The Search for Passion

   To catch up on all that The IC has offered in the past, read an entertaining story about some whitewater shenanigans, or follow the adventures that will now be completed, click here on The Table of Contents.


“I am not the same, having seen the moon shine on the other side of the world.”
~Mary Anne Radmacher~

   The automobile was invented in 1886, and people began to drive routinely in the early 1900's. Until that time in human history almost everyone traveled no more than 20 miles from their homes in an entire lifetime. The ones who did usually did so against their own will. Soldiers traveled for war, outlaws traveled to remain free, and refugees traveled because they were forced off their land by the government or by hostile forces...........just look at The Trail of Tears for that last example. But as a whole, most people never knew what the world was like outside of a 20 mile radius of their homes................and people have existed on this earth for 200,000 years. Take a moment to think about that and let it sink in.
   I break back into The IC after a six month hiatus with these facts in order to make an important point. We have walked this earth for 200,000 years, but humanity only just began to freely experience all that the world has to offer no more then 150 years ago. This means that only .00075 percent of the population of humanity has understood the world the way every single person reading this post understands it today. We are part of a tiny population in the history of evolution to experience 1000 times the culture and diversity of the world as opposed to the other 99.999 percent that came before us........awesome, right? Well maybe it isn't awesome. Maybe it's what's wrong with the world and why it seems that everyone is losing their damn mind. Maybe we weren't meant to see everything we are being exposed to. Maybe humanity isn't ready to handle it.........................because based on what I have witnessed, we are proving everyday that we are nothing but a bunch of spoiled children trying to convince ourselves we are important. Maybe we simply need to stop taking everything so seriously. Maybe we need to find our roots again. Maybe we simply need to find love, community, slow down and enjoy an afternoon walk, a float on the rivah, or look into someone else's eyes and try to understand them. Maybe, just maybe, we need to be human again.


“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”
~Henry David Thoreau~

   2015 has been a rather unconventional year for me.  There were five distinct occurrences in the past year that led me to the point that I find myself at today.

1.  I fell in love
2.  I received a letter
3.  I stopped taking that little numbing pill.
4.  I accepted the fact that my parents were not the people that I had always perceived them to be.
5.  I lost a dear friend.

   Obviously there is more to each of these occurrences than the simple list just presented.  I vowed that 2015 was the year of recovery; personally, emotionally, and financially.  For the most part, I didn't do to bad, and it was these events that actuated the recovery.   Each event had a profound impact on the way I think, the decisions I make, and the direction of my life as I move forward and continue to grow into 2016.  And each occurrence will continue to impact me from this day forward.
   Without a doubt the most elated occurrence was falling in love. I went my whole life thinking I understood love because I was under the impression that I had experienced it before...................I hadn't. I just thought what I experienced was love..................It wasn't. Not until I fell in love with Marcie did I realize I hadn't a clue what love was. I don't think many people do understand love until the day they realize they never have to search for it again. Marcie loves me unconditionally, and the warmth and comfort that brings to my soul cannot be adequately described in the context of this post.  She accepts me for who I am, no matter what.  She has no intentions of changing me. She loves me for me.  It's that simple.  She is a truly remarkable woman, and I wake up every day knowing that I am lucky to have stumbled upon her.
   But with that love comes great responsibility. I have an obligation to be the best man I am capable of being, and for most of 2015 I falsely thought that meant making as much money as possible in order to take care of her while trying to find a way back to my children................I was wrong. I don't take care of Marcie. She takes care of herself, and in all honesty she takes care of me too, much better than I could ever take care of myself. (Every true Dirt Bag reading this knows exactly what I mean)  I am well aware I wouldn't stand a chance in rebuilding if it were not for her.  So when it came time for me to take a look at the career decisions I made this year, I found myself stuck between a rock and a Class V hole.
   In August I accepted a management position that allowed me a salary far greater than anything I had ever made before.  In my mind I thought it would help me return to my boys, take care of my financial obligation to Marcie, and rebuild my life as expeditiously and bedraggled as possible................I couldn't have been any more mistaken.  Money solves nothing.  I found myself working 70 hours a week in an industry that represented every evil that capitalism surfaces in the human soul.  Our company took advantage of people, ripped customers off, made empty promises to employees, and cut corners at every turn.  I found myself questioning my own ethics on a daily basis despite the fact that I was doing a pretty good job, and I found myself looking in the mirror and not respecting the decisions I had made for the day..........and I did it all for one reason.  Money.
   But I couldn't let Marcie down.  I needed to be a "respected" member of society.  I needed to buy into the system that I had been fighting for over four years..................or so I thought.  Marcie and I spent less and less time together and we found that this new job that supposedly would open up opportunities was instead closing the doors of freedom.  We found the weekend adventures we had freely experienced had now vanished, and each day was quickly becoming just like the last.  Many reading this will respond with, "well, that's life."..............no it isn't.  You've simply told yourself that for so long that you've accepted it to be true.  Life is the adventure and journey you take to find yourself.  It is NOT your bank account or material shit that you possess.
   I finally mustered up the courage to look her in the eyes and admit that I was miserable due to the job.  When I did, something amazing happened.................blunt and honest TRUTH.  She looked at me and calmly said, "then quit."  I of course fought this notion, explaining that I would be lost because I did not have a "career focus".  After all, these are the things our parents taught us from their never ending wisdom of baby boomer bull shit.
   That is when Marcie invoked her wisdom upon me, and in doing so opened up a ray of light that I had never understood.   She explained simply that people in this world usually pursue two things................love and a career.  Most will sacrifice the love in order to gain the career.  They think that if they chase the money then once they have it love will find a way into their lives.  However, many times they wake up one day and realize that with their successful career and financial security they are now incredibly lonely and the task of solving that loneliness is an immense hurdle to overcome.  They then turn around and spend the remainder of their lives attempting to fill the void left in the wake of their financial sacrifices..............either that or they settle for something less than true love.
   She went on to explain that I had chosen the other path, the one less traveled.  I threw away a career in order to search for something.  Although I had no clue what that was when the journey began, it ended up being true love that ended my adventure and started a new one.  Now that I did have love in my heart, the search for what I was meant to do in life could be completed without ever again having to feel the loneliness that so many feel everyday of their lives..............especially the ones who settled.  I then asked her what her dream was when she was younger.  She explained that all she ever wanted was for someone to love her the way I did.  Because of that, she was living her dream and that was why she appreciated me so much..................I told you she was an amazing woman.
   I concluded that this was my chance, my opportunity, to seek out a career that I truly respected, and follow my heart in doing what I truly believed in.  And understanding that I had her love and support made all of it so much less scary.  The next day I walked into the office, looked at my boss, and told him I quit.......................and man was he pissed.  He simply couldn't understand how money was not my primary motivating factor in life.  For this, I truly feel sorry for him.


“I have not always chosen the safest path. I've made my mistakes, plenty of them. I sometimes jump too soon and fail to appreciate the consequences. But I've learned something important along the way: I've learned to heed the call of my heart. I've learned that the safest path is not always the best path and I've learned that the voice of fear is not always to be trusted.”
                                 ~Steve Goodier~ 

   The second occurrence of 2015 was that I received a letter.  It came to me by email in the spring and it was from a man named Fran Lawrence.  Mr. Lawrence was the defense attorney who successfully saved the life of the UVA lacrosse killer, manipulating the courts into believing he "accidentally" smashed the head of Yeardley Love into a wall and then left her for dead...........accidentally.  George Huguely, the killer, received 24 years for the murder, but could be out of prison within 19 years.  Mr. Lawrence proudly defended this man.  But I did not know Mr. Lawrence because of this highly publicized case.  I knew him because his family was very close friends with Marcelle's family.  I spent Christmas' with him and played in family soccer games with him.  He attended our wedding party, and he and I had engaged in many intriguing conversations over the years.  

   The letter that he sent me was very simple.  In it, he explained that Marcelle was willing to negate the astronomically high child support debt that had developed while I was homeless, broke, and searching for my way back.  I simply needed to do one thing......................sign away my rights as Marlow and Quint's father.  Yes, you are reading that correctly.  Marcelle and her family were attempting to buy away my ability to be the father to my boys with a child support debt that they had purposely run up as high as possible while I was unable to support my family.  Please keep in mind that my ex wife pays no mortgage or rent, living in a house owned by her parents one block away from where they reside.  Her car is in her mother's name so that it will not show up on court records.  Everything in Marcelle's life has always been simply handed to her.  I know this because I watched it happen over the course of our marriage, and it was a primary factor in my subconscious decision to distance myself from her and her family at the end of our marriage................the wealthy of this country truly do lack a soul.  Money corrupts us in so many ways.
   I need to be clear here...........I made a mistake.  I cheated on my wife.  It was wrong and I will regret it for the remainder of my life.  I also cheated on her with a truly horrible human being that my ex wife hated on a level that most can't comprehend.  I deserved to lose my marriage and I understand why she and I were divorced...................but I never hurt my children.  I was always there for them, even during my affair.  I was a good father.  One day I will have to explain to them about the mistakes that I made and why I couldn't be there for them.  I am ok with that.  I want to be the one who explains it to them and I want to take accountability.  But no matter what, I never deserved to have them taken from me.  That is the FACT of the matter, and what Marcelle and many other scorned and bitter women in this country do through the court system is wrong...................her behaviors in our divorce demonstrate EXACTLY why I was so unhappy being married to her.   

