The Cock Caper… The Barroom Chronicles, Episode 17

If you’re under 18, or do not have a sense of humor please exit now.

No, this episode is not about a cockfights held in the courtyard, but it does involve a police report. No, it doesn’t end in any arrests, but it does involve an illegal activity. Yes, what we will delve into was the product of dirty minds, but it resulted in the cleanest hands our town has ever witnessed. Prepare yourself for another foray into one of the most sacred places in our seedy little barroom – The Ladies’ Room, and what happens when one or two customers go a little crazy for co…, um, CoCo for Coconuts.

Disclaimer: This Episode, like the rest of the Barroom Chronicles is designed for adults, if you are squeamish or don’t have a sense of humor please exit through the door on the left.

The idea was awesome, the execution was flawless, and all I had to do was go to an adult store to purchase the proper cock, a task which ended up being harder than I imagined, especially when my wife and I had to ask the salesgirl for a tape measure so we could get the proper girth. Her expression said she had seen it all, except this. When we explained what we were up to, she was more than willing to give a helping hand. If you haven’t figured this out yet, we were on a mission from Nate B, the designer of the best soap dispenser ever, to procure the right penis for his creation. After a half hour or so of comparisons, both size and texture were taken into consideration, a purchase was made and we walked out with a phallus which was destined to be busy during its lifetime, only we were shocked at how short of life it would have.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so in the interest of economy, please cast your eyes to the right. Genius, it was designed that when the penis was lifted soap would be dispensed through the

The genius and an admirer

head. And it worked! The night that it was installed could have been one of the gayest events I’ve ever witnessed, seven guys standing in the women’s room playing with a cock on the wall, laughing as it dumped soap into our hands.  It worked so well that we went through a bunch of soap. In its short time in existence it was the star of many photographs taken by those passing through. Then it happened. It disappeared!

As fate would have it, I was lucky, the cock was lucky, everybody was lucky, except the original Cocksnatcher, yes, the name given to the first woman who vandalized the soap dispenser by ripping the dildo off the wall.  What follows are the highlights to my written statement included on the police report.  Names have been changed to insult and humiliate:

On Thursday night, XX/XX/12, during my shift, The Cocksnatcher stepped into the lady’s room. I noticed she spent an inordinate amount of time in the restroom, piquing my index of suspicion. When she left the restroom, I approached and took a deep breath, just in case of odiferous offenses. (Okay, this wasn’t in the report, but, hell, why not embellish a bit?)  Upon inspection, part of the soap dispenser was missing. The soap dispenser is a novelty, it’s a penis - commonly referred to as a dildo.  If confused, see attached photo… (again, another embellishment, I didn’t attach any photos, I had reason to believe the responding officer knew what a dick was, he’s a cop. right?) I immediately confronted Ms. Penisnapper about the whereabouts of the dispenser.  She said she didn’t have it.

Cut from police report narrative to the scene: I ran from the lady’s room out onto the front deck and spit fire while confronting Ms Polly the Penile-Lifter, I have to admit she did a good job holding her ground, she told me that she stuck it up her anal aperture and if I wanted it I could dig it out, to which I responded that if she’d it anywhere else it would have fell out. When your being raked across the coals, accused of larceny of the Phallic kind, there’s only so much that you can say, especially in front of a half-dozen people, including your husband.  In disgust she spit on the ground and walked away, chewing her husband’s ass as they went.  The tirade continued at least a block before they walked out of earshot.

Who will have the cleanest hands in town?

What about the dildo? I can hear you asking. She had stashed it in the garbage can. So, after a call to the cock doctor, who made a special house call, the dispenser was up and running again, this time with what we thought was a better attachment.  For two more weeks, the soap dispenser was the center of attention, hell, it even survived an inordinate amount of attention from a motorcycle gang that was passing through. And then, as fate would have it, our wonderful device fell prey to a professional snatcher. On a busy Friday night, it went missing, never to be heard from again. No ransom notes, no communication, nothing. Everybody was heartbroken, and wishes, prayers and spells went out that someone would have an eternally irritated vagina. Oh, we have our suspicions, like a couple of ladies from Idaho who were staying at the Ghost Rails Inn that weekend, or the known kleptomaniac who was visiting relatives, but, unlike the first snatcher, there was no trail.  Disgusted and defeated, I waved the white flag, I gave up.

Until now! A year later, there’s a new soap dispenser in the works, and this time it’s coming with an alarm. Pull it the wrong way, and a fire alarm will ring in the bar and the humiliation will be instant. I’ve been advised that bets are already being placed on who will inherit the title Cocksnatcher of the Year 2013…  Whoever it will be, they’ll have to wait until the sash and tiara arrive, then it’s game on!

Montana Rural Sneak Preview

This post could very easily be an addition to The Barroom Chronicles, except that this is a fictional story, even though the Humming

Bartender may or may not be inspired by someone who is destined to receive his own episode of the nonfiction series. The voice is James Morrison, the narrator of Cemetery Street. Montana Rural is the continuation of his story. Enjoy this sneak preview of my work in progress, Montana Rural.

By the time we reached the bed and breakfast all I wanted was sleep, but my father insisted on buying me a beer. The three of us trudged down the street and slipped inside the semi-crowded bar. We plopped ourselves around a small table and within moments we were accosted by a humming bartender with an alien tattooed on his neck. “Hmmmm…  Welcohmmmm to Boyd and Chadwick’s, where the beer’s warm and glasses are dirty, tonight’s special is if you don’t like it you can shut the fuck up! Hmmmm… What can I get you? Hmmmm?” he asked.

