresh and new. It didn't help that only moments earlier we had been in a deadlock debate about the thickness of grizzly bear skulls, which understandably had tensions running pretty high.

This argument continued, until it came to the usual conclusion of "Prove it." 

Being an amateur scientist is difficult, especially when balloons are scarce, so rather than going to buy some we settled for an old Jack In the Box cup and a Bic lighter. Rather than waiting until we got home, I wanted to settle the argument right then and there, in the parking lot of Brewed Awakenings (Local Coffee Shop). I took an old water bottle and poured it in to the cup, waving my hands like David Copperfield performing a Vegas show. Then, showing Michael that the cup was indeed full, I ignited the flame and held it to the bottom of the cup.

The end result was just as I expected, after nearly a minute of being exposed to the flame, the water had stayed in the cup, end of story.  “See?” I said gloatingly to Michael, who in the three seconds it had taken to demonstrate had already become bored.

“Yeah, ok whatever.” Knowing full well that was all the acknowledgement I would get from our argument we headed inside to get some coffee.

Now, as much as Physics related magic tricks are pretty entertaining, the story is not quite over...

As we walked into the coffee shop it felt strangely empty, only one table occupied by a group of surly old people playing bridge. Michael and I sauntered up to the counter, in the way that only teenagers with a pocket full of their parents money can do, and ordered what we considered at the time to be the manliest drinks(Anything that had coffee was manly at the time.)

“Can I get two grande white cow mocha freezes with whipped cream?” I asked, putting extra emphasis on the ‘R’ in grande to make myself seem worldly and attractive to the clearly uninterested barista. I forked over my cash and went to wait my drink. As I sat down I noticed two cop cars pulling into the parking lot. 

“Woah dude, check it out, popozow” At the time I was feeling pretty gangster for my use of the word 'popozow'. We watched silently as the cop cars pulled into the coffee shop parking lot. Living in Vancouver, there wasn't much to do, so seeing two cop cars no doubt about to bust some hard criminals was pretty exciting. 

“Maybe they’re just getting donuts.” On a normal day that would have been correct, but on this day it was not. Rather than pulling into the parking spots, they drove up behind my car and sandwiched it in. 

“Oh SH*& dude what did you do?!” My blood ran cold. Technically I wasn't supposed to be driving other people until I had my license for six months. A law I had been frequently violating. Granted there was probably no way that the cops could have known this, but in my teenage mind, they knew and I was going to do hard time.

I walked out of the coffee shop and into the bright sun. One of the cops stepped out and walked towards me. “Is this your car?”

Damn! They are here for me. “Yes.” I said timidly, not wanting to come off as threatening or guilty in any way.

“We got a call a few minutes ago about someone doing drugs in the back of a car in this parking lot. This car specifically. Do you mind if we search your vehicle?” His tinted sunglasses reflected heat beams at my face, searching for guilt, ferreting out every tiny crime I had ever committed, and then his words sunk in.

Drugs?! Damned old people! “Yeah, no problem, it’s unlocked.” I knew there was nothing incriminating in the car, so I let them search. I was still reeling from the fact that someone thought I would do drugs, in a parking lot, in broad daylight...

In the end, they found a  total of sixteen Bic Lighters, some unlit fireworks(At the time, not illegal) and about twenty empty cans of monster energy drinks. As much as I might have looked like a junkie deadbeat to them, it was clear that I had not been doing any drugs in the parking lot.

“I’m sorry, must’ve just been a mistake.” I wanted to scream: "No sh*%!", but I kept my calm, knowing I was talking to the law. Michael walked out of the coffee shop and towards the car.

“Can you mess with my friend a little?” I asked the officer, wanting some revenge for the stupid argument that had spawned all this nonsense. He smiled and waited for Michael to get a little closer before loudly yelling: “Stay back sir! Don’t come any closer!”

Michael went white, and froze in place, and the officer began to laugh. They apologized again and left me free to go. Of course, I realized then that the girl Michael and I were supposed to be meeting had been watching the whole time, with no context…

It was a fun time at the coffee shop trying to explain the whole scenario.

Three shots of espresso, and a whole host of expletives later we were all laughing and heading to the movies. As I left I threw a glare of my own at the old people, knowing that they now thought me a meth junkie. One of them visibly recoiled and I felt a twinge of satisfaction.

The lesson here is: Doing a science experiment kids? Not in the coffee shop parking lot you aren't!

My Life As a Rain God: #1

It has come to my attention that it matters not where I travel, there appears to always be a dark cloud that hovers above me. Now, before you go on and think this is some sort of depressing metaphor, I can assure you that it is one-hundred percent literal. Over the past fifteen years, I have found that nearly anywhere I go rain and poor weather will follow me. The following is a quick explanation of why I think I might be a pagan deity of shit weather.