   The letter opened my eyes.  First off, Marcelle knew that it allowed me to have physical evidence that would one day prove to the boys that it was she who was purposely keeping the boys from me by using her families wealth, as opposed to the lie she was concocting that I don't want to be their father.  But more importantly, it showed me that she didn't care.  She was willing to generate evidence that proved the disreputable and unethical approach she had taken in our divorce...........she was simply that arrogant.  

   Secondly, it demonstrated to me that Marcelle had no intentions of working with me to be a father, and that she would do anything in her power to keep me from my boys.  I know that it was not Marcelle who had made this decision..............it was her mother, a woman who's true colors have been demonstrated in The Island Chronicles long ago.  (Censorship Is a Bitch)  Marcelle lacked the ability to think or function without her mother, and unfortunately it has led her to making decisions like this one.  The letter truly broke my heart wide open in many, many ways.

   Of course I denied it, refusing to sign my soul away.  Fran reminded me that I would be responsible for the entire debt owed, attempting to convince me to simply give up.........................I told him to go fuck himself.  But more importantly the letter forced me to accept the harshest reality that I have ever had to face.......................it would be a very long time before I would ever see my children again.  I have two choices.  I can allow this reality to destroy me, or I can accept it and move forward with my life, focusing on the hope that one day I will see them again...............it is what it is, and that is about all that I have to say about that.  Sleep well M and Q.  I have always loved you, and I always will.  I will NEVER give up hope.

“They say a person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for.”
                   ~Tom Bodett~ 

   The third occurrence of 2015 is a continued struggle that I first wrote about while on The Island, titled "The Great Mental Health Med Debate".   The story of The Island and the following fall in West By God abruptly ends at Week 26.  It does this because at that time shit became REAL and an intense story took place that has yet to be written.  Most who know of what happened have advised me to never write that story, but my mind is still not made up about the situation.  Perhaps you will hear it one day.  Following the fallout of the autumn of 2013 I returned to my parents home in an attempt to recover.  My parents made it very clear that I would only be given a place to reside if I followed their strict orders................which meant nothing more than being sent to a doctor and doped up on medication.  After all, why would they ever use love and understanding to deal with the situation when paying a doctor to put me on pills was available.  In their eyes, it was just easier that way...............the Baby Boomer way.  I don't really blame my parents.  They are very broken by the system and have an inability to think for themselves.  It is rather heartbreaking to watch, but they will take their beliefs to their graves.  THAT I am positive of.

   The doctors, in all of their wisdom, claimed that I needed to be immediately medicated and I was given a heavy dose of Lexipro.  After months of so called "adjustments" in which I became violently ill, passed out on two occasions, suffered numerous panic attacks, and felt as though I was going to die, the drugs finally "balanced out" in my system.  It became very apparent to me that I was now helplessly hooked on anti anxiety medication with no way out.  Congrats Mom and Dad!!!!  You healed me!  

   I will be honest..................after they finally adjusted in my system I was more numb than a heroin junkie on a three day bender.  Seriously, I couldn't feel anything.  Emotionally I was rock.  I was no longer bothered by the loss of my children, the loss of my family, or my highly public fall from grace.  I was simply numb.  I didn't care about a damn thing.................that is all the medication accomplished.  It allowed me the ability to not give a fuck.  

   I spent all of 2014 this way.  I made no progress in life.  I just didn't care..............about anything.  Of course the medication was my parents entire plan for "recovery".  They never intended on helping me in any other way.  While I stayed at the house they never really spoke to me, spent time with me, or did anything else to make a human connection with me.............which was pretty much the same as my childhood, so I wasn't really bothered by it.  Eventually I hit the road after they so gracefully forced my exit in an extremely cold and detached way.  They filed a trespass order one month in advance against me and left it on my bed.  It came with a cute little note that said I had one month to find somewhere to go and that they were doing this because they loved me.  If I didn't leave, then the police would arrive at their house and force me to leave................they are such loving people.  Can't possibly figure out why I would have any problems.  

  So I hit the road, lived on my cousins horse farm, wandered for the second half of the year, then went Dirt Baggin' and eventually found Marcie.  Once I did leave "home" I quickly realized that not only was I no longer in a position where I needed to be numbed up, but I was also in a position where a doctor would no longer supply me with medication because I lacked a physical address......................so let me just review.  My parents solution to my complete emotional and mental breakdown was to stick me in a doctors office and have me numbed up on highly addictive medication, kick me out because they had no other plan of action, and then leave me in the cold without any means to find the medication that I was now hooked on................like I stated before, they are very loving people. 

  So I made a choice.  I would cold turkey 20 mg of Lexipro...................what other options did I have?  I started the withdrawal process in December of 2014, and shortly after I moved to Marcie's family farm to spend the winter while she finished up school at John Hopkins and settled into her new job.  It wasn't until the end of January that the withdrawal symptoms began....................I can honestly say that it has been the worst experience that I have ever had in my life, and unfortunately the withdrawals have continued to this day.

   I am so grateful for Marcie.  She has stood by me through all of it, and at times it has been very bad.  I have sat on the bathroom floor uncontrollably shaking for hours.  I have seen colors and shapes that are not really there, as if I was stuck in a bad acid trip.  I have violently thrown up all night and broken out into cold sweats.  My heart palpitates and pounds out of my chest at times with no warning or reason, scaring the shit out of me and sending me into uncontrollable anxiety attacks .  My motivation, focus, and drive have simply vanished for weeks at a time................which hopefully helps you to understand why I have failed to write for six months.   The worst waves came during my time spent at ALF this past spring.  Once I returned from ALF I began to research my condition and spoke with a doctor out of fear that I may die from the withdrawals.  The fact of the matter was a person just can't simply cold turkey an SSRI..................but what choice did I have?  The system would no longer provide me with medication that was affordable, so I did what I had to do.  I bit down, and suffered through the pain.  I truly cannot even begin to describe how bad it eventually became.  After speaking with a doctor I learned that I had developed Lexipro Withdrawal Syndrome, a condition that the drug company providing the medication refuses to acknowledge even exists.  According to Big Drug America, Lexipro does not cause any side effects or withdrawals.........................at the moment I am simply shaking my head.  Do you now understand why I have zero trust in any system within this country?  
   The fact that I have made the progress I have made throughout the course of this year is one step short of a miracle, because I have accomplished it while being very sick on a daily basis. I will NEVER again put an anxiety or depression medication into my body. I want to feel, and no matter how painful that feeling can be, it is still a better alternative than feeling numb to the world. Pain has purpose................it reminds us that we are alive. For now, I will continue to put one foot in front of the other and make progress in my life, without the need to numb myself up, because the love that fills my heart today makes all the pain simply disappear.

“It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.”
                                  ~Chuck Palahniuk~

   So I assume that everyone can understand why the fourth occurrence that happened this year exists in the first place.................accepting that my parents are not the people I had always perceived them to be.  Nothing that happened is really their fault.  They are simple victims of the system.  The Baby Boomer generation understood one way to live, and they were willing to sacrifice everything in order to gain that way of life.  They sacrificed our economy, our political system, our nutrition, our environment, and our ethics in order to force feed their own insatiable hunger for greed and materialism.  Their generation prides their successes on the things that they own, as opposed to the experiences that they possess.  When it came to their kids, many had children simply because that is what they were supposed to do........................which is where my parents come in.  They never wanted children......at least not me.  They only had children because that's what they were supposed to do in order to represent success.  Buy a house, have a career, create children.  I know this for a fact because of a conversation that I overheard my parents having when I was just twelve years old.

  My childhood home had a balcony from the upstairs to the downstairs that we called "the hole in the wall."  For me, it was the perfect place to hide out after I was suppose to be in bed.  I would sit up there and watch the TV shows that my parents watched late at night.  I spent many nights viewing the crap that my father watched on TV, ignorant to the fact that it was exactly that, crap......................I still contemplate what kind of an impact that had on my brain.  

   One night while I was spying on the television from the hole in the wall, I overheard my parents talking.  Our family had just returned from a recent vacation, and my sister and I had spent a large amount of time fighting on the trip, because that is what brothers and sisters did.................they fought.  The conversation that I overheard was one in which my parents discussed how little they enjoyed the time they spent with us, and how they wished they could simply vacation without us, and that they were counting the days until my sister and I were both out of the house and in college.........................remember that I was twelve years old at the time.  They went on to discuss how sometimes they regretted having a second child and wished that they had stopped at one..........................well, that second child was me.

   It's a hard pill to swallow at twelve years old to realize that you were never really meant to exist.  It's hard to accept the fact that you were never really meant to walk this earth to begin with, and that the people that created you considered you a mistake...................I became very angry inside after overhearing that conversation.  I had always been an A and B student, but my grades started to fall after that night, and the trend continued through college.  My mother of course sent me to counselors and doctors once this happened, teaching me how the "developing" Mental Health System could help me. Eventually as an adult I started taking Adderall by choice, convinced that I was ADHD.  I now sit here at 37 years old and understand that I don't think I was ever ADHD...............I was simply confused at how I could have existed when I was never meant to exist in the first place.
   No matter what though, I never told anyone what I had heard that night.  I never mentioned it to my parents, my friends, my teachers, or to anyone else.  The way I saw it, if I had been doing what I was suppose to that night I would have never heard the conversation in the first place.  It was my own fault that I had unintentionally discovered my existence on this earth was in fact a regret.  This piece of writing is the first time I have ever spoken of the incident, but I have thought about it almost everyday for the past 25 years of my life.  I have thought about how I am nothing more than a regret.....................funny how life works.     