Diane and my father looked at each other and I tried not to laugh. I had firsthand knowledge of Reginald’s antics and until I noticed him when we walked in I never thought of subjecting my guests to his whims. When we hesitated, he said in a fairly good English accent: “Come on now mate, hurry the fuck up, I ‘ave other inmates to attend to.”

Dad and I ordered two beers and Diane ordered a Cosmopolitan.

“Hmmmm, I’ll be right back… Hmmm,” he hummed and shuffled away.

“That was rude,” she commented and then added: “He’s kind of a strange bird.”

“You can’t imagine,” I told her.  “He’s name’s Reginald and he’s a local legend. People come from miles around.”  What had me interested was what kind of drink he would whip up for Diane. I was fairly certain he had never made a Cosmopolitan before and he wouldn’t waste his time looking it up; he was known for throwing concoctions together and demanding that you finish it.

A few minutes later he returned with our round. “Hmmmm  Two Beers and a Cosmo – politan.” He somehow managed to switch accents from gay to English between syllables.

Diane looked from her drink, which almost glowed neon green, back to the bartender.  “Ummm, this isn’t a Cosmopolitan.”

“Hmmmm… What do you mean? It’s good enough to be on the cover of any magazine. If you don’t like it, take it to the compliant department.” He pointed to the front door where a Compliant Department sign hung over the doorway.  “Now if you’ll be kind enough to pay me eight dollars I won’t complain. Hmmmm”

My father handed him a ten and told him to keep the change.

“Hmmmm… Blessed plenty,” Reginald said in a southern accent before humming and shuffling off.

“Wow,” Diane said watching Reginald again switch gears attending to someone else.

“The best part is that he believes he was abducted,” I said.

“By?” My father asked.

“Aliens.”

“Wow,” Diane repeated before turning her attention to her cocktail. “I’m afraid to drink it.”

“And you thought there wasn’t any culture in the sticks.  You wouldn’t find someone like that in a city,” I said.

The both of us watched as Diane sipped her drink. “It’s not bad.” She couldn’t contain her fascination with the bartender as he bounced about.  It wasn’t long before he came back to the table to check on us: “Hmmmm… ’ow’s your drink m’lady?”

“Good, what’s in it?” Diane asked.

“You like it? Hmmmm.”

Diane nodded.

“That’s good, because it’s Alien Piss with a pinch of Spanish Fly…  Someone will be busy tonight. Now if you’ll excuse me… Hmmm” He clapped twice, pirouetted one-hundred eighty degrees and shuffled off.

I sniggered.

“He’s unreal,” Diane said half-amused, half-insulted.

When we turned in for the night, I couldn’t help burry my head under the pillows. Just in case Reginald wasn’t lying and he did spike her drink, I wasn’t sure how thick the walls were and I didn’t want to hear the results.

Homeless Ghosts(?)

Can ghosts be homeless? Never mind the daunting question that they exist. For the sake of this blog, let’s assume they’re as real as huckleberry pie. If you’re an unbeliever and have made it this far, I have a feeling you’ll bear with me. I have never given the question of homeless ghosts any thought, until now.  By a homeless ghost, I’m not talking about the ghost of a homeless person that may haunt any given street corner - I’m talking about one that haunts a house, or a bar, or a hotel, and suddenly the building goes away. The building I’m talking about didn’t vanish in any otherworldly sense, it burned down.  During the wee hours of Christmas Eve morning a fire ripped through the Ghost Rails Inn,  a ‘spirited’ bed and breakfast in our little Montana town.

With each passing day, the reality of the loss hits home. The building is… was a landmark; it’s lore a beacon. Some would say its tales were tall, others who’ve experienced them may argue that

The band Acid Mother’s Temple latest release “Ghost Rails Inn”

they’re definitely non-fiction.  Whatever ones opinion, all agree the place was as quirky as our town, so much so that a Japanese Acid Rock Band released an album entitled Ghost Rails Inn. And yes, it’s our Ghost Rails Inn…  the pictures prove it. The saloon girls hanging out on the balcony in the picture to the left will have to find another place to hang their petticoats.

Ghosts of the future hanging out at a haunted house of the past.

Onto the subject of homeless ghosts, and I am going to tread lightly, because someday dear reader, you may be enjoying a ghost story written by Thom, one of the owners. Extra care has been taken not to steal his thunder. So, enough of my babbling, lets explore what happens to a ghost when its haunt burns down.

My wife and I had the conversation as soon as we heard the news.  Thom and his wife, Grace, admitted to having a like conversation as they watched the fire consume their dreams. Amazingly, or maybe not,  the separate conversations arrived  at similar conclusions.

Our conversation takes for granted that ghosts exist in the traditional sense and went something like this:

“What do you think happened to Bertha?” I asked.  Bertha is Thom and Grace’s name for one of the ghosts.

“She’s going to go on doing her thing, like the fire never happened… ’cause where she’s at, the fire never happened,” my wife assured me in her confident tone.