Zulu Nyala, a resort known for good weather and zebra poop

Africa 2008:

When I stepped off of the plane in South Africa I expected heat, a desert, barren of everything but lions and other various savanna creatures. What greeted me instead was weather all too similar to home(Bellingham). The moment we met our guide he was able to see my distaste. “Don’t worry, it never rains here, it only looks that way. They are in a seven year drought here.”

All I heard was a challenge from the universe; I rubbed my hands together and went to work. More accurately, I passed out from twenty hours’ worth of jet-lag

and bad airline food. When I awoke I found that we were traveling through a barren savanna, approaching a grouping of yurts (Large tent-like structures with solid floors, electricity, etc.). Outside the clouds did not seem to have moved, and if anything appeared to be getting worse.

“You sure it’s not going to rain?” I was hesitant as I had packed for, well, Africa. A place I had assumed to be arid and hot, much like what I had seen in the documentaries The Lion King and Blood Diamond.

“Did you not hear me before?” The man said laughing at what he apparently thought was rampant and persistent stupidity. “It has not rained here in seven years! Don’t you worry, this is Africa, it will be hot, I can promise you that.” His khakis and explorer’s hat mocked me, as did the humorous tone of his Afrikaans accent. I did not ask about the rain anymore.

For two days he was correct. I spent my days crashing through the hot African underbrush in a large jeep, watching our guide Ken poke at hippos and rhinos with various sharp pieces of the earth (Yet another story for another time.) But then, on the third day, the sky darkened once more, and I felt the all too familiar dampness gathering in the air. Being from Portland originally I like to think that I have become quite accustomed to the feeling of impending rain (it’s a constant.)

Once again I asked our guide what he thought, and once again I was mocked for my trouble, but this time it was more of a formality as I knew what was coming. That afternoon as we were tramping through an abandoned house in search of man-eating fire ants(Or just fire ants), it began to rain, hard. All I could do was laugh, and apparently it was the same for the guide.

That night everyone was in a good mood, celebrating the end of their drought, and I could not help but feel a damp power growing in my fingertips. This was the first time I knew that someday I would have a power than any other. Let no parades be held, for I shall rain  on them all!! People looked at me strangely as I laughed maniacally to myself. Laugh all you want! Soon all you will know as dampness!

More rain god stories to follow…

Ode To A Beautiful Piece of Furniture

It was the fall of my sophomore year in college, autumn had come to the leaves of beautiful Bellingham, and it was time to look for furnishings for my new dorm room. Being strapped for cash and newfound experts of Craig’s List, we set out to find an easy chair to tie together the eclectic assortment of items we had collected over the first month.

While surfing the lists my roommate came across something truly beautiful, a once in a lifetime piece of furniture, with a heart of gold, and exterior of ripped beige fabric. I have never seen anything like it since, and from the moment we saw the price tag of “free” we knew it had to be ours.

That night we braved the icy winds of the north to my Subaru outback and embarked on a journey to the “sticks” (Blaine). After about twenty minutes of driving on pitch-black country roads we found ourselves on a deserted gravel drive leading to a dilapidated wood house. From inside I could hear the barking of what seemed to be a very threatening and presumably large dog.

Old yellow paint peeled of the side of the building, and weeds overgrew both sides of the walkway. One light illuminated a window where a shadowy figure sat watching television  and smoking a cigarette. Under normal circumstances this may have looked to be a dangerous and “sketchy” situation, but as there was a free chair involved we didn’t care.

Bravely (or heroically, take your pick) we knocked on the door and waited with bated breath. The dog came first, scratching at the screen door, barking until his jaw was sore, warning us that this was no place for us to be, but I stood my ground, saying: “This is my chair now dog! You back the hell down or I’ll have you spayed, because I am people and I have that power!” The dog, seeing clearly that it had met its match, backed down and went whimpering into the corner (Which was definitely from me, and not from the fact that his owner told him to.)

The man who came to the door looked like a cross-breed of hipster and hillbilly, or hipbilly if you prefer. On his head he wore a torn trucker hat, directly below thick framed black glasses, below that a wife-beater, and then a pair of blue jeans too tailored to be accidentally fashionable.

“You here about the chair?” He asked in a raspy voice, with a slight hint of Chad Kroger brand douche to it.

“Yup, it is free right?” Said my roommate (Loren; a male), not really sounding like he had taken in the abnormality of the situation, as was his like in most situations.

“Yup, here it is, can you guys get it out to your car?”