   I spent years trying to convince myself that who I was and what I had heard wasn't the TRUTH, but eventually I gave up.  My sister went to college four years before I did and when she did, for the most part, the family vacations and the family time we had spent together simply dwindled away.  My parents spent most weekends during my high school career away at Virginia Tech football games, leaving me free reign to have weekend parties and piss off all the neighbors.  This isolation was what convinced me that the conversation I overheard that night was true.  If it hadn't been, they would have wanted to be more present during my high school career, and our family would have continued to be a family into adulthood.  I see many friends on Facebook and in life who still carry close connections with their family's, the same way they did as children......................unfortunately myself nor my family are one of them.  In fact, both my mother and father have me blocked on Facebook.  Talk about a kick in the nuts.    

   I have spent the last twenty years of my life attempting to connect with the two people who I knew all along never really wanted me to be there in the first place..............and I have failed miserably in that attempt.  So it was this year that I finally concluded what I knew all along.  They just don't care.  They make no attempt to contact me nor do they care to speak with me.  They have never met Marcie, are unaware of any of the successes that I have made throughout this year, and show no interest in the progress of my life.  They are aware of the letter that Marcelle sent me earlier this year attempting to buy away my rights as a father, but they continue to visit Marcelle and pretend as though none of it is happening.  In their minds, as long as they are able to see the boys, why should they care about me.........................after all, I am nothing more than their regret.

“Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on.
I hope you never have to think about anything as much as I think about you.”
~Jonathan Safran Foer~

   The final occurrence of 2015 that has severely impacted my life was the death of my friend, Carter Worthington.  Carter and I only recently became friends, but I will always cherish the months of March and April, because most of that time was spent with Carter and his beautiful family.  The subject of Carter deserves more respect than a few simple paragraphs here in this post.  I have vowed to myself that I will follow up this post with a second one that explains the story and adventure that Carter and I shared a few months before he passed away.  My friend Matthew Purebeater has already written an exceptional piece on who Carter was, and what kind of character he possessed.  You can read his piece here.......... The End of One Adventure.  The Beginning of Another.  

   Carter and I spent a copious amount of time discussing the subjects that I needed to face in order to heal from the past five years.  We sat in his garage, sometimes until the wee hours, talking of rivahs and adventures that we had both experienced, as well as the commonalities that we shared within our own minds.  Carter understood me because he, just like me, was slightly bent.  It was this connection that allowed me to understand that I did not need to walk alone with the pain that I had been carrying on my back for years.  Carter was there, and he would always understand how I thought and felt.  

   But for me, Carter represented something more.  He always referred to me as his brother, and we traveled as brothers for a month through the rivahs and canyons of Western North Carolina and Eastern Tennessee.  While on that trip Carter discussed with me my new found love for Marcie, my confusion about ADHD, medication, and the loss of my boys.  We shared safety meetings, he helped me fix my car, and explained to me why I needed to stand up and face the fears I had been running from for so long.  One of the biggest regrets I will ever have in my life is the fact that I never was able to tell Carter how much he meant to me.  Although he always described me as his brother, I viewed Carter in a very different light.  He always represented the father that I never had.  I am grateful for the time he and I were able to spend together, and it will impact me for the remainder of my life.  

“Beauty is not who you are on the outside, it is the wisdom and time you gave away to save another struggling soul, like you.”
― Shannon L. Alder


   These five events dictated the course of my recovery this past year, and allowed me to understand who I was and what I needed to do moving forward.  My attempts at a so called "career", finding a soul mate, letting go of the things I just hadn't been able to let go of, and kicking a habit that is eroding the foundation of our emotional strength in this society, have all placed me in this position.  Now I am able to look forward instead of back, and I am able to do it with a clear conscious and with love in my heart.  
   The most important lesson that I have learned in life is that difficult times and unfortunate situations are in actuality a chance to grow and learn, and from each of these situations I learned a different lesson and grew to be my own person.  Falling in love has taught me to never stop searching and always follow your heart.  Marcie and I crossed paths at a point in our lives when we both found ourselves alone and giving up on the idea of a soul mate.  Had I missed the opportunity to take the trip I took in 2014 I never would have met her and fallen in love.  Ironically, at the time that I decided to leave RVA and hit the road, most of the people still left in my life had advised me against the trip.  But I followed my heart, knowing that there was a purpose to why I was doing it.  Marcie was that reason, and I will never again allow others to convince me to second guess my own instincts.
   Receiving the letter that I unfortunately received from Marcelle's family lawyer taught me that time is in fact a flat circle and giving in is not the same as giving up.  There will come a time when I am reunited with my children.................but now is not that time.  Marcelle isn't ready to let go of the past and my life is not stable enough to be the father my children deserve.  But time will come back around, and when it does I will be there for them, no matter when the opportunity presents itself.  The best thing that I can do for now is to rebuild my life the way I view happiness and enjoy the gifts that I have been given.  Time heals all wounds.
   Detoxing off twelve years of anxiety and ADHD medications taught me that life is meant to be experienced, and that emotion is a good tool to have.  Sometimes those emotions hurt, but that pain has purpose and it allows the happiness and the love and the experiences of life to be that much more appreciated.  Yes, the medicine covered up the pain that I had endured, but it also robbed me of the happiness that should always exist in life.  My struggles, just like all of yours, are what make me the man I am today, and for the first time in a very long time I can say that I am proud of my decisions and of the path I now find myself on.
   Accepting my parents for who they were taught me one of the most important lessons of my life...............family is not necessarily the people who choose to give you life.  Family are the people who choose to be a part of your life.  There are so many people who made their own choice to ignore the bandwagon and the social norms and decided to stick by me, no matter what.  Loyalty matters in this world, and those people are who I now call my family.  Marcie, DJ, Matt and Liz, Shawn, Josh, Travis, Purebeater, Meredith (both of them) my newly found Mchenry family, all of the boaters who chose to ignore the rumors both in RVA and beyond, and everyone else who stuck with me or came on board for the ride along the way...................these are the people that I now call my family.  Thank You.
   And finally..............Carter.  Carter taught me so much in our short time together, but above all else he taught me that life is short.  It was not his death that taught me this..............it was his life.  Carter lived as though he may die tomorrow, and when he did leave us, the legacy that he left behind demonstrated the way he had lived his life.  He lived it with love, compassion, adventure, understanding, and above all else, dignity.  Thank you Carter.  A part of you will always live inside me and I promise that I will never lose my spirit of adventure.


“It is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else's life with perfection.”
                         ~Anonymous~

   So here I am; at 37 years old I find myself back at the beginning asking the question we all ask at some point in our lives....................what am I meant to do? I haven't figured the answer out yet, but I have discovered a starting point, and for the first time in my life I plan to do what I should have been doing all along................to follow my heart.  At the beginning of this post I described a world that existed within a 20 mile radius of home.  After pouring my soul out here for anyone to read, I now understand how that 20 mile radius relates to our world today.............home is where our heart is.  Our worlds can change and we can be exposed to the problems of society, the cultural dilemmas that exist between our country and the ones throughout the world, or the political oppression that EVERYONE seems to be victimizing themselves with.  But no matter how much "education" you absorb yourself with through the media, at the end of the day the things that really affect your lives happen within a 20 mile radius of your heart.  It is that which is directly in front of you and it is that which is your world..................not the propaganda shoved into your minds.  But everyday we seem to distance ourselves further and further away from what is REAL.  I plan to start my journey by discovering all that exists within a 20 mile radius of my heart, and to find the adventure that I have always longed to unearth.  I hope you will join me for the odyssey.   

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”
                    ~Anaïs Nin~

 

See ya on the rivah..................and the slopes, finding my adventures.  PEACE

Fear and Loathing in West By God (Part VIII)

For a complete listing of the first seven parts of this story, as well as all of the adventures in The Island Chronicles, please click here on The Table of Contents.

  

One Hell of a Whitewater Saturday

“An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.
                                      ~G K. Chesterton~

   The burning sensation throughout the front of my body simply would not withdraw and the only way to assuage that discomfort was to bitch about it incessantly, mostly to myself, but also to others. I knew I was suffering a much deserved punishment for my actions from the previous night’s camp bell pole shimmy, but I chose to handle my discomfort with the emotional patience of a teenage girl, rather than sucking it up like a man. The Pepper Spray pummeling I had suffered at the hands of the police was temporarily debilitating, but that is what one gets for displaying the behaviors of a drunken freshman frat pledge. Of course very few of my exhibited behaviors from the previous night’s debauchery actually did allow me to claim manhood. I was well aware that my inebriated misadventures and shenanigans were more exemplary of a juvenile convict……………I didn’t care. This trip and the life lessons that I was acquiring while on it had a purpose, and although I was unaware of what that purpose was, I continued to follow one golden rule……………..do whatever the hell you want and see where it leads you! I was also still walking a fine line with those other three golden rules. 1. Nobody gets pregnant 2. Nobody goes to jail 3. Nobody dies. Based on the stories you have already read, you can see why I use the words “walking a fine line”.
   I was following my own rules because I had spent most of my life failing to meet the obligations of others…….pretending parents, false friends, controlling ex-wives, and corrupt bosses. This was my time to do it my way, and living a few weeks of complete Dirt Bag euphoria seemed as good of a place as any to begin that journey. I write this story nine months removed from the depravity and untouched freedom that the trip allowed me to discover, and as I look back on it, one thing is painfully evident…………that kind of lifestyle is temporary, no matter who you are.
   In the past nine months my life has changed in many ways, and as it does it has proven a very important theory to me. Perception is truly reality……….especially my own. The way I viewed the entire shit show from the very humble beginnings of the Whitewater Jihad with Lil Rook and John Denver, all the way up to waking up on Gauleyfest morning with a massive hangover, covered in pepper spray and missing my pants, has changed dramatically over the course of nine months. Would I ever do it again? HELL NO! For one, I doubt it can or will ever be repeated. And second, I question whether myself, or others, would survive the ordeal. But most importantly, an adventure such as that is only meant to be experienced once. Those who try to repeat and seek it out over and over aren’t doing so because they long for that kind of permanent existence; they are doing it because they are empty inside and want to fill the void with something that they will never find in the places they are searching. I understand that now, and it is why in the end, DBP was a false enigma. But I digressed, because before we delve into that arduous topic, we have a story to complete, and it starts with a hung over raft trip down the Upper Gauley.