“I don’t know, maybe, but, maybe the building held her prisoner. Maybe she wanted to be set free and somehow couldn’t escape. Maybe the fire set her free,” I added.  What I was thinking is that maybe the now homeless ghost would stroll down the street and take residence in the bar with our resident tricksters. Which really meant that I was thinking of a reason to hold a theme party – like a ghost welcoming party.  I know,  it’s sick, twisted…  How could I think like that when friends lives are thrown into flux?  My answer, I’m being honest.

I really don’t believe in the latter explanation.  I’m more inclined to believe the first. But, of course, it’s never that easy. Because of Thom and Grace’s experiences,  I have given thought to the very essence of what is a ghost. With the advent of String Theory and the possibility of extra dimensions and parallel universes and such, I’m of mind that a ghost isn’t really a ghost as much as a product of a dimension slip. What do I mean? The best way to describe it is to share one of Grace’s experiences.

It was a warm afternoon, the sun was shinning, the sky was a deep cobalt blue. Music was playing in the Ghost Rail’s kitchen. Grace had stepped out for a moment and when she returned, there was a woman standing behind the butcher’s block dicing vegetables. Grace claimed she was real, flesh and blood – corporeal – not the ‘apparition’ that everybody associates with ghosts.  The woman looked up in horror, as if she herself had seen a ghost. And in a snap of a finger, she faded away. Creepy, I got gooseflesh writing it. I get gooseflesh every time I tell the story.

“B.F.D,”  I can hear you say.  “Maybe Grace didn’t take her meds or something like that. I mean, really… John you’re basing a theory on one person’s experience? Get a life, okay.”

I would agree, if that was the only story. Or if Grace was the only person to experience the woo-woo stuff that happens in our town. Many of us have experienced things that go bump in the

Our haunted town

night. For more of these stories, check out my post Haunted Town.

I can’t list everybody’s experiences, but I can tell you that sightings and encounters in the old Hotel became the norm, so much so that Thom and Grace stopped telling people about the ghosts and when a guest reported something spooky, a log book was handed to the guest and they were ask to detail the experiences.  A pattern soon developed.

According to the logs, the room in which a person stayed foretold of their experience.  Room 5, Bertha’s primary haunt. People lying in bed would report someone sitting on the bed, or even the feel of someone touching them.  Nothing ever sinister, to the contrary, it was often reported as soothing.  (I am being vague because Thom’s story delves into Room 5.)   Room 8,  personal belongings such as clothes and linens were being tossed around. This especially happened when guests were in the shower.  Towels and clothes often ended up scattered across the floor.  In the last couple of years, there was the man yelling: “Washington! Washington did it!”  The speculation is that its the voice is the victim of an old, unsolved crime.

So what does all this mean?  Can ghosts be left homeless? I haven’t a clue. But I’m certain of one thing. The lady who looked up and saw Grace walk into her reality, will never, ever have that haunting again. It was the last time she’ll ever see the ghost we know as Grace. I wonder if she’ll long for Grace’s apparition to appear like those who have experienced Bertha’s? Who knows? But, it’s fun to think about.   I do know, when the building is razed and an empty lot remains, the apparition of the old Hotel will loom on foggy mornings or shimmer on moonlit nights, haunting all of us who left part of our souls inside its walls.

The Jesus Bum The Barroom Chronicles… Episode 16

The door swung open, nobody paid any  attention. All eyes were glued to the television and the tenth rerun of A Christmas Story.  It was Christmas night and the bar was crowded enough to put a smile on my face. Until that night, I had never worked the holiday, and being my first year at the helm, I penciled my name on the work schedule. I was pleasantly surprised both at the amount of business and the relaxed mood. I didn’t know what to expect, whatever I was expecting wasn’t the softball of a night I was enjoying. Heck, I was so naïve about Montana culture, that three years after moving here, I thought all bars were closed like in my home town. A more cynical explanation was given that by 4:00 PM Christmas afternoon most people were sick of their families and needed an escape.

Cold air swooshed through the open door and accompanied him as he walked towards the bar. His hair was wild and dirty, his face haggard and rife with stubble. Above worn boots were ragged jeans, a ripped flannel and a down vest; he wore nothing else to combat the cold winter air. In his hand was a paper bag, which he set on the bar with a thump.

Could this be The Jesus Bum?

“What can I get ya?” I asked.

“Do you know a Blankety Blank?”

“Nope, never heard of her,” I answered.

Cold air radiated from his frown. “How ’bout you?” he asked the patrons closest to him.

“Nope,”  was the resounding answer.

The air seemed to escape his lungs. His head suddenly seemed too heavy for his neck. When he looked back up, sadness swam across the deep pools that were his eyes. “I rode the bus to Missoula, and I walked the rest of the way. I wanted to give her this, but I dropped it and busted it.”  He slid a wolf figurine from the bag. It was a dusty ceramic that looked like it hunted the back shelves of Goodwill, quietly earning a living preying on ceramic dear and elk, until snatched from its den and dropped on some roadside. The damage wasn’t horrible, a front leg had been amputated, but the bum managed to save the dismembered leg.

A crowd started to gather.

“Do you got anything to fix it?” he asked. His voice was quiet, but his gaze shouted. His eyes pierced my recently developing bullshit detector and I had the feeling this wasn’t some ordinary run-of-the-mill drifter.

“Nope,” I said before turning to the crowd. “Anyone got any epoxy at home? Any glue?”

