while out like scouts on a new route, the wrightsville beach chapter of Bojon apparently ran into some car trouble this past weekend.
here's the report sent in by colonel white:
Cox simply says," Ya gotta give it gas."
Holding back all comments such as "Cox, is that a clip-on tie you're wearing?" I say, "My brother, I've known about the gas peddle since I was about 12 in driver's Ed, and that aint gonna do it."
Needless to say, givin' gas to the old julip did nothing to change the fact that this once "Nascar-like" taurus wasn't gettin' us back home.
I crept the thing into the parkin' lot beside Redix. Done. After waitin' some 45 minutes for the cab that supposedly had been called by the Yam, the Yam dials none other than his dad. Dr. Pete...so sorry to wake you, sir...
At this point it is approachin' 4:30 a.m. Brown and I are indulging in the Baja Mexican burrito that we acquired earlier in the night. Shroeds has decided not to wait for the cab or Dr. Pete and sets out on the journey walkin' to the Cox family domain, only to be picked up by the good doctor after he corraled the rest of us.
anyway, i did manage to get a chucle out of Dr. Pete on the way home by saying, "Dr. Cox, we'll probably still be calling you when we're sixty to have you come pick us up." He agreed, in his own way, that this was probably true.
very nice, fellas. at least you didn't have to ride in a paddy wagon with these guys...
in anticipation of Burning Man 2003, here's a little essay scribed at the conclusion of last year's festivities:
i'm talking about Burning Man, and i'm tellin' you it blows the doors off of everything else i've ever been part of. i'm not knocking jazz fest, i'm not forgetting about hermosa, i'm not overlooking vegas, i'm not discounting halloween, i'm not mocking the preakness, i'm not short-changing the bay-to-breakers. i'm telling you that this event is not even in the same class.
i set out for the desert last week with high expectations, an abundance of enthusiasm, and a strong dose of curiosity. what i saw, what i did, what i experienced was beyond comprehension.
there is no description i can provide, no picture i can show, no story i can relate that can put this event in perspective. shit, there is no perspective. there is no comparing it to anything.
its a real life mad max, combined with the bar scene from star wars, mixed with about every fairy tale there is, every story from Dr. Seuss, every episode of curious george. and oh yeah it takes place on a moon-like dust bowl of a crater that fossilizes everything the second it gets the slightest bit wet. and oh yeah, it's 100 degrees in the day and under 50 at night. and oh yeah the place is hopping 24/7 with 30,000 possessed souls. and oh yeah it's the size of a shitload of football stadiums, and people either have on elaborate costumes or no clothes at all, and there was this over-sized rubber duck that housed a killer bar with a sweet jazz band, and there was the church of funk, and the temple of joy and of course THE MAN himself. and did i mention the topless dancers at pinky's, most every minute of every day. or what about the insane bocce course. or the ban on shark fucking at the deep end. or the fact that its downhill no matter which way you are pedaling. and then there was the big white moby dick whale that got pulled over by the police on the playa for speeding. and the mushrooms. the mescaline. the liquid. and then everything went dark.
get the picture? no of course not. cause i went, and i don't get the picture. not only was i at the show, i was in the show. but the show is bigger than all of us.
what i'm getting at is that burning man is a must. camp bojon can only get bigger and better each time we go. do yourself a favor, mark off your calendar and get on fucking board for next year. last week changed forever how i will view the world, and i recommend you let it do the same for you next time around . . .
ah yeah, bring on The Playa!!!
one eye gets bigger, the other eye gets smaller . . .
word up to the wisdom:
yatta, yatta, my friend. it's not the Joker. not the Penquin. not ze cat womaaan.'tis the Riddler who knows the score.
and the gnome. and the gnome. and the gnome . . .
and this just in via our boston bureau . . .
RENO, Nev. -- Police pulled over a man on a bar stool -- after a slow speed pursuit on one of Reno's busier streets.
It started Monday when an officer saw a man riding the motorized bar stool at 35 mph. He was being followed closely by a woman in a Mustang.
Both driver and rider were pulled over.
The woman told police she had been on the phone with a dispatcher reporting the bar stool stolen.
The owner of the bar stool confirmed that the stool, powered by a small engine, had been taken three weeks earlier.