“Always remember that you were once alone, and the crowd you see in your life today are just as unnecessary as when you were alone.”
                                                       ~ Michael Bassey Johnson~

   There were many options for my day’s campaign down West By God’s rowdiest Class IV+ big water roller coaster ride. When trying to decide, I first turned to my own Dirt Bag Mobile to consider the two options that I myself possessed………Pink and Stink. Pink was my 2nd generation Pyranha Burn, and my go to option for Upper Yough glory; as well as plenty of crickin’ jaunts throughout West By God and beyond. Her name was short for “Two in the Pink”, and she could truly slip through any wet rapid as gently as possible. She was tried and true, and she was my #1 love. Unfortunately a summer on The Island had taken its toll on her, and she leaked like a sieve, plus her hull was as warped as a ginger chick on an acid trip. (and yes I just used a ginger analogy…….haters) I paddled her throughout the week on the Upper Yough, but based on the condition of my hung over body, she was best left to rest for another day.
   That turned my attention to Stink, my newly beloved 20+ year old, 10.5 foot Ocoee Canoe. Stink carried history, for she belonged to Marcelle. It is the only material item that I was able to win in our divorce, and that was simply because Marcelle no longer wanted to paddle. She took literally EVERYTHING else…..even the shit that belonged to me. Stink’s hull was covered in patches, as well as about an extra 20 pounds of fiberglass, but she was a tough little bitch with a lot of whitewater days left in her. I named her Stink because it rhymes with Pink, and well, because Marcelle sucks……….you can take that logic however you would like. Fact is, that canoe was mine, and I will be damned if I ever give it back to her. Unfortunately my skill set in Open Boating was still developing, as is still the case today. Plus I felt like I was 2 seconds away from projectile vomiting. I figured it was not the best day for a first personal Open Boating decent down the Upper Gauley.
   My third boat was Blue. He was my Necky Chronic, but unfortunately he had been out of commission for the better part of a year and rested at the famous kayaking graveyard of Fall Line Canoes World Headquarters in RVA……..the place boats go to die. I trusted that The Professor was going to take good care of him until the day I could actually afford to have him fixed. Based on my non-existent budget, as well as my poor man lifestyle, I would have him up and floating sometime around the 2017 season. But I can promise you, one day he will make his return. YOU’RE MY BOY BLUE!!!! I was quickly running out of hard plastic options, which left me only one choice…………….hitch a ride on some rubber. Don’t judge me! At least I didn’t SUP it.

“SUPing sucks.”
           ~Everybody~

   Crews of Dirt Bags were already rallying their boats. I had observed enough trips down different rivahs with these beaters over the past week to know that I needed to be selective with whom I would trust with my life……….which brings me to Waterhouse. Awwww, yes, Waterhouse. I liked Waterhouse. He was a stalwart rivah guide, friendly as can be, seemed like a solid comrade to party and travel with, and was seasoned in the ways of the rivah. I was so hung over that I resorted to being perfectly comfortable with playing the role of a custy for the day, and I had no problem with Waterhouse acting as my guide. It was a smart choice on my part.
   Although Waterhouse is everything I just described, aside from running the rivah with him and sharing the responsibilities of a shitfaced wet t-shirt contest, I wanted to have very little to do with the guy……..Why? Because unfortunately Waterhouse possessed two personality flaws that happened to be at the very top of my pet peeve list. It was disappointing, because I truly did like the guy.
   At this point in the story I need to point something out…….the entire crew that I was rolling with had gained familiarity with one another through social media. We were all from different corners of the continent aside from the Wisco crew. I recently read a story by Tucker Max in the bestselling novel Assholes Finish First. It was a tale about the first time Tucker decided to party with the fans of his blog, long before he became one of Time Magazines Most Influential People of 2009. The trip was a shit show, mostly because of the unexpected characters he encountered. In it he describes a very important component of social media that he learned through his experience; one’s ability to create a persona that doesn’t truly exist………..and THAT was my main issue with Waterhouse. He was not who he portrayed himself to be. To him everyone in life had to always be happy, and we should never argue, disagree, or have any conflict with one another. He tried to convince everyone around him that his life was perfect and he was ALWAYS jubilant and emotionally complete. HA! What kind of fantasyland was this guy living in? Waterhouse is the type of guy who gets on Swimmer’s Anonymous and attempts to induce everyone into being kind to one another and only leave positive comments, only to retreat back to his friends and bitch about how much he abhors SA……..this would most certainly result in being eaten alive by those satire obsessed beaters on SA, plus it’s a complete contradiction. He had already resorted to Facebook rants with me and others concerning my very strong and public feelings about SUP, as well as the controversial attitude that I exhibited on social media at times……I love it when they bite the line so easily. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. He basically wasted his time trying to convince me to be a kind social media character for the betterment of the community. This was not cool in my eyes. The world isn’t always sunshine and roses, and if there is one hard lesson I have learned over the past decade, it’s those who try to convince everyone that the world IS sunshine and roses are usually the ones who are the most fucked up. Waterhouse fell into that category. Over time I discovered that my theory was true after some of his acquaintances confided in me about the problems that existed in his life. All he had to do was be REAL, but because he failed to be, and it was so transparent, I knew I would never trust the guy. In short, Waterhouse was a complete fraud.
   His second personality flaw was that he based his own self worth on the attractiveness of the women he surrounded himself with. I know this doesn’t seem like a big deal, and many insecure men do it, but to me it was a huge deal, for one simple reason………….men who do that have no respect for the law of “bro’s before ho’s”. Waterhouse would surely sell any of his friends out for not just a piece of ass, but also for the ability to be pussy whipped by a piece of ass. I had experienced this situation in my past with the RVA crowd and The Fourteenth Street Whore. Beautiful women were, and still are a rarity in the RVA paddling scene, so when The Fourteenth Street Whore came around and started shaking her tail feathers in front of everyone, beater after beater fell straight into the trap. It is important to remember that I was whore fucking that silly little slattern in secret the entire time this was happening, so I had a rather unique observation deck to watch the entire shit show go down without anyone ever knowing. (Which by the way, none of that story has been written yet…….trust me when I say that the best is yet to come, but it will have to wait for the book). In the end I was able to see the TRUTH in a lot of people in that town before they ever even realized the omniscient role that I played; and one thing that became painfully obvious to me was that there wasn’t, and still isn’t any loyalty there when it comes to women or friends. Those boys became nothing but a bunch of slobbering slut bait every time any half way decent female entered that parking lot, and the amount of hypocrisy it created among the tribe destroyed what Fourteenth Street once was, or what it will ever be again……….eventually I also fell into the slut bait trap and sold out not only my wife, but also my friends for The Fourteenth Street Whore. It is THE biggest mistake I ever made in life and the primary reason this topic is so important to me. I hated myself for what I had become when I sold out, and I have no tolerance in watching other good men do the same. I knew that Waterhouse would do the exact same thing to me, as well as anyone else in our crew if given the opportunity, and in the end he did exactly that with Lil’ Rook…………but we will come back to that. Fact was, I had no intentions of ever trusting Waterhouse.