Most either ignored me or rumbled no. Someone said yeah, let me run home and check. While we waited the bum asked, “Got a beer? Don’t got no money, but I could use one.”

On a normal night, or if I didn’t have that feeling, I would have been on the verge of saying something like I’m not a soup kitchen for drifters, but I didn’t and instead I quietly poured him a pint of draft. Maybe it was simply Christmas spirit.

Others around him again asked the lady’s name.  He repeated it, everybody shrugged. He gave the address, it was a legitimate address in town.  Time passed, people returned to their crowd or watching the movie. The bum sat quietly, sipping his beer and watching those around him. From behind a cloak of ramshackle desperation a calmness emerged. It bathed him, it gave him presence;  a serene disposition. He waited patiently speaking very little until the door opened again and our local hero walked in with epoxy.  The crowd again gathered and a committee of ceramic veterinarians went about reattaching the wolf’s amputated leg. The bum simply watched.

When the operation was finished he moved for the wolf.

“Whoa, it’s gotta set,”  the lead veterinarian said.

“It’s gettin’ late, she’s probably in bed already,” the Bum said, his calmness slipping a tad.

“Have another beer,” I said. He didn’t refuse.  As he drank he didn’t have much to say. It was obvious he didn’t relish being the center of attention. People flittered away from him and went

The Bar Nazi and the Jesus Bum enjoying the moment

about doing their things.  Soon he was just another loner sitting at the edge of the bar.  At some point while doing what I do, he slipped out the door unnoticed. Only his empty mug sat at the end of the bar.

“That wasn’t an ordinary drifter,” I said.

“Phffft. Don’t count on it,” one person said.

“You got a lot to learn,” another commented.

“Smelled horrible,” another complained.

And so on and on the comments reigned.  Maybe it was my idealism,  for I hadn’t yet earned my doctorate  in cynicism; I had yet been exposed to the general wretchedness of humankind. That night, I felt like there was something more than met the eye.  The simple events of that Christmas night still give me hope in humankind. Every Christmas since, I’ve wondered about the Jesus Bum and thank him for the lesson.

A Saturday in November

It was a raw afternoon, the hint of cold rain in the air.  A perfect setting for a football game, hands wrapped around a cup of steaming hot chocolate, maybe spiked with a spirit, maybe topped with marshmallows. Hardly the perfect weather for an outdoor wedding. But this wasn’t an ordinary wedding, no, this one possessed a different energy; it was draped in pall of sadness,  adorned with dignity and laced with poignancy. It is and will be the inspiration for many bittersweet  smiles.

The couple approached me early summer about officiating their wedding, they set the date for the anniversary of the day they first met.  They wanted a 70′s themed wedding,  they wanted ‘Ozzy Osborne’ to officiate and they wished for a fun ceremony.   When I let my hair down, don the right glasses and wear the proper costume, I resemble a younger Ozzy.

Two weeks later, the groom was diagnosed with brain cancer and given less than a year to live.

Through his deteriorating health the couple insisted that they wanted to go through with the ceremony. Practically, it made no sense, the bride would be taking on medical debt that she wasn’t on the hook for, but, this wasn’t about practicalities, this was about spirit, about the immortality of love.

With each passing week, one wondered if there would be a wedding, despite numerous medical procedures the cancer progressed. On a personal note, I pondered how to write something that would be lighthearted and not make a mockery of the situation. Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t have problem being inappropriate in the appropriate situation, but this was one line I wouldn’t cross. For weeks I fretted about the ceremony, I even lied to the bride saying that I had the ceremony written, gift wrapped and topped with a bow. The truth was I was clueless what to do. It wasn’t till the Wednesday night before the ceremony that inspiration struck. Keeping within the theme and mindful not to go over the top, the muse gifted me a story told in the titles of 70′s songs.

In the mean time, other logistical challenges arose, the venue cancelled,  so it was decided to hold the wedding at the bar.  A second problem arose, the weather, minutes before the ceremony a cold November rain set in,  it was decided in the interest of the groom to hold the ceremony inside.  The only problem, it was the fourth quarter of a tight Griz/Cat football game. In our neck of the woods, it’s the biggest college football game of the year. I’m proud of the fans who didn’t mind the interruption. Grasping the gravity of the situation, not one left, opting to stay for the ceremony.

Unable to stand for any length of time, the groom, joined by his bride, sat a buddy bar tucked against the main bar, while I sat cross-legged on the bar  and conducted the ceremony.  Below is the reading – the story told by song titles.

Dream On, become Hot Blooded, get Saturday Night Fever and end up in Hotel California, the New Kid in Town playing That Funky Music with Fat Bottom Girls until the Levee Breaks, but Baba ORielly, One of These Nights, After The Thrill is Gone, you could be in Bad Company, listening to the Piano Man sipping Captain Jack wishing you were Kung Fu Fighting. It’s a Rock and Roll Fantasy, Rollin’ Down The Highway in a Chevy Van caught in a Bohemian Rhapsody. But when The Wheel in the Sky pokes through Smoke on the Water, The Dream Police appear and Draw the Line.

Imagine, like Scenes from an Italian Restaurant, A Blue Collar Man and a Killer Queen, a real Brick House, enjoying American Pie and Sweet Jane. Babe, she says, my Superstar, Child in Time, Take Me Home Tonight, be my Dream Weaver, Take it to the Limit.