I looked to where his hand pointed. I could not answer as all thoughts had been struck from my brain by the mind-numbing beauty and majesty of what we would lovingly come to call Jizz Chair. It sat there, as if it knew we were coming to take it away, and as I looked I swore I could see a twinkle in one of its buttons, like it wanted to come with us. I looked over and saw Loren with the same look spread across his face.

It was only moments, but it felt like hours had passed between us by the time we finally loaded her into my hatchback. It fit perfectly, with almost no room to spare, and at that moment I knew it to be destiny. With the chair in tow, we waved goodbye to our newfound hipbilly friend. I think he may have cried as we drove away, but I can’t be sure.

When we brought it inside to the dorm there were many an odd look exchanged. Maybe it was the stains, maybe it was the majesty, but people always seemed to have a strong reaction to Jizz Chair. If the name isn’t obvious now, I will explain it. This nom de guerre came about through our inability to identify the origins of some of the stains on the chair…. But don’t worry! We put a cover on it… after about three months.

We had the chair for a total of eight months, and through those months it weathered the tears of breakups, and many a drunken wrestling match in our room. It was faithful, and we loved it as a member of the family.

As with all dorm furniture, June rolled around and we found that neither of our parents would let us bring the stray home. It was a sad night when Loren, Ciara(His Girlfriend/our other roommate), and I loaded Jizz Chair into the back of the car once again to return it to the wild.

We sat in somber silence as we drove to the campus communications building. Once we were there, and had checked that campus police were not in the vicinity, we gingerly  lifted her out and carried her inside. Down in the basement of the building there was a small alcove beneath the winding staircase we thought would be a perfect home for our beloved.

I placed our hand written note: Please do not move this chair, we love it. With the note placed, we all said our goodbyes and parted ways.

When I came back in the fall the chair was gone. Whether it was moved by the authorities, kidnapped by some coked out pranksters, or taken to a lovely home, I will never know. Some nights I think I hear the sound of its soft body, slinking in through our apartment door, but then when I wake I find that it was just the wind…

Note:

I tried to sell this chair on Craig’s List using the age old technique of lying and embellishment, but it was taken down for violating the rules… 

Included is the original post, be warned, it’s quite graphic and crude. Enter at your own risk.

http://imgur.com/3bccwYO

On Bargaining and Moose Sandals

Cozumel Mexico, 2013: The following story comes from an excursion off of a Carnival cruise ship during the most recent of my spring breaks. Picture beautiful, sunny, Mexico, and then throw that image in the garbage, as it seems that anywhere I choose to travel, it manages to rain(Even a spot in a ten year drought, a story for another time).

My mother, brother, sister, and I were walking down a side street that smelled a little too much like urine, and not nearly enough like cheap empanadas. The sides were lined with signs that said: “Flea Market”, or “Best Prices in the Flea Market”, “My prices are better than his!” Seeing these I thought this would be a decent enough place to hone my bargaining skills, which at a base level, are pretty minimal.

I came into the flea market with a simple goal; find a pair of sandals, and then GTFO. We were only about five feet into the flea-market-alley when a small man jumped out of one of the dilapidated buildings and began to forcefully usher us inside.

“You are going to love my prices, I have exactly what you want, how about some jewelry for your mother? I have great prices on silver!” Already it was becoming quite clear that this was not just going to be an excursion for sandals, but I was thankful for a respite from the muggy outside air of the damp, iguana-laden, streets.

Unfortunately, what I found within the flea-store was one fan, pointed directly at the young man working the register. So much for that. It is difficult to describe the wares that surrounded me when I entered the man’s store. While most of the shops on the main thoroughfare had some sort of theme to their items, this one carried everything from dark wood sculptures of the alien fighting predator, to whimsical smoking pipes in the shapes of enormous dragons or naked women.

My sister, being a teenager, was immediately distracted by a display case of hand-woven bracelets with words like “Mexico”, or “viva” embroidered on them.  I moved toward her to intercept before the salesman could get there, but like some sort of hard selling genie emerging from the smoking pipes, he popped up before I had even managed to move.

After several minutes of complementing her taste in fine bracelets and selling a few, we left little hassle, or at least that’s what I thought. We had barely left the shop when another man in a colorful, red, green, and white vest was suddenly walking beside us. If he was trying to blend in, he made a very poor chameleon. Either way we found ourselves being ushered into his shop.

“My silver is much cheaper than his, don’t you worry mother, we will find you something you like here, I guarantee it.” Inside his shop was much of the same, and after another ten sandleless minutes, I found that we were being pulled out of the store by another shop owner.