Jarrett Orcutt, 22, said he had bought it a little over a week ago, thinking it was a toy and added that he had driven it between Reno and nearby Sparks several times. Police estimate its value at more than $1,000.
Orcutt faces Reno charges of possession of stolen property, possession of drug paraphernalia and numerous traffic violations.
Sparks police are handling the stolen vehicle report.
ah yeah, just about time for the annual pilgrimage to black rock city . . . and as the desert fest fast approaches, high time to get the ToDo list in order.
in preparation for his first Burn, agent michael O' Duffy of the O' Duffy clan picked up a crucial piece of the preparatory puzzle this past weekend.
that's right kids, agent duffy scored a huffy . . .
nabbing a junker bike is one of the rites of passage to the Burn of course, and this particular acquisition was not without its twists and turns.
we hit one of our secret suppliers R US and picked out the no frills, no gears beach cruiser. grabbed the floor model which turned out to be the last cruiser in stock. only catch was that this baby had no hand grips.
alas, not a problem; rather, an opportunity.
pointed out the shortcoming to our sales rep and promptly requested a wee discount. not having the authority to grant such a request, the sales rep pulled in the manger.
to our dismay, the manager claimed this bike does not come with hand grips.
ah contraire, we argued. clearly such a fine cruiser would have hand grips. just imagine if it rained: the handle bars would get rather slippery, and that would be outright dangerous. we need a discount.
but alas, our argument was too strong. yes dangerous, the manager realized; so dangerous that the store could not sell a bike with such a defect. think of the liability.
ah shit, game plan backfires. tables turned. at this point we were ready to pay extra to take this puppy home.
fortunately, the manager's break time manifested itself, and while she hustled off for a doughnut, we scooted to the cashier and paid straight up for the cruiser.
and so, happy as clams, we made our way home.
check out some footage of agent duffy taking the huffy for a test drive.
one step closer to the Burn, my friends, one step closer to the Burn . . .
ah yes, this just in: Captain Carlito sends word that his adventures in peru thus far have been nothing short of swashbuckling. last we heard from the Captain, he was in pursuit of any sign of agent willie, who disappeared in peru a few weeks ago.
turns out the good Captain was coming up empty searching for agent willie through conventional means, and so he decided to go undercover disguised as a local alpaca hat salesmen.
excitement abounds. here's the report:
however, i now must part paths with the Andes mountains and bid farewell to my lovely and talented travelling companion, who is on to warmer and whiter (oh no you didnŽt!) mountains in Colombia.
Next, I will be beating a path to the coast in search of the fabled kilometer-long left. Along the way IŽll be picking my childehood partner in crime and favorite bandito known simply as Comrade Z, master of the redwood bansai, the three-sixty between the legs reverse no look off your head finger-roll layup, and of course the Anchor Bay skim-surf world. We plan to leave no dirt road unchecked and no ceviche unsampled . . .
and, oh yeah, i found agent willie!!! we came across him frolicking in a field with a peruvian goddess masquerading as a llhama herder. agent willie kept calling her his "fair maiden," and she kept calling him "conrad."
truth be told, agent willie seemed to be quite well adjusted to the scene and rather fond of his captor. of course we immediately suspected Stockholm Syndrone, but since nobody seemed to making a big fuss about things, we didn't cause a stir.
rather, we let the two have their peace for a bit and then made sure agent willie caught the next flight out. he should be home soon. aside from being a bit disshelved and a tad disoriented, we found him to be in fine spirits.
marvelous work, Captain!!!
absolutely epic weekend in hermosa beach celebrating the last stand of three legendary beermongers about to take the plunge into married life.
classic rendition of Blackout Friday at the poop deck got things rolling, and it was all down hill from there. at high speed. with no breaks.
the festivities peaked at Shellbacks on saturday afternoon. one of the finest collections of banditos imaginable mixing it up to the extreme. clearly, we would have sacked a stagecoach if one had rolled by.
must say, it was a real treat to catch up with so many quality individuals. a bunch of characters, all with an edge, all with hearts of gold. such weekends are good for the soul. excellent way to charge the batteries.
did a little research on the origins of the phrase "high jinks". here's what i found:
well, that about sums it up . . .