Then You Fooled around and Fell in Love. Hush, Highway Star, ‘cause as every Whiskey Drinkin’ Woman knows, Love Hurts. After Communication Breakdown(s), my 19th Nervous Breakdown, through Good Times, Bad Times, I’ve learned to be Cruel to be Kind. Sweet Emotion, it’s Dog and Butterfly, it’s The Stairway to Heaven, but in The Long Run, We Are Family.

Easy, ‘cause All Along the Watchtower, before the Jailbreak and The Boys are back in town, Come Sail Away, Walk this Way with a Lady, sip a Tequila Sunrise and enjoy a Peaceful, Easy Feeling, and savor the Best of Times.

On a Saturday in December, we’ll be gathering in the same spot, to celebrate the life of the groom.  Two days after the wedding, he entered hospice, a week later, his bride was widowed.  I get the feeling that even death doesn’t do them part.

The Barroom Chronicles… Vol 15 Freaks of a Feather

Sometimes is best to leave an event alone, allow the dust to settle, before gloating about ruffled feathers and sandy vaginas left in its wake. As the proprietor of ‘The Evil Bar’ in our tiny town, and a person who may or may not have been involved with the genesis of such a stunt, I believe the smoke has cleared enough to let the world know of such hijinks. This thought is based on the equation: Comedy = tragedy  + time.  Though there was no tragedy involved, there may have been numerous pairs of soiled underwear and/or attacked hearts, unless you take into consideration those without a sense of humor, their skipped heart beats and dirty drawers could be construed tragic.

On July  19^th, 2012 at approximately eleven PM Mountain Daylight Time,  roughly an hour before Aurora, Colorado entered the cultural lexicon,  a couple of cohorts had a nasty idea for a practical joke. Of course, I couldn’t resist.  Those of you who follow this blog know about the ‘old west gunfights,’ we hold during Railroad Days, our little town’s yearly celebration. The night in question, we were walking through the scenarios for the following Saturday.

Krash Montana… Also known as Number 1

“Hey,” Cohort #1 said, “I have an idea.”

I should have known it was a bad deal.

Cohort #’s 2 and 3 said the idea rocked. “Let’s do it.”

I wasn’t at the ‘other bar’ to witness the event. But, I’ve heard the story enough, it goes like this:

Cohort #3 walked into the other bar and said there was a bunch of drama up at ‘The Evil Bar.’  Cohorts 1 and 2 were arguing about money that 2 owed 1. Being that both 1 worked for 2 and as someone said later, 2 owed a few people money, made the premise believable. A few minutes later 1 and 2 appeared in front of the other bar in the midst of a heated argument.

Now, Number 1 is an actor. He has the ability to get into a role and make it work. Outside of Al Pacino, I’ve never seen a better Tony Montana. Being gangster isn’t a stretch.

Number 2 is a loveable giant. Everybody in town adores him and he can possibly be the kindest person alive. Not to mention he can cook up a storm. So imagine the scene when 1 called out 2 in front of a small crowd of people who have drank with 2 since Camden was a prairie. Then he has the audacity to pull out a replica revolver and fires a shot into 2’s chest. Number 2 did his part and fell back against the outside wall. People scattered, the manager came unglued and the bartender, who happened to be walking by, allegedly peed her pants.

Meanwhile, those of us left behind at the ‘Evil Bar,’ were listening for two shots. Like Number 1 demonstrated before leaving, holding the revolver gangsta style while saying: “Pop, Pop.”

We giggled like kids hearing the first shot, imagining the mayhem. “Hey,” someone asked. “Where’s the second shot?”

The simple answer, things never go as planned. After the initial shock and awe, Number 2 had to jump up and proclaim “It’s just a joke!”  The manager, a mellow 50 something gal, instantly turned into a grizzly bear and allegedly read the riot act in numerous languages, leaving the three Cohorts pleading their case why they shouldn’t be eighty-sixed.

“What’s going on?” I asked a regular who had tagged along to witness.

“Oh man, it didn’t go good.”

“What happened? Where was the second shot?” I asked, panicked. I imagined 1 getting the tar beat out of him.

What I thought may have happened.

“Nothing that bad,” the witness said. “1 and 2 are buying rounds to make it good.”

It would be an hour before the three amigos returned. “So?” I asked.

“They called us freaks and told us to go back and drink with the rest of the freaks,” Number 1 reported. The comment confirmed my suspicion that freaks of a feather really do drink together.

Montana Death March

A little over five years ago my Rent-a-daughter Jenn and her new husband Ryan (I guess that makes him a Rent-a-Son-in-Law) visited Montana for their honeymoon.  In celebration of their nuptials I arranged a couple of ‘must do’ Montana things, hey I just wanted to see them have a good time; okay, I’m a bit of a closet sadist, but that’s beside the point.  What follows is Ryan’s take on what happened:

Montana Death March

For our Honeymoon, Jenn and I traveled to Montana to meet our good friend John Zunski. John built the hockey rink that Jenn and I eventually met each other at, and he was also our “Priest” during our wedding.

The trip there was pretty rough. The night before our flight we went to our friend Ben’s 30th surprise birthday party. We left that party directly to the airport and flew to Washington state. I ended up being awake for around 4o hours straight. From Washington we had a 4 hour drive to Montana to meet our friend John at the Bar he owned.

