Time, constant and always ticking has a funny way of distorting itself in our memoriesl.  We say our kids grow up too fast or that the Dot Com bubble seems like ages ago, yet there are people alive in America today who grew up without planes or cars, let alone satellite, microwaves, and iPods.  The West was settled primarily via the Oregon Trail.  From 1843 into the 1870′s, folks migrated West by foot, horse, and wagon into a land ripe with possibilities and full of unknowns.  The rutted trail along with possible encounters with Indians and roustabouts of the West had to make the journey less than comfortable.    An estimated 80,000 to 200,000 travelers used the trail over the years.  The 2,000 mile journey took four to six months with about 1 in 10 travelers dying along the way.

The point of this post isn’t a history lesson.  It gives the foundation to something I notice too often.  Not a pet peeve because it doesn’t really effect me, just an observation.  It comes from the parking lot.    First, aside from the parking lot of football games, when is the last time you saw a parking lot full?  They are always over sized and spots are plentiful along the periphery.  When I see people sitting in their air conditioned cars, turn signals on, waiting for a close parking spot to open up I get irritated and think…. Is the spot that’s 200 feet closer so vital to your survival that you have to sit there blocking traffic fueling your blood pressure with aggravation and frustration? As you mumble “hurry the f— up” you give the stink eye to the mom loading her minivan with groceries in hopes she gets out of the spot that belongs to you.  Once inside the store (grocery store in this case), endless offerings await to satisfy your palate.  From pineapples in January to Ding Dongs 24/7 –  365, sustenance revolves around pleasure and convenience instead of necessity.  Then it’s back out to the parking lot to load you car with groceries, where you grumble about feeling rushed by the jackass sitting there waiting for your spot.  To get the last laugh you leave your cart in an empty spot, the cart racks inconveniently located 20 feet away.

Wagon ruts from the Oregon Trail are still as visible today as people sitting in the parking lot with their turn signals on.  I’m only 30 and am already a grumpy old man complaining about the good ol’ days but at least I still have my hearing.  But really, the modern conveniences we have make us lazy and forgetful of the struggles from the not so distant past.  To these parking lot poachers the thought of having to walk an extra hundred feet or two in the grocery lot parking lot is absurd, let alone walking 2,000 miles inhaling dust.  It wasn’t that long ago and yes time flies.  Appreciate what we have, don’t sweat the small stuff and next time you see some jackass sitting in a parking lot with their turn signal on, yell “Oregon Trail!” at them.

With school not starting for a few more days, I decided to take a ski adventure into the mountains.  The plan was to drive up FR 517 until the snow stopped the truck and skin from there.  Also part of the plan was to build a snow shelter, camp for the night, skin up some more and enjoy the views before heading back to the truck.  A cheap fix to the swelling cabin fever of the Christmas break.  A combination of bad sleep, poor decisions, and deeper than expected snow resulted in a day trip of just a few hours of skiing.  Not exactly the plans I had  envisioned when scouring topo maps and the weather forecast.  Even though it was an abbreviated adventure thanks to the culmination of calamities the fresh air, silence, and spitting snow over the vast landscape provided perspective .  Along with my ski tracks were those of fox, rabbit, deer, elk, and presumably chasing them all wolves.  The harshness of winter gives the landscape a new slate that shows the activity of the forest.  A story that says out here I am alone.  Just a visitor passing through who should enjoy what’s here before the falling snow starts the story over.

We become incapacitated as our stomachs attempt to take inventory of all the goodness crammed down our throat.  The battle going on in our gut is ignored.  We’re no longer thinking rational, this need to consume is in the DNA, and can only be shutoff by the passing of the holidays.

Pushing away from the table, it takes all our strength to slumber to the couch.  Gravity takes hold of the weight in our gut and we collapse towards the couch.  With only the thought of hibernation weighing on our mind we accelerate towards the cushions .  Confident we’ve engulfed enough reserves to fuel our body through the winter, our eyes close before impact with the pillows.

Aside from food bonging, there is supposed to be a meaning and purpose of Thanksgiving.  Simply, it is to give thanks.  But, before the gravitational pull of the couch consumes my gluttonous body to the depths of its pillows, I have to ask myself a question.  Why is it should I give thanks on Thanksgiving?  In a world that offers hollow promises of greener pastures, I am asked on this one day to say to myself, “What I have here, this is to be thankful for.”  On Thanksgiving, there aren’t supposed to be any greener pastures than the one I’m standing in.  While this is the case, it’s too easily forgotten the other 364 days of the year.  So this year I’m not only thankful for the green pasture I find myself standing in, but for writing this short post to remind me that after the turkey is picked clean, the Lions game is over, and our piled masses recoup on the couch the real purpose of Thanksgiving shouldn’t be lost on the next 364 days.

Came across this picture on the internet, this is what I got from it.