“Guys that say 'bros before hoes' don't take gardening as seriously as I do.”
                                           ~Anonymous~

   But this day was not about Waterhouse……..it was about massive piles of whitewater, a quality crowd of people, and one hell of a rivah adventure. I was perfectly comfortable sharing that experience with Waterhouse, regardless of how I felt about him personally. Like I said, he was a good guy with unfortunate personality flaws. He had chosen two of the lovely ladies from the previous night’s wet t-shirt contest to share his raft (see what I mean), and in doing so was in need of some serious paddling power, which is where I came in. I volunteered to be the fourth party in his raft. The day was set and the team was a go!
   When we arrived at the put-in the typical chaos of Gauleyfest had already overtaken the parking lot. This was not a scene reminiscent of the peace and tranquility that the Upper Yough put-in exemplified throughout the week. This was a clusterfuck of cars, busses, rafts, kayaks, people, and Dirt Bag fucktards. The event has become so popular that the Rangers now force you to wait in your car at the top of the mountain, only allowing a certain number of vehicles down to avoid a bottleneck on the twisty, curvy road………..the only thing this succeeded in doing was it allowed everyone to drink twice as much, so by 11am everyone was well on their way to being inebriated yet again. The one variable that kept me sober was the fact that on this morning the smell of alcohol triggered a gag reflex within me that would have made projectile vomiting a certainty. I played it safe for the morning and stuck with my meetings of impregnability.
   Upon arrival I made a B Line straight for the rivah in order to indulge in a nature bath and rid myself of the remaining Pepper Spray………yes, I washed police Pepper Spray off my body in the waters of the Gauley Rivah. That’s about as Dirt Bag as it gets. As I did this, I simply floated in an eddy, relaxed and content under the late summer sun while seeking relief in the cool waters. The weather was picture perfect, and various forms of entertainment were happening in front of me to keep my senses occupied.
   Throughout this three year journey I have developed a keen sense of observation……..something I did not possess in my former life. I do this in order to write the stories with as much detail and fact as possible. Once I discovered that I was smarter than the average bear and gained the self confidence that was never instilled in me by despotic parents, my entire world changed. It is amazing what one can ascertain when removing oneself from an environment to simply observe the happenings of the world around them. You become an outsider constantly looking in and seeking analysis. Everyone is so fixated on themselves and their own personal role in the world these days that we forget to contemplate the scene around us………..I do not. People watching has become an art for me, and humanity is a fascinating social experiment that also provides an ample amount of entertainment. I have discovered that the best places to unearth quality people watching in mass amounts are at amusement parks, Wal-Mart’s, and NASCAR events. I laid back in the waters of the rivah and simply observed the social showcase that buzzed all around me.
   Before long the rafts were in the water, coolers were strapped down, and our Dirt Bag dignitaries entered the whitewater proving grounds of the Gauley Rivah. The Upper G truly is a gem of a rivah and is worthy of the fight that the whitewater community has always battled against to keep it flowing and beautiful. The whitewater is of outstanding quality, the scenery is exceptional, and the remoteness of the gorge allows for a complete escape from the outside world. It is worthy of the pilgrimage that thousands of Dirt Bags make on an annual basis to experience it’s natural wonder. 

“The river and the garden have been the foundations of my economy here. Of the two I have liked the river best. It is wonderful to have the duty of being on the river the first and last thing every day. I have loved it even in the rain. Sometimes I have loved it most in the rain.”
                                                                                      ~Wendell Berry~

   Waterhouse demonstrated a solid skill set in his guiding. As we dropped into Pillow, I experienced the thrill of one of nature’s great whitewater puzzles for the first time ever from the aspect of a front row custy………it was simply awesome!!! The front of a raft is the place to be for a ride down Pillow rapid and is much better than a seat in the guide hole. I have kayaked and guided the Upper Gauley on numerous occasions, but experiencing the monstrous waves and deeply pocketed holes of Pillow from the front of a raft was truly an epic experience as well as a pleasant surprise………..if you have failed to experience it for yourself, do so, because it is worth every penny of a commercial trip.
   The rivah heals………..always. By the time I reached Pillow I had shaken off my defunctive hang over and returned to the world of the living. Our crew styled the gauntlet of Lost Paddle rapid before creeping up on the horizon line of Iron Ring. Iron Ring is an infamous Upper G rapid with a dark history of stories told by veteran rivah legends as a warning to rookie guides of its fatal consequences. It is short and steep and full of deadly hazards. There is a cave on the far right that is exposed at low flows and reveals a large portion of the rivah pushing underneath it. As a result of blasting by the old mining companies of the area, an unnatural rock sits in the middle of the rapid blocking a safe exit out of the turmoil. I have hiked from the cabin to this rapid many times, and in doing so have discovered why the rock was bestowed with the name “Woodstock”……….because it is shaped exactly like a little birdy. Unfortunately that shape creates an ugly S-turned sluice on the rivah left side, and a pocket in the dead center. The rule of thumb is stay right for a safe exit. Unfortunately you can’t start right. There is a nasty entrance hole guarding the top right side as you enter the precipitous drop, and it has a long history of not only flipping rafts, but literally tossing them airborne straight towards the death trap of Woodstock. Behind Woodstock rests a monstrous hole that sucks all unused carnage into its grips before sending unlucky custy’s deep into the darkness of the Gauley. Basically, you have to tight rope a fine line down the middle to start the rapid out, with right handed momentum to safely push you away from Woodstock for a clean exit. The pucker factor in a raft can be high, and it is not a rapid you want to fuck with. For all of those who think I am giving The Ring too much credit, take a hike down and view it at low water, and then come back and tell me what you think. It’s truly a grotesque sight to behold. Once the line is learned it is a rather easy feet to accomplish, however, being off target just a few feet to the right or a few feet to the left can result in disastrous consequences.
   Waterhouse did not hide the fact that he was learning the lines as we descended the gorge, but I was confident in our knowledge and his skill to traverse the complex puzzle successfully. I don’t remember a discussion about an optional land scout, so we crept up on the ominous horizon line from our boat, looking for the correct entrance from our vantage point. I now know that there is a small reactionary wave just at the crest of the horizon line that you drift into from left to right. Once you hit that little reactionary, turn your raft to a 1 o’clock angle, and bomb straight forward bracing for impact with the first of the two Woodstock holes. Unfortunately on this day, I was not aware of the little reactionary, and we entered too far right. As we did, we missed the top reactionary and the raft continued drifting right, straight towards the top hole that must be avoided. I was sitting on the front right side of the raft, so when we hit the hole, I dug my shoulder deeply into the pile of whitewater. The hole twists back to the left, and it did the same thing to our raft. With the blink of an eye, our raft started a violent left sided flip as it became airborne. I attempted a quick high side, but all this accomplished was it positioned me even higher up the right tube of the boat. As it flipped, the sling shot effect literally catapulted me out of the raft, sending me airborne and straight towards Woodstock. As I calmly floated above the raft and through the air, I knew exactly what was happening and that one thing was painfully clear…………..I was about to eat complete and total shit. If you have ever seen Talladega Nights, think about the scene where Will Ferrell wrecks his car and is flying through the air in slow motion and mutters the phrase, “I’m flying through the air. This is not good.”…….yup. That was me.
   I took a header into the water dangerously far left, directly above Woodstock, arms and legs flailing in the process. (FYI: I held onto my paddle the entire time. Take note beaters) I was quickly submerged by the churning waters upon landing. I immediately slammed into Woodstock, under the water I might add, and felt myself bounce around the right side of the hazard. Believe it or not, this feeling comforted me because I knew I was out of danger from being sucked into the left side sluice. Unfortunately, I was also about to hit the monstrous hole behind Woodstock head on, still underwater………..when I did, I went deep. And I do mean very DEEP! I went Ron Jeremy DEEP people. I opened my eyes as the churning bubbles roared in my ears, and as I did I could see the light fade from above and darkness enter my world. Then I felt the pressure on my ears. It’s the same pressure you felt as a child when you dove to the bottom of the diving well, only much worse, because you are much deeper.
   Things became quiet and peaceful. I released control of the situation, held my breath, and let the waters take me where they may. The darkness was blacker than anything I had ever experienced on a rivah, and the silence was just that………..eerily silent. As strange as it may sound, being at the bottom of a whitewater rivah is actually momentarily peaceful. I bounced gently across the bottom of the riverbed for a few seconds, before the buoyancy of my PFD took control and started my long ascent back to the light of the world and the much needed oxygen I was quickly longing for. The roar of the water slowly returned to my ears, then the light to my eyes, and then the pressure eased. Instantly I rocketed to the surface and exploded out of the water, at least fifty yards downstream from where I had been submerged. The entire experience happened within a matter of 10 seconds.
   “Holy Shit!!!!” I bellowed. I popped up directly next to the raft, almost under it, and immediately threw myself back in to help the rest of my crew. Waterhouse was on point, back in the raft at the same time, and we fished our two lovely custy’s out of the jaws of Iron Ring. We all portrayed the look of deer in headlights as we lay in the raft happy to be alive. “That was intense!” I stated, attempting to break the silence and shock of the situation. Waterhouse reveled in it based on the look on his face, which is about par for any hard core rivah addict. The nastier the carnage, the more alive we feel……..we’re seriously fucked up that way. We had just survived a violent flip through a notoriously nasty rapid, and popped out on the other side with more insight and experience to the world of whitewater…………..don’t get me wrong. I wish to never repeat the feet again in my life. The only thing I was really bummed about was the fact that we didn’t get to view the catastrophe from a second hand perspective, because from what we were told by witnesses, it was impressive. Once again, rubber pushing had proven to be the sketchiest form of travel in whitewater sport. 