The scenery on the way to Montana was very impressive but I just couldn’t appreciate it too much. Even if my eyes left the road for 2 seconds, by the time they returned to the road I was driving in the middle of two lanes. It took every bit of consciousnesses that remained in me to drive the car without falling asleep or crashing.

One thing that surprised me was the speed limit. I think it was either 75 or 80 mph. This is unheard of in Pennsylvania. So I was so excited the ride would go faster than expected. But the funny thing was… everyone was doing like 60 mph. As an east coast driver this resulted in my raging the fuck out. In PA everyone goes over the speed limit…praying for the limits of Washington and Montana. And over here, everyone loves driving 20 under. At least the rage helped wake me up.

After about 4 hours of driving my GPS tells me to finally turn off the highway as I was only about .5 miles from John’s bar. So I turn off this road and was doing about 35-40 mph. For the last 2 hours of driving 90 mph on cruise control I was just use to driving fast, but I had a gut feeling I might have been driving too fast on this road. So I say to Jenn, “I wonder what the speed limit is here?” Just as I am getting the word “limit” out of my mouth I see the lights…. ugh! I just traveled across the country, I have been awake for 40 hours straight and driving for 4 hours and I could literally throw a baseball and hit John’s bar. And now I am getting a speeding ticket 100 feet from the start of my vacation.

Cop tells me its 25 mph. Now in Pennsylvania you would get fist-fucked for speeding in a 25 mph zone. Factoring in that I am out of state, I am sure the rape will be harsh. Cop writes me a ticket and says to me, “You can either fight this in court, or you could pay me the money right now.” I asked how much the ticket was…. $25 dollars. You couldn’t punch the smile off my face, I actually ended up thanking the cop several times. Definitely the happiest person in the history of the world to get a speeding ticket. No points either! So I paid the guy and parked.

Now many of you reading this know John. But for those who don’t, John is… unique. Easily one of the best guys you will ever meet. Life of the party type guy. If there was anyone to ever own a bar it was this guy. Well as we arrived at the bar it happened to be one of his “topless” nights. How can I say this politely… there were about 10 “Montana” type women at the bar. Playing different games, maybe wrestling? I don’t remember, this happened over 5 years ago and I was half asleep. Definitely an interesting night. We headed back to John’s place and crashed around 9 pm.

The whole week was a lot of fun in Montana. John got us tickets to white water rafting which I loved. Explored his huge property. We also ate at one the best restaurants I ever had the pleasure of eating at.

The big moment of the trip was when John took us to the Glacier National Park. There was a trail by the name of “Highline” that he wanted us to hike. On the drive down we actually got lucky and caught a family of bears crossing the street. We hopped out of the car and watched them run off. John told us that we were VERY lucky to witness that.

Shortly before going on this trip I suffered a severe shoulder separation. At the time I was regularly taking Percocet for the pain, which would often make me loopy. Before our trip we spent the day in NY City, and just from walking a couple miles, my shoulder was in so much pain that I had to sit on a bench for an hour to just get moving again. Oh yeah… I have a fear of heights.

Now begins the story of the Death March. So we get to the trail that John wants us to hike and informs us that it would be a total of 12 miles. Now I don’t know if I wasn’t paying attention to the details of the hike, or John was withholding information so he could enjoy the punishment that was about to be laid upon me. But I said at the very least I was willing to try and do all 12 miles. Little did I know… there was no trying. You either did it, or died.

First I think I should describe the trail that you are hiking for 12 miles. It felt like the trail was made with grenades and dynamite. If you weren’t constantly looking at your feet for every step you took, you would probably trip and fall. Now this is bad because unbeknownst to me, a lot of this hike is spent walking along a cliff edge. Imagine this if you will. The path is only 2-3 feet wide. If someone wants to pass you, you need to lay your body flat against the mountain so people can walk by. Now there is a rope going along, but its between you and the mountain, not between you and your inevitable death. And I really do mean that, if you take one step over, you will fall down a cliff, and you will die. There is no, “ehh, I think I could survive that fall.” 100% death. The entire path has sharp rocks sticking out of them, as if the person that designed this trail was intentionally trying to kill people. So being forced to look down a cliff side while being afraid of heights was a lot of fun. John also informed me, that if you get hurt there is no helicopter. No rescue crew. Leg is broken? Suck it the fuck up and drag it behind you.

Now the entire hike wasn’t all just jagged death trail, there were many parts where you actually had to climb up some rocks and sharp inclines. About 2.5 miles into our hike, one of these spots was nice enough to tear the living shit out of my groin. At the same time my shoulder is in horrible pain. Now you might be saying, “Ryan, just take your Percocet!” Well reader… I can’t. Since Percocet made me loopy, I wasn’t able to take any because a single slip of my foot would result in my death, so I had to be as clear-headed as possible.

Now that my groin is torn to shreds and continually gets worse with every step I take, and each rock I climb, I allow John and Jenn to pass me by in the event that I start to break down and cry, they wouldn’t see me. Just before the tears start to flow and while I’m imagining blood flowing out of torn lacerations in my crotch, and experiencing shoulder pain that makes me wish my arm was amputated, I was lucky enough to experience Altitude Sickness! I could barely breathe, eat, or drink. As I laid there on the path, my morale took another hit. Why? Well an approximately  85 year old woman with one arm in a FUCKING SLING and a CANE IN THE OTHER PASSES US! I just got fucking lapped by geriatric cripple!