Showing dogs isn’t a hobby.  It’s a destructive lifestyle, that often leads to alcoholism and poor wardrobe choices.  It started innocently enough for Lance Pefferton (LP), some 65 years ago in the animal shelter.  At the time the choice between the alley cat and the mutt wasn’t as clear as it is now.  As a teen in the 40′s a feline seemed equal to a canine, to LP a pet was a pet.  Taking the mutt home in his parents Studebaker, Lance gained fondness for the pup cowering in the seat next to him.  ”Whats to be afraid of, lil’ guy?  I’ll name you Mutsie and show the world you’re the greatest.”   Call it fate or destiny, but on that day LP and Mustie’s paths crossed, and the two were joined on an inseparable journey into the depths of dog shows.  Within weeks, LP underwent a metamorphic transformation from outgoing all American boy to a reclusive shadow of his former self focused only of Mutsies fluid gait.  LP referred to himself as Mutsies master but, clearly given the sacrifices LP gave to prance Mutsie around turf fields, it was Mutsie who held the leash in this relationship.  At first life on the road was easy.  LP took it as his calling that he was to present Mutsie to the world.  The long nights of grooming and repetitious prancing didn’t bother him at first.  It was a cheap price to pay for those blue ribbons and moments of glory under the lights.  It seemed the pair would conquer the world.

Fast forward to present day, gone are the lights.  The blue ribbons of years past accumulate dust.  The Purina sponsorship checks stopped rolling in years ago.  Although still donning his plaid twead jacket, and brown polyester pants, a shell of his former self rests inside.  There wasn’t a definitive starting point of decline.  The drinking took hold gradually.  It was a  means to deal with the chaos of the grooming center backstage and the ever present fear of defecation under the lights.  As his once linear path meandered more and more, LP leaned further on the bottle.  Mutsie suffered most from his demise.  Once a regular on the podium, Mutsie was rarely groomed and bathed.  Her twisted birdsnest of a mane, along with LP’s drunken stumble and vomiting during the Ft. Worth Invitational, caused a lifetime expulsion from the “sport.”  As LP faded,  Mutsie slipped exponentially.  I suppose she could of outlasted LP’s decline but she couldn’t escape the expedition of dog years.  In his apartment, drowned in debt, despair, and bottles LP stares mindlessly into the fuzz on his tv.  His cable was turned off again, and this time as if a twist of the dagger in his heart, it was shut off during the Westminster Dog Show.  Just as LP’s fist clenched in anger, a glimmer caught his eye.  There in the corner, barely visible behind a mountain of unpaid bills was Mutsies urn.

Through the highs and lows, the late nights, the thousands of miles, he’d do it all again.  Retracing the years back in his head, he could see himself as a teenager in the animal shelter.  He knew he made the right choice.  As the reflection off Mutsies urn scorched his retina, he tipped back his stein and let the Old Milwaukee cascade down his throat.  Then not forgetting Mustie he poured out an equal amount onto the floor.

“Here’s to you Mutsie.”

At the expense of throwing the defibrillator at this blog (see last post) I have to say that 7am MST is way too early to be using a plunger.  A Folgers induced Vesuvius rocked the early morning silence on my block.  It’s just as well though, I couldn’t sleep in.

I had dreams of wolves and bears.  The last thing I remember in my dream was wrestling with a pack of wolves in a snow storm, kill me now.  I don’t know who would of won and that’s probably best.  In the nights prior to leaving town I didn’t have dreams.  They were restless nights of tossing and turning, stressing and wondering.  Today, I woke up refreshed, and after the Folgers ran it’s course faster than Usain Bolt, much more refreshed.  Yesterday I woke up at a mountain lake with the brisk wind and snow slapping my face.  No worries, no schedule.  Just fishing and exploring on the agenda.

The outdoors impress a feeling of obligation to keep going and exploring.  There’s the guilt of possibly missing something around the next bend or over the next ridge.  At some point though, nature always wins.  You have to head back appreciating what you were able to see and postulate the wonders of what lies beyond.  Hoping you’ll be fortunate enough to make it back and put in another round.

I headed back after exploring what I was able to explore.  Joyous and refreshed, it was time to head back to the hollow concrete canyons .  Like an alcoholic and Jim Beam, this cocktail of fresh air and solitude will hold me over, for a while.  Rolling back down the highway with my windows down the 5.2 cruised at almost 90 mph as I was distracted by the peaks around me and singing along to Johnny Cougar.  I’ll sleep good tonight, I thought.

Link to a few Pics…caution may be NSFW…that is if you’re stuffed in a cubicle somewhere.

It usually proceeds something likes this.  I get rolling on a post of humor, thought, or whatever the flavor of the moment is and then about 4 beers deep I get tired.  Tired might be a scapegoat.  Bored seems pretentious.  Disinterested seems to fit the bill.  “Blogging A.D.D.” might be my official diagnosis, if I were an M.D.  I simply lose interest in the topic that, just a few beers earlier had my neurotransmitters blazin’.  It’s like stomping the accelerator of a car, snapping the needle at red-line and sending a piston rocketing through the engine block.  Envision Main Street, USA on a Saturday night….Rubber is burned, ladies are impressed, then a tremendous explosion and silence. (Not sure if this was another car analogy or something with filthy undertones)

I have to digress here for a second.  I’m not sure why I always have a car analogy to throw out there.  I’ve never really cared for cars.

Anyways, back on track.  So, if this blog is to survive and not fall flat on its face after complaining of chest pains, I must combat this”Blogging ADD” head on.  This can only mean one thing, drink slower and write faster.