“Accidents are not accidents but precise arrivals at the wrong right time.”
                                                             ~Dejan Stojanovic~

   For anyone suffering from a hangover and looking for a quick remedy, I suggest a violent flip in a Class V rapid, and a temporary visit to the depths of a rivah. It will cure even the most vicious of alcohol induced anguish. I felt alert and attentive for the remainder of the day, and was ready to once again join the alcohol induced party that had become this journey.
   We reached the top of Sweet’s Falls within the hour, and even from above the rapid we could hear the screams and jeers of the crowd of onlookers and peanut gallery. Sweet’s is the finale of the Upper Gauley gauntlet……….the last Class V of the Big Five on the section. It consists of one massive hole that the entire rivah drops into, and it is a carnage producing wet dream. In 2013 I sat in an eddy at extremely high water on Gauleyfest Saturday and watched 25 rafts drop into the beast………22 of them flipped, and most succeeded in doing it with violently cringing results. Add to this the fact that an errant line too far left will lead you into Dildo Rock, probably the most feared feature on the rivah. Dildo is a cooler sized rock protruding out from the falls just under the water that literally stops rafts dead if met by a rubberized vehicle full of victims. It is the equivalent of a head on collision. And just like in a car, when the raft plugs into the obstacle at a high rate of speed, the custy’s just keep right on going, flying in all directions like an explosion of PFD wrapped humans. Collisions with Dildo have produced some of the more jaw dropping sights I have ever witnessed on any rivah. Dropping into Sweet’s on the festival Saturday is like skydiving into the Super Bowl. Once you land below The Falls, you look around and realize that you are the show, and EVERYONE is hoping you crash and burn!
   When you are running the rivah, the approach to the rapid can be an anxiety induced nightmare based on the downstream sounds alone, let alone the blind horizon line revealing a misty cloud produced by the churning hole. Our crew dropped in heavy, nailing the line with ease and disappointing the carnage crazed crowds. We scampered towards the right side of Postage Due, the perfect observation rock for the NASCAR style shit show we hoped to witness. Postage Due is a veritable playground, surrounded by whitewater features on all sides. Aside from the monstrous hole of the actual Falls, visible directly in front of the granite viewing deck, there is also “The Box”. This little gem of a puzzle is a boxed in room of churning water with swirly currents and a nasty triangular rock that pins rafts against its side, before flipping them and tossing unsuspecting customers in every direction, including occasional slams against the surrounding walls. On Gauleyfest Saturday there is probably no better place to be in the whitewater world than sitting on top of Postage Due witnessing the show that surrounds you. The following is by far the greatest raft carnage collection of Gauley footage ever assembled, with the ending highlighting the chaos of Sweet’s Falls and some EPIC Dildo hits.  The best part of it is that this video is straight up Old School West By God, before the lawyers and board members destroyed the TRUTH……………….enjoy, because this video is a classic in the world of whitewater.

Four Seasons on the Gauley

   We spent a few hours gawking at the obscene amount of carnage that the day produced. Postage Due continued to collect rafts and kayaks as the day wore on, and at one point a rubber castle of rafts stacked seven high was constructed. I have never seen the rock covered with so many boats or people, and I doubt I ever will again. During the show, Chicago Mike and I climbed to the top of the pile of rafts and sat above the whitewater world witnessing the chaos that ensued below. It was the culmination of the week of whitewater, but was also the unfortunate peak of my friendship with Mike. I was completely oblivious as to the extent that he was not only about to fail me, but also fail the rest of the DBP following.
   The remainder of our afternoon consisted of a lazy float out of the gorge. The rivah drastically flattens out for three miles after Sweet Fall’s before passing through the milder Middle Gauley and then re-entering a secondary gorge known as the Lower section. The Lower is a somewhat easier trip, but still contains world class whitewater, and what is in my opinion much better rivah scenery. For an in-depth description of the Lower Gauley feel free to click here on The Perfect Rivah.

   The shuttle ride for any logistical plan on the Gauley is always complicated, long, and extremely remote, no matter where you take out. Our crew decided to attempt it without the need to backtrack, so we succeeded in cramming 8 people, 3 rafts, piles of gear, and a kayak in one two door pickup truck. Needless to say it was one of the more uncomfortable shuttle rides I have ever experienced and I was ecstatic once we finally returned to the festival grounds. The day’s adventure had been a triumphant victory, and I was more than content to pass the fuck out for a much needed siesta. The Upper Gauley had once again reminded me that Mother Nature withholds a power that no man will ever truly grasp.

“A human being is a part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feeling as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.”
                                           ~Albert Einstein~

   After 14 days of chaos, partying, and whitewater induced exhaustion, I still hadn’t had enough, and there is yet more to come. Sunday allowed for a “relaxing” day on the Lower section that ended up producing the highest amount of carnage we had seen yet, followed by a DBP slumber party and a trip to visit Pillow rapid on foot in which Dale almost dies, Mackenzie has a meltdown, and the crew says goodbye. This 10 part series has it all, so stick with me because there are some surprises on the horizon, including that blunt TRUTH about DBP.

“Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing ever happened.”
                                     ~Winston S. Churchill~

                               

See ya on the rivah……………hopefully not exploring the bottom of Iron Ring. PEACE

Fear and Loathing in West By God (Part VII)

For a complete listing of the first six parts of this story, as well as all of the adventures in The Island Chronicles, please click here on The Table of Contents.


Gauleyfest 2014 - A Shit Show of Epic Proportions

"I just want to kayak and slay some honeys and go to bed with a full belly."
~Ollie~


   My Dirt Bag Mobile plodded up the mountain deep in the no mans land that lies between Ohiopyle and Friendsville. Pink and Stink were strapped securely down on the top of the roof, the trunk was crammed tightly with rivah gear, and the back seat was piled high with clothes, bags, and junk collected from a year's worth of Dirt Bag adventures. Flan and I were headed south to the land of The Gauley, and we were starting off our late morning drive with a friendly safety session for focusing purposes. Our safety gear was well worn in, and sticky goo was clogging up our ability to successfully fill our minds with impregnability. We searched for a solution to the problem throughout the clutter filled mess that my car had become from two weeks on the road. Eventually we reached the top of the mountain, and decided to pull over and sort through the layers of trash, clothing, junk, and gear, hoping for a paper clip...................talk about trying to find a needle in a haystack.
   Eventually we succeeded in our mission, and as we sat in the pull off at the top of the mountain in literally the middle of nowhere, silence surrounded the car as I worked the paperclip through the thick, smelly, black goop preventing us from a safe ride. Eventually that silence was broken by the faint puttering of a pickup truck struggling up the mountainside from the opposite end of the road. Flan and I continued dealing with the chore of clean safety gear as a beaten down redneck pickup truck emerged over the crest of the mountain. Two men, both of whom were obviously deeply ingrained locals, pulled the struggling truck alongside our car, as thick white smoke streamed out from under the hood. The front wheel well of the truck pulled directly next to Flans passenger side window. Flan and I continued to observe the scene, only to see small flames flickering in the wheel well from behind the tire of the truck. Flan calmly rolled down his window and kindly initiated the attention of one of the patrons of the truck. “Excuse me sir. I believe your truck is on fire.” The gentleman calmly exited the truck and inspected the small car fire brought to his attention by Flan………there was still no panic by anyone. After a few seconds of contemplation, the gentleman looked back in the cab of the truck, and instructed his buddy to hand him a 24 ounce bottle of Mountain Dew sitting in the cup holder. He then returned to the wheel well and poured the entire bottle over the fire. As he did, the streams of white smoke quickly turned into billowing clouds of thick steam and ash that began to fill the cab of our Dirtbag Mobile. Flan calmly hit the power window button without saying a word and the outside chaos was immediately cut off from our own little world inside the car…………the only thing left to do was drive away, so that is what we did.
   A few silent moments passed within the car as if nothing had happened. Then I decided to speak.  “Did we just watch a West By God Redneck put out his own car fire with a Mountain Dew?” I asked with a grin on my face. “Yes. Yes we did.” Flan responded. The two of us started down the mountain and across the Maryland border, with Water Street Pepperoni Rolls in our near future ………….man this trip had gotten weird.

“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”
                                                 ~Ernest Hemingway~


   We arrived in Friendsville around lunchtime on another beautiful rivah day. The morning Upper Yough rush had already departed Water Street on their way to the put-in, and the streets of Friendsville were temporarily free of vagrant Dirt Bags, demonstrating the peace and tranquility that makes one fall in love with small town life. The scene was perfect for a lackadaisical day off and a pit stop on our way south.
   We found Chris hard at work as always behind the counters of the Café, ready to create his whitewater famous crack rolls. The pepperoni rolls at Water Street cannot be adequately described within the content of this text……….they are a rare Western Maryland delicacy that must be experienced in order to understand the culinary heaven that has been created. Securing a warm, greasy bag after a 9 mile paddle of Class IV whitewater, creating a raging hunger unimaginable to most, makes the rolls even more delicious. Chris is a master chef, and his artistry does not go unnoticed by the whitewater world.
   We spent the early afternoon stuffing our faces and confabulating with Chris about the humorous endeavors we had witnessed throughout our weeks of Dirt Bagging.  One of my favorite aspects of the Upper Yough whitewater scene is the warm and friendly environment that greets you when you step inside the Water Street Cafe.  Chris is a very intelligent and very friendly character to confabulate with, and I always cherish my conversations with him over a cup of coffee.  Whether we banter back and forth about literature and writing, or simply shoot the shit about the whitewater community and the different aspects of boating, a day at Water Street is always time well spent.
   With our bellies full of coffee, pepperoni, cheese, and dough, we departed Friendsville and continued our pilgrimage south. The land between Friendsville, Maryland and Summersville, West By God represents the deepest and most desolate region in the entire Mid-Atlantic. There truly is nothing but small West By God towns like Thomas and Phillippe within this area, winding cricks and rivahs in deep gorges, and endless tracts of State and National forests that seem to stretch for countless distances. The drive to Summersville was peaceful and beautiful, carrying us over high ridge tops as we crept closer and closer towards the inevitable shit show of Gauleyfest……..and shit was most certainly about to hit the fan. 