Eventually when I am able to breath again, we continue our march. Oh yeah… we’re about 6 miles in. John tells me to cheer up because there is a rest stop at the 8 mile mark. I cannot explain how happy this made me. Because in my mind this rest stop was near the road and I could take a bus back to the car and let John and Jenn finish the last 4 miles. Well, after another 2 miles of hell, we reach the rest stop. Its in the middle of a fucking mountain. The food and water that was sold here was backpacked in by employees. I immediately start searching for a rock that was heavy enough to crush my skull, and light enough that Jenn could lift it. Before my mental breakdown started, John told me the last 4 miles were not near any cliffs and it would be the easiest part of the hike. After 5 Percocets and an hour of laying down I was ready to go! I was shadow boxing, that crippled woman was there and I was tempted to knock her down and talk shit. The last 4 miles I spent skipping and running. It ended with a really nice stream and small pond that we got to rest a bit at and put our feet in. We made it to the parking lot to get the car and there were Rams all over, it was pretty cool.

In the end I am happy we did the hike because it makes a great story, but that first 8 miles was a living hell.

If you like Ryan’s take on life, you can visit his website at www.madhookup.com.    Now if you’ll excuse us, Ryan and I are going to dress up in bras, wear tinfoil caps, and play Sarcastoball.  We both know how to lay down a compliment.  (If you’re not a Southpark fan you won’t understand our complimentary behavior.)

Good News, Bad News…

My toes always curl when my wife says this to me.  It so reeks of the other foot falling. And like a beaten dog, I instinctively curl up and show my fangs. In my warped sense of perception, the said foot is always bigger, so the bad news will always outweigh the good news.  I know it’s hard to believe a person with such a happy smile and a generally positive outlook sees the glass as half-empty.

What do you prefer hearing first? Me? I rather hear the bad news first – weird I know,  I’m ever optimistic, and unlike the beaten dog, I hope that the good news will make me forget the bad news.  That being said I have good news and I have bad news, actually, I have a bunch of it.

Me, blogging like a beaten dog.

The Bad News:  I haven’t been blogging lately, and when I try, I find myself distracted. Yeah I know, I’m a million miles behind on The Barroom Chronicles, I have some material for Haunted Town and there’s some free agent stories floating about.

The Good News:  I’m in a creative boon and I’m ripping it up on Montana Rural. While the muse is hanging around, I’m going to enjoy her company.  Yep, unlike with Nightwatching in which the muse was male, it’s female for the sequel to Cemetery Street.

The Bad News:  My titles will no longer be available in e-formats at BN.Com and Smashwords. My apologies to my Nook owning readers.

The Good News: They’re available at Amazon. Yes, I made the deal with the devil and decided to go with Kindle Select. The results have been staggering and in the short term, I’m sold on the process.  The eight hundred pound gorilla is doing some heavy lifting.

 

The Bad News: Winter is coming and I don’t have all my firewood in yet.

The Good News: I get to play in the woods with my chainsaw.

The Good News:  If you’re looking to cop one of my titles, like each one’s Facebook page and you’ll get notice when they’ll be available for free on Amazon.

Cemetery Street

Shangri-La Trailer Park

Nightwatching

The Bad News:  There isn’t any.

That shadow lingering over you, that isn’t the other foot about to fall, but it maybe a tree that I’m about to cut down.

It’s Always an Adventure!

The climb towards Pitamakan Pass

I had the feeling it was going to be an adventure, but than again, whenever my friend Joe is involved, even a drive down a mountain road can turn unpredictable. Heck I have it on good information that Maistoinna, the lovable lummox in Shangri-la Trailer Park, might be influenced by Joe and his exploits. But this story isn’t really about Joe, other than he was there and the hike was his idea. The real star of the story was the hike itself.

From the moment I first stepped into Glacier Park in the late spring of 2000, Rising Wolf Mountain and the trail that circumvents it, the Dawson-Pitamakan Loop, has called out to me. For whatever reason, I have ignored its summons until this year when Joe suggested this hike.

From the moment we agreed to give the hike a stab until the first steps from the trail head my gut was telling me this was going to be one for the ages.  Not to disappoint, a half-mile into the nearly twenty mile hike a movement caught my attention.

“Bear,” I called out, breaking the silence.  To our left, a black bear was foraging on a bench – the geological term, not a resting place for a tuckus, though I’ve rested mine on this type of bench before. We immediately slammed on the brakes, that’s when I noticed a second bear, a much smaller cinnamon colored cub in the middle of trail. “Second bear, a cub,” I remember commentating.

As far as Mexican Standoff’s go, this one was disappointing, and I wasn’t disappointed that it was disappointing. After a few seconds mama scurried off into the woods, affording us the chance to watch junior stand on his hind legs watching his mother before taking off after her.

It’s too bad I’m not the photographer I used to be, because I may have reached

Old Man Lake – Little did I know the challenge that would be encountered on the other side of the mountain.

for my camera.  I think years of bear encounters have taught me a thing or two, whatever the excuse, the real reason that there isn’t any pictures  is I was too busy reading Mama bear’s body language.  We were a few steps away from being in that most ugly of situations – getting between a sow and her cub. Usually such an encounter is the highlight of any hike, this time around it was one of many treats Mother Nature had in store.

About two hours in.

