Journal Entries

Ode to a Carny

You sit
with your tattoos, your weathered skin, your purple shirt, your toothless smile
you seduce me
into shooting your guns, throwing your balls, riding your rides, winning your toys
you give off a ripe smell
of dusty towns, cigarette smoke, fatigue, anger, and the road
endlessly leading onward.

Discuss this Journal entry [1]

Latest reply: Aug 10, 2001

Ode to a Carny

You sit
with your tattoos, your weathered skin, your purple shirt, your toothless smile
you seduce me
into shooting your balloons, throwing your balls, shooting your gun, winning your toys
you give off a ripe smell
of dusty towns, cigarette smoke, fatigue, anger, and the road
endlessly leading onward.

Discuss this Journal entry [1]

Latest reply: Aug 10, 2001

Been Caught Shopping

Last night I think I saw Perry Farrell coming out of the grocery store. He was wearing a long-sleeved black lace shirt, a short-sleeved burgundy crushed velvet tunic and matching leggings, white athletic socks, black sport sandals, and a bright blue balaclava.






smiley - online2long

Discuss this Journal entry [6]

Latest reply: Jul 20, 2001

The Perils of Pauline

Inadvertently this last week I proved compact cars are not for paved roads alone. While on the search for Granite, a ghost town in the Flint Creek Range of Southwestern Montana, I found myself on a dirt road which gradually devolved into little more than a washed-out gully on the mountainside. To begin with, I was unsure whether or not I was on the right road anyway--the Deerlodge National Forest seems to be rather free and easy about properly numbering their roads, let alone keeping them in a reasonably good condition. To make matters worse, a terrific thunderstorm had ripped through the area not 30 minutes beforehand. Freshly broken pines were laying across the road in various places. My passenger and I had to remove tree limbs about every 50 yards. Then came the four way intersection, which we reached after taking a 90 degree turn on a vertical slope. There were no marks, no sign of life in this remote crossroads.

So, back down the mountain my Mazda 323 went. And bang, crash, scrape went my car's undercarriage. On the way down, we ran into two gentlemen towing dirt bikes in search of the same historic grail. They were sure we were on the right path. So back up we went, followed by our newfound friends. Until we got to the old-growth grand fir blocking the road. One end was still connected to the root system. The other end, across the road, was ensnared in the dense canopy of hemlocks, pines, and firs. The four of us stood in deep contemplation. If the budget of the Deerlodge National Forest does not allow for road maintenance, where is the money going? Why advertise a major historic attraction and have no way for the average visitor to reach it? And where the hell was I going to turn my car around?

Discuss this Journal entry [1]

Latest reply: Jul 9, 2001

The Perils of Pauline

Inadvertently this last week I proved compact cars are not for paved roads alone. While on the search for Granite, a ghost town in the Flink Creek Range of Southwestern Montana, I found myself on a dirt road which gradually devolved into little more than a washed-out gully on the mountainside. To begin with, I was unsure whether or not I was on the right road anyway--the Deerlodge National Forest seems to be rather free and easy about properly numbering their roads, let alone keeping them in a reasonably good condition. To make matters worse, a terrific thunderstorm had ripped through the area not 30 minutes beforehand. Freshly broken pines were laying across the road in various places. My passenger and I had to remove tree limbs about every 50 yards. Then came the four way intersection, which we reached after taking a 90 degree turn on a vertical slope. There were no marks, no sign of life in this remote crossroads.

So, back down the mountain my Mazda 323 went. And bang, crash, scrape went my car's undercarriage. On the way down, we ran into two gentlemen towing dirt bikes in search of the same historic grail. They were sure we were on the right path. So back up we