“The fear of the drugs running out is manageable-the fear of time running down isn't.”
~Ann Marlowe~ 


   Flan and I arrived at the Gauleyfest venue around 5pm, clueless about the marketing extremes that Chicago Mike and company had gone to in order to pull off a Friday night party within the grounds . The DBP crew had set up camp close to a large fire circle in the back of the complex. Shredder Aaron parked his rape van next to the circle and set up shop with a small video monitor for whitewater porn. Behind the van was an inflated 12 foot raft stocked full of ice and 75 cases of beer. Next to the van was a small table displaying T-shirts, stickers, and pointless shwag created by Chicago Mike to sell to clueless and drunk Dirt Bags throughout the night. None of this set up had been sanctioned by the event promoters, making the entire party highly illegal and rather disrespectful to the sponsor, American Whitewater. 
   For all of the non-whitewater boaters reading this story, let me educate you briefly on the history of Gauleyfest and the partnership with American Whitewater in order to understand the amount of impiety that this party represented……………. 

   "Gauleyfest began in 1983 as a celebration over the derailment of a hydro-electric project that would have disrupted the flows of the world famous Gauley Rivah.  Over the years it has become whitewater's largest gathering, but more importantly it has become the primary fundraiser for American Whitewater, the organization within the boating community that fights for the advocacy and stewardship of whitewater rivahs across the country.  This organization has been instrumental in dam removals, clean water initiatives, rivah access, as well as countless other victories in whitewater throughout the years.  All proceeds from Gauleyfest go towards American Whitewater and their fight to save countless rivahs in the future."

   When Flan and I arrived we found Chicago Mike setting up for the evenings events.  He had secured the headline band for the festival to play an acoustic show around the fire circle during the festivities, and he planned to use free food and drinks to entice the crowd to attend.  Dale, Mackenzie, and the rest of the DBP crew were out and about in the campground promoting the party and recruiting "acceptable" candidates for the Wet T-Shirt Contest.
   My personal opinion of the event was that it would not be pulled off, so I did not take part in helping with the set up.  I truly didn't see the point.  Chicago Mike was spending his own money to throw the party and make a buck at a non-profit event in an attempt to do what???...............to this day I still don't have an answer to that question.  My only conclusion is that he wanted to do the same thing he had been doing since he began DBP, and is still doing to this day.  He wanted to bribe the whitewater community for popularity purposes...........we will come back to that topic later.
   My natural Dirt Bag instincts cajoled my senses towards the free beer.  I cracked open a PBR and started the evening off right...........within an hour I was drunk..........again.  Around 8pm or so people started to show up, and the popping of PBR's was evident in 2 second intervals.  From this point forward for the remainder of the night things moved at a very quick pace.
   At this stage of the story it is important to point something out............I was wasted, and I mean blackout wasted.  I remember bits and pieces of the night and through piecing together my own vague recollections, as well as the hand full of stories that have been told to me by friends, acquaintances, and random strangers, I have created this account of the evening.  I held off telling it to this point for a variety of reasons.......

1.  I'm an unmotivated Dirt Bag re-establishing my place in society
2.  The Island Chronicles come second to my REAL life
3.  I have never attempted to write a story that I only vaguely remember
4.  I am somewhat embarrassed about the party that was thrown and the fact that I was a part of it
5.  Shit hit the fan, and everyone who was there knows it

   As people began to mobilize, a few things became evident................

1.  The party was about to go down in a big way
2.  Mackenzie was the marketing genius behind its success
3.  Dirt Bag chicks were eager as hell to show off their mammary glands
4.  Shredder Aaron, as always, was intent to make a complete jack ass of himself
5.  Chicago Mike knew what he was doing, regardless of whether or not it was morally or ethically correct

   Around sunset, with the band playing and the crowd becoming thicker and thicker and rowdier and rowdier, I was asked to man the Shwag Booth................I did not want to do this.  I remained there for about five minutes before doing what it is that I always do well.  I said "fuck it" and simply abandoned my post.  I could care less if a bunch of poor Dirt Bags wanted to spend their remaining dollars on a bunch of shit they didn't need.  And I certainly didn't want to help DBP exploit the work of American Whitewater..........which was exactly what Chicago Mike was doing.  I simply didn't care, so I did what I wanted to do.  The reason that I point this out is because at some point after my abandonment of the post, a shit load of shwag was stolen and Aaron and Mike became extremely Butt Hurt about it for weeks following the festival.  They even posted accounts of the theft on Facebook, attempting to manipulate the culprits into admitting that they had stolen the merchandise.  The most amusing part of the entire incident and the reason I point it out now is because no one ever connected the dots as to why the items were stolen.......................because I abandoned my post.  The entire situation was my fault, and I still find it hilarious considering I never agreed with the creation or sale of the crap DBP pawns off on the Dirt Bag world.  DBP was never about making a buck.  The day Chicago Mike made a buck off the idea is the day the TRUTH of DBP died.
   So instead of selling pointless crap, I wondered into the crowd, piss drunk and without a job to do.............idol hands are the devil's playground.  I noticed the crowd numbers were quickly growing into the hundreds, and although things were somewhat under control, Aaron and Mike were reluctant to begin the Wet T-Shirt Contest due to the presence of two police officers at the top of the hill.  The officers were not doing anything other than observing the developing scene.  Mike, Aaron, Dale, and Mackenzie were in the middle of the crowd with the line of voluptuous contestants for the contest, all eager to expose their assets to the world.................keep in mind, a 200 dollar prize was at stake here.  The four of them seemed clueless about what to do and reluctant to start the show.  I looked around and realized the crowd was becoming restless, so I decided to take matters into my own highly inebriated hands.  I walked up to the top of the hill to have a friendly conversation with the constables of the law.  The conversation from what I remembered went something like this....................................

Me:  "Well good evening officers!"
Cops:  "Dude, don't touch me."  (seriously, that was the first thing he said to me)
Me:  "I was just noticing you standing here and was wondering if we were operating within the jurisdiction of the law."
Cops:  "Everything seems to be relatively in order.  I smell pot, but I am not about to go down there to figure out where it is coming from."
Me:  "I know man.  Drugs are bad.  It's a shame that a few bad apples want to ruin a good time"  (the cop rolled his eyes at my comment)
Me:  "Well, here's the thing.  We were hoping to put on a show for all of these fine Dirt Bags and we have organized a group of lovely ladies ready to get topless for the enjoyment of the crowd.  We don't want to break any laws, so I, as well as my friends sponsoring the event were wondering how you felt about that idea?"

   The cop calmly looked at me and smiled, and then delivered the greatest line I have ever heard a police officer speak.

Cops:  "Why do you think we are standing here.  Start the show."

   Now, I have always bluntly spoken my mind about the police officers of this country (remember that I now live in Baltimore), but on this night my entire thought process was turned upside down.  These cops were the shit, and just like every red blooded American male, they wanted to see some titties!  I whistled down the hill to catch Mikes attention, and with a wide grin on my face I gave him two big thumbs up.  Time to start the show!!!!!!


“I don’t like tit for tat. I like tit for tit. Bring on the boobies!”
                                             ~Jarod Kintz~

   I thanked the officers for their awesomeness and then skipped down the hillside like a giddy child, so excited I could barely contain myself.  Shredder Aaron and Mackenzie took the lead so I asked Chicago Mike what I should do.  He told me to go find something that could hold water and be the man that dumps the water on the women...............ummmmmmm, yea, I can do that.  I was so happy I had abandoned my post for this job.  

   The entire contest was a blur to me.  I remember that the crowd continued to grow as it closed in tighter and tighter around us.  There must have been close to 500 people there, and the scene was complete chaos.  The noise level from the masses was deafening as horny young Dirt Bags roared and screamed as loud as they could;  "DUMP EM' OUT!!!!!"  "TITTIES!!!!!" and other various quotes that were less than appropriate for a "family friendly" environment.  Ethics and morals had been abandoned long before entering this scene of drunken scandalous debauchery.  

   In all honesty, I don't remember the titties at all, which is ironic considering I had the best view.  I was told that I preformed my job flawlessly and that the contest was actually a huge success.............minus the 200 or so pissed off campers who decided not to attend the show.  Apparently the spectacle was loud, and in the following weeks the irate messages received complaining about the event were both humorous and embarrassing at the same time.  The winner of the event received her money, however one not so lucky contestant refused to acknowledge that the contest was over, so she attempted to continue the show as people began to disperse.  I vaguely remember people telling me that contestant was a possible meth addict based on her appearance.............sounds like stripper material if you ask me!  

   The post Wet T-Shirt Contest scene was everything a festival atmosphere should be.  The band played into the night around the campfire and drunken Dirt Bags found mischievous adventures throughout the festival grounds.  Some took to the usual harassment of the Jackson clan in an attempt to piss in their boats when they weren't paying attention.  Others found a quiet spot in the woods for safety meetings and random drunken hook ups.  

   Apparently I had concocted my own booty call for the evening, however I have zero recollection of this encounter, and wasn't made aware of the story until after the festival was over.  About a week after the party I received a friend request on Facebook from a girl I didn't know.  Since I began writing The Island Chronicles I receive a lot of requests from people I have never met.  At first I denied all of them, but then I made a rule.  I would accept any request from someone who had a minimum of 50 mutual friends in the boating community.  I figured a lot of these people were members of the community and it would be a good way to meet some new boaters from different areas.  This girl qualified under that rule, so accepted the request.  Five minutes after accepting I received a series of naked pictures of her in provocative poses..............Red Flags flew high, however, my curiosity got the best of me and I sent her a message.  Here is a recount of that conversation.

Me:  "Nice pics" (which was a lie)  "Do I know you?"

Naked Chick:  "You don't remember me, do you?"

Me:  "I'm really sorry, but I have no clue who you are.  Have we boated together?"