At this point I realized that there was some sort of support between all of these different flea market bazaars. In any case, when I was pulled into the next man’s shop, I saw them: Sitting right next to the radiator, hiding beneath many colorful ponchos, were a pair of plain flip-flops with a moose on them. Even though I was delighted by my find I knew that if I was to get a fair price I would need to hide my excitement from the shop owner. Lucky for me, he was more intent on selling my little brother (12) one of the many predator statues that these shops seemed to possess.

Surreptitiously I walked over to the radiator and pretended to check out the ponchos, all the while admiring the quality of these back-alley flip flops. Leather tops, hard rubber soles, and the moose! It was very clear that these sandals were quality, and probably worth some ridiculous price way out of my range…

Or at least, that’s what the shop keeper would have had me think….

It was like he had ESP, he saw right through my clever poncho ruse, and directly into the meat of my sandal-desiring core. “You like the sandals eh?” I began to think these sandals had been sitting in this shop for ages, enticing in tourists, taunting them with their foreign, beast-like beauty, but nonetheless I played it cool.

“They’re alright, but I don’t have a lot of money.” Trying to play up the poor college school angle doesn't exactly work when you’re on a cruise…

“Don’t worry, we’ll find something that works. How about $40?”

I’ve never paid forty dollars for a pair of sandals in my life, and I wasn't about to start then. It was time for the many long years of jedi-bargaining training my father had given me as a kid to begin paying off. While I am nowhere near his skill level(He once spent five consecutive days bargaining at the same store for a piece of art, and got it down to a quarter of the price) I still thought I had some of the gift.

“I was thinking something closer to fifteen.”

The man looked as though how were about to start crying. “If I sell you these for fifteen, tomorrow I will be shut down! I have a family to feed, I can’t give you these prices.” He looked genuinely distraught about the sudden price-shift. Tears were welling in his eyes, lines of anxiety crossing his face, and then suddenly it all melted away. “However, I know the predicament of being a college student eh? I have a son in college too. Why don’t we say $35?”

“I can’t do that! I have to pay for textbooks! If they were gold maybe…” Maybe a little too dramatic, but it had the desired effect. The man clearly saw that I was not a typical tourist, willing to be bullied into high prices for cheap, albeit exotic moose-adorned footwear.

“How about $30, and we celebrate over a shot of tequila? You’re twenty –one right?”

I nodded to him that I was. “$20, and you give my mother the shot of tequila.”

“$25, and I give you both a shot of tequila.”

“Deal.” Proud of my bargain I sidled up to the counter with my mother, who, if she was hesitant about taking shots with in a back alley flea market, was not showing it at all. Being a non-drinker under normal circumstances, I was a little anxious, but I thought One shot of shitty tequila, what the hell.

“This is one of my best bottles.” He was clearly lying, but I said nothing, wanting not to mess with my chances of obtaining the moose sandals. He poured us two shots into tiny Dixie cups, and we drank. Watery, almond, fire touched hit my throat like a landmine, and I feared I would vomit.

The shop owner laughed at me and said: “Breathe through your nose. You can teach that to your friends back home eh?”

In any case, I swallowed, managed not to vomit, and grabbed my prize from the radiator. I gave him a twenty and explained I didn't have a five, he relented, lowering his price once again and we prepared to leave. “Hey you like the tequila? Why don’t you buy the bottle? Yours for only $30!” Even I knew that thirty was far too expensive for a bottle of cheap tequila, especially in Mexico.

We continued to walk as the man pleaded with us, and by the time we had gotten to the street the bottle had dropped to ten. “Please mama, your son break me with the shoes, show me some love!” We all laughed, and continued on our way to the ship.

As I sit here in my moose flip-flops I can’t help but feel a winner, and that I have at least earned a few more points in my bargaining skill tree…

The Tale of Sparky

Goodwill: The final frontier, mountains of old furniture, held together by thousands of unwanted sweater vests, and ugly duvet covers. How I found myself there isn’t much of a story, but what came afterward is quite ridiculous. The year was 2013, it was a mildly warm day, clouds whisped their way through the blue sky without a care, and I was spending it in Goodwill, searching for a desk to furnish my newly empty apartment.

As I walked through the aisles, heterosexual life-mate Braden in tow, I noticed a man sitting by himself, asleep on one of the couches. Immediately I attempted to alter course to avoid him, but it was too late, he had spotted his prey.

“You guys looking for furniture?” An odd question to ask someone in the furniture department of Goodwill…

“Yeah, we’re trying to find a desk.” I replied hesitantly, noticing the large Jesus fish embroidered on his jean jacket. He nodded as though this had been exactly what he had expected.