Soon we were trudging through sub-alpine meadows climbing towards our first goal – Pitamakan Pass.  Little did we know that the breeze would soon morph into the real story of the hike.  Was it my imagination or was the wind resisting our every step. As we climbed higher and higher the wind  talked a little louder and shoved a little harder.

 

And then, when my heart rate was about to match the elevation, the wind

Shangri-La Garden

stopped.  We entered what I dubbed Shangri-La Garden.  I felt calm places before but never anything quite like this – the place felt like good medicine. Maybe it’s my age, in as much as such exertions don’t come as easy as they used to and the climb was really kicking my ass.  Or maybe it’s because the terrain leveled out a bit and the reprieve was appreciated.  It was about this time my mind started thinking woo-woo.  I had the idea that when I die, this is where I want some of my ashes spread, which got me thinking about the area, and its significance to the Blackfoot. They call the  general area the backbone of the world and the particular region is called Two Medicine and it is the tribe’s holy land. I toyed with the thoughts through the remainder of the climb over the pass into the teeth of the strongest wind I’ve ever experienced.

Pitamakan Lake

As  we climbed the views got more breathtaking, or maybe it was the wind, whatever it was the hood went on. Suddenly the trail wandered upon a shelf in which a part a Glacier laid beneath us like a map. Beyond an alpine lake which I later learned was Pitamakan Lake rose Medicine Grizzly Peak which loomed over another great hike from my past.  If you ever have a chance,  hike to Medicine Grizzly Lake and Triple Divide Peak,  you won’t be

Pass resident

disappointed. There’s a good chance you could encounter a Griz on that hike. I encountered a Griz on the trail to Medicine Grizzly Lake and since been told the area has the highest concentration of the bear in Glacier.

But I digress, Turning away from the Marmot pictured to the right, the final climb to the Pass stared us down, and the wind was getting crazier. Up here it swirled, blowing hard in one direction, stopping, giving a moment of calm before slamming back in the other direction.  Half-way up the final approach it knocked me off my feet. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been knocked over by wind before, I can tell you for me, the experience was humbling.

Paydirt… Looking from Pitamakan Pass at Rising Wolf MT.

At the top of the pass, we took a breather, hunkering behind a boulder to hide from the wind.  I swallowed hard when I glanced around the boulder. The trail was carved into the side of the mountain, its widest part maybe three feet.  I didn’t say it, but I was sure thinking about turning around. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the wind and onto the Continental Divide. During this segment, I understood, no felt, why airplanes take off and land into the wind.  It provides more lift, more control.  I wouldn’t have enjoyed this part with the wind at my back.  I know this because, a mile or so later, as we turned a corner and rounded the backside Flinsch Peak the wind again shifted and we were met by the swirl.

My hood was flapping so loudly it sounded like helicopter rotors and about

The trail along the Continental Divide.

then I realized an arm to my sunglasses was bent by the pounding it was receiving.  When we came to a wide shelf, I did an experiment: I threw myself backwards with my arms splayed and I was held upright by the wind. I know if the wind would have suddenly stopped, I would have landed hard on my keister.

“Against the wind.”

As we approached Dawson Pass, I couldn’t watch Joe anymore. It was too frightening.  He’s a tall, clumsy guy who was really struggling to maintain his balance. I was convinced the wind was going to knock him off a cliff. Every time he stumbled, I closed my eyes expecting when I opened them he would be gone.

After the hike Joe claimed that prolonged exposure to wind can screw with one’s mind. Of course I poo-pooed the idea, but I can tell you for me it stirred creative thoughts. It was then I went inside my mind and philosophical thoughts about the wind which were inspired by the aforementioned Blackfoot mythology.  They went something like this:   If this is the backbone of the world, it must mean this is the home of the Gods, and if this is their home they’re dreaming up their intent for everybody – everything.  And how is it delivered? By the wind of course. So the wind is blowing so hard because it’s so close to its source. So if you stay up here long enough, you could catch the wisdom of the gods.

I think Joe’s right, prolonged exposure to the wind can fuck with your mind.

Once we dropped off Dawson Pass and dropped back into the treeline, the wind

Above the Treeline

resided and the sounds of the forest replaced the constant blowing. It was no longer necessary to yell to communicate.  It was then the real challenge began. Say what you will, but I much prefer the climb to the descent. I’ll take a racing heart and burning lungs over screaming knees and gimpy ankles that protest every downward step. The next eight miles were bespeckled with great sights, minimum conversation and the knowledge that that was one hell of an experience, worth a day or two in the pain-cage.

 

July has been a Crazy Place

True love: notice the blonde has better aim.

As you may have noticed that I haven’t posted much in July, that’s because I’ve been busier than a shithouse rat scoping out a port-a-potty convention. Between planning two gunfights for Railroad day, Railroad day itself, writing a wedding ceremony, performing a wedding ceremony and taking two long hikes – one planned and the other the result of a vehicular breakdown, I’ve been to pooped to pop when it comes to blogging.

That’s the bad news, the good news is that I have plenty of new material. In the next couple of weeks I’ll be posting about the crazy events of July, including a new barroom chronicle of a practical joke that a bunch of humorless people didn’t find funny and despite the news from Colorado, I still find myself laughing at. Those kind of stunts make me glad I live where I live.

Thanks for being patient and I’ve hope you’ve enjoyed July as much as I have.