Naked Chick:  "No!  I met you at gfest after the DBP party.  LOL"

Me:  "uuuuuuuummm.  Yea.  I was pretty blackout drunk during that shit show.  Did we hang out?"

Naked Chick:  "YES!!!  I wanted to hook up with you and told you you should come over to my tent to smoke a bowl.  I heard you were safety conscious."  

Me:  "Really?  Did we hook up?"

Naked Chick:  "NO!  You were actually a complete dick about the situation."

Me:  "uuuuuuuuum.  Sorry about that.  What did I do?"

Naked Chick:  "We walked around the festival for a few minutes and I realized you had no clue what you were doing, so I told you I was taking you to my tent before you fell over.  On the way there you stopped and asked me what was happening and then asked where your friend Phelan was.  I told you I didn't know that name and that if you played your cards right you were about to get laid.  Then you just blankly stared at me for about fifteen seconds."

Me:  "Why?......did I puke or something?"

Naked Chick:  "No!  After standing there and thinking about what to do you said you would rather find Phelan and go ring the campground bell so that you could piss off all the cops.  Then you simply turned around, walked away, and started randomly yelling the name Phelan."

Me:  "Ohh.  Sorry about that.  I don't understand.  If I was such a dick then why would you send me all those naked pictures?"

Naked Chick:  "I wanted you to see what you missed out on."  

   At this point in the conversation the crazy bells were going off and I realized that this chick was not only damaged goods, but was also stupid as shit.  I was very proud of myself for the fact that I kept my whits about me during blackout stage, because based on the pics she sent me, there was no way I would have ever hooked up with her in a sober state of mind.  Apparently my drunken state of mind was still on point enough to send a message to my dick telling it to run away, and I assume the only excuse I could come up with was to use my friend Phelan as my escape goat............so that is what I did.  

   I realized that I no longer wanted to be Facebook friends with her at this point, and needed to find a way out...........so I used blunt TRUTH.

Me:  "I didn't miss out on anything.  Your pics are not as high of quality as you think they are.........just an FYI for future reference."

Naked Chick:  "FUCK YOU!  The Island Chronicles suck anyway!"  

   Then she blocked me.  I couldn't believe how well the blunt TRUTH actually worked in that situation.  Disaster averted in real life, as well as on Facebook.  I will admit, I always paddle now with not only her face, but also her ass deeply ingrained in my memory on the small chance that I run into her while paddling a rivah...................hopefully I can paddle faster than her in case I need to make a quick escape one day.  

“I have been dating, fucking, and otherwise dealing with women as an adult for 16+ years now, and for the most part, I’ve found one rule about them to be depressingly true:  1.Hot  2.Sane  3.Single

Pick Two.”

                             ~Tucker Max~

   That quote is the fucking TRUTH and is very cleverly worded.  Unfortunately this chick only qualified under one of those rules, and being single was even questionable based on her desperation to be accepted.

   The most amazing part about the entire story was that my bull shit scapegoat wasn't actually bull shit.  It was true.  I DID find Phelan, and as I vaguely remember, we DID ring the bell.  My foggy memory of that adventure picks up sometime around arriving at the bell, and includes parts that were explained to me the next morning by those who witnessed it.  This all happened sometime well after midnight.........

   We knew the cops were not happy about the amount of people ringing the bell, so we concocted a stealth mission that had no viable plan what-so-ever.  I crept up to the bell and realized that the rope had been removed, so the only way to succeed in our mission was to shimmy up the post and hit the bell with my fist.  As I climbed the post, fully inebriated, I payed little attention to the fact that the entire post was wet and sticky and smelled funny.  I reached the top and pushed the giant piece of iron as hard as I could while Phelan (I think) posted as lookout for the cops.  As it rang I went momentarily deaf from the gong and then fell off the post..............which really fucking hurt.  In a matter of seconds a dozen cops came walking swiftly down the path as I sat on the ground at the base of the bell, stunned from the impact with the earth.  I was way too drunk and way too old to run from the police, so I made the choice to simply get up, brush myself off, and then stand there like a drunken buffoon and act as though I had done nothing wrong.  It was my only play.  The police officer slowly approached me without saying a word.............I didn't move.  I stood my ground.  It was a moment of desperation.  He got right in my face with a stone cold look on his face, still not saying a word, and just stared in my eyes.  As I remember it, his face was literally an inch away from mine.  I remember that I was doing all that I could to not bust out laughing, so I just stared right back at him.  The other officers stopped and watched the stare off that had commenced.  I couldn't figure out what he was waiting for.  I knew I was going to break first if I didn't do something, so I made my move.  I calmly looked to my right, then looked to my left.  Then I looked back in his eyes, and with the widest grin possible I pointed to my left and said, "They went that way.".......................the cop didn't budge.  He just kept staring directly into my eyes.  If I hadn't have been so fucking drunk I am sure I would have broken down, but I held my ground and simply waited................I still could not for the life of me figure out what he was waiting for.  Slowly, the officer began to back off with the same stone cold look never leaving his face, then he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there wondering how the hell I wasn't going to jail............somehow, victory was mine.

“A recent police study found that you're much more likely to get shot by a fat cop if you run.”
                                                    ~Dennis Miller~

   At this point in the night I figured that I had managed to inflict enough chaos on the festival grounds and concluded that passing out was probably the best option................not to mention if I kept it up I would probably end up in jail for the night.  Summersville, West By God on Gauleyfest weekend is not the place an individual wants to spend a night in the hole.  On my walk back to my tent, I vaguely remember running into John Denver................no, not the real John Denver.  The John Denver from the first part of the "Fear and Loathing" tales.  I was so excited to see him.  He was excited as well, but not because he ran into me.  His excitement came from his own misadventure that he had been involved in for the night.  I only bring up this story because it demonstrates just how low a Dirt Bag can go at Gauleyfest.  John Denver looked at me with a gleam in his eye, and as proudly as he could stated, "Dude, I just fucked some random chick in the port-a-potty."...............I just stared at him in disbelief.  Keep in mind he was referring to the Gauleyfest port-a-potty's.  The same port-a-potty's that hundreds of Dirt Bags had been pissing, shitting, puking, and doing God only knows what else in for the last 24 hours............I just stared at him in disbelief.  Words can't even describe how proud he was of this accomplishment.  All I could do was look at him blankly with a drunken fix and meagerly muster out the word, "ewwww."  John Denver didn't care.  That's what I loved about him.  He simply didn't give a fuck, and to this day he still doesn't.  Whenever I bring it up to him he simply beams with pride.............you gotta love a man with that sort of confidence.  

   The next morning I awoke on my cot with one thing....................a massive fucking hangover.  I cannot even begin to explain how bad it was.  I had puked in the grass at some point in the night next to my cot, and somehow I had also managed to remove my pants..........at least I hope it was me that removed them.  I truly have no idea, and I never will.  I sat up, stretched, and immediately noticed a very uncomfortable burning sensation all over my neck, face, and chest.............."what the fuck happened" I thought.  I tried to walk it off, but the more I rubbed my face the more it burned.  I staggered down the hillside to the fire circle where I found the remnants of the party.  It truly looked as though a full scale war had taken place.  There was shit everywhere, and there was literally still bodies passed out around the fire, on the benches, and on the ground.  I considered checking pulses, but the burning sensation I was experiencing took precedence over everything else.

   Then I saw Shredder Aaron's rape van.  It was covered in every condiment imaginable.  Shredder Aaron really is one of the biggest jack asses I have ever met.  Uncle Mark stated it best when I first met him.  He said, "What's wrong with that kid?  Was he dropped on his head as a baby or something?"  That pretty much sums up Shredder Aaron in a nutshell.  Apparently he had once again managed to open his mouth the previous night, pissing someone off, resulting in some sneaky Dirt Bag antics by mysterious culprits.  They not only trashed his van, but they had done one hell of a quality job on it.  It was covered in ketchup, mustard, pickles, and every other available resource from the party they could find.  Of course this did not upset Aaron in the least.  He simply laughed like a dumb ass and never even bothered to clean all of it off.  A week after the party most of the remnants were still dried onto the van..................being the special ed kid must be hard. God bless that goofy ass kid, because no one else ever will.  

   I sat down and began to talk with a random group of party goers from the night before.  During the conversation one of them noticed me rubbing my neck and face and informed me that my neck was really red.  I explained that when I woke up the entire front of my body was burning and the sensation wouldn't go away.  At that moment another member of the group looked at me and asked me a very peculiar question.  "Did you happen to climb the pole and ring the bell last night?"........................"WTF?", I thought.  I immediately looked at him and said, "yea man, I did.  Why?"  He started laughing uncontrollably and then stated, "Man, I hate to tell you, but the cops sprayed the shit out of that thing with Pepper Spray!".........................MOTHER FUCKERS!!!!!  That explained why the police officer simply stared me down the night before.  He was waiting for me to react to the Pepper Spray.  Apparently I was that drunk.  It didn't even phase me........now that is truly sad.  Chalk one up to the police.  Well played gentlemen.  Well played.

“Drunks fear the police, but the police are drunk too.”
                                                     ~Rumi~


   Believe it or not, this shit show is still not over.  There is quite a bit to come, including a hung over flip through Iron Ring, a final encounter with Lil' Rook, straying to a place I had no business going and with a woman I had no business communicating with, and some blunt TRUTH for DBP.  How do I always seem to find new trouble?  


“Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already?”                                        ~Ernest Hemingway~  


   See ya on the rivah......................hopefully not antagonizing the police.     PEACE