“You must be college students then? I got a big truck if you want to haul anything back to your place!” At this point I felt that this dirty long-hair was getting a little too close to getting me into his van, and I politely dismissed him moving on through the furniture.

“Haha, thanks, I will let you know…” There was no intention of ever letting him know.

After a brief search it was clear that weren’t going to find anything falling within both our price range and “standards” for furniture, and we walked towards the exit. As we were leaving the store, like a bolt of beautiful mahogany lightning, something caught my eye. Right in the exit area was a closeout of old office furniture!

Like kids at a piñata factory, Braden and I skipped happily towards the desks, drawing odd looks as we went, but remaining blissfully ignorant of those around us. It wasn’t long before we were completely infatuated with a desk, and lined up to pay for it. Halfway through the line the issue of how it was to be moved home popped into my head…

At this point I noticed a rather dapper looking upstanding citizen in a jean jacket with a Jesus fish on it behind me. Not thinking about the consequences of my actions I spoke. “Hey, how much would it cost for you help us move a desk back to our apartment?”

He looked at me bewildered that someone had taken him up on his offer. His dirty long hair fell in tangles now, clearly skewed from his nap, but giving him the air of a confused gorilla. “Well what do you have?”

I thought back to my days in Mexico, bargaining for sombreros with tequila shots(A story for another time). “I’ll give you fifteen bucks.”

“Deal.” He said, grinning a grin that contained much less teeth than the average.

Before long we were outside of Goodwill, waiting with the desk for the man to pull his truck around. When he did finally pull up it was clear that the truck was much smaller than Braden or I had anticipated, but this didn’t seem to faze the man at all. He stepped out jovially from the side of the truck. “I never got either of your names!” He said, grinning that same toothy grin…

Braden and I introduced ourselves as politely as possible, not wanting to end up as his next victims. “Name’s Sparky, nice to meet you.” Suddenly I felt my eyes drawn to another embroidered patch on the man’s vest, this one bearing his name… ‘Sparky’.

Using our years of social science college studies as a guide, Braden and I loaded the desk, in a way we both felt was ‘safe enough’. “Alright, one of you will need to ride with me to direct me to your apartment.”

“Don’t worry Ash”

Thank God, Braden is going to save me from the horrible fate of riding with a crazy person. I thought, wrongly…

“I’ll drive your car back.”

Son of  a bitch! The whole situation is made that much funnier by the fact that Braden is about six-foot-six, and cuts a more intimidating figure than me by a long shot…

In any case I found myself riding shotgun, next to sparky, in the cab of a truck that felt more like a garage sale. There were odds and ends strewn everywhere and no less than three bibles in the car. We pulled out of Goodwill desk in tow, and I watched the bed of the truck, keeping an eye on our desk. The first curve was a small one, and we took it at about five miles an hour….

It was enough to do the trick. In a cacophony of noise, and reminders of my own stupidity, I watched the desk roll out of the truck and shatter on the hard asphalt of the parking lot.

In another long story short, we loaded all of the pieces into Sparky’s truck and were on the road again. Lucky for us, pieces of desks don’t fall out of trucks as easily.

Halfway Home:

“Hey Ashton, why don’t you drive for a minute?” This was clearly not a request, because as he said it, his hands came off the wheel. When Sparky asked for something you did it. Anxiety spiking, I grabbed the wheel and tried to keep us steady on the freeway while Sparky began to light a cigar.

“Man I tell  you, that was some crazy stuff with the desk, I can’t even believe it, I’ve seen some real crazy shit.” I made the mistake of running with this…

“Like what?”

“Well back when I was working up in Alaska…” Doing God knows what. “I fell off a forklift and went into a coma for a few weeks. When I final came out I said Lyndon B Johnson is president!” Not quite understanding the abrupt change I nodded, emphasizing that I understood. “And that’s why I don’t really have short term memory! I can’t even remember your friends name!”

“Wow.”

“You’re telling me! And then there was another time I took a corner at ninety on my motorcycle and broke both my legs!”

This continued for several minutes until we were nearing the apartment. “Man this area really brings back memories…”

“Did you used to live here?” I asked, genuinely interested in finding a ‘normal’ conversation topic.

“Nah. I used to know this girl around here, but her boyfriend was a real asshole, so I had to fight him in that parking lot right there. The cops came, it was a whole deal, never again man…”

We pulled up to the apartment and I found myself thanking myself for my life, and that Sparky hadn’t decided halfway there to murder me. We unloaded the desk, and carried the pieces to our apartment. I gave Sparky his fifteen bucks and then sent him on his way. To this day I wonder if he remembers me, or if I will ever see him again, surfing the couches of Goodwill...

One thing is for sure, that night I learned that wood glue and screws can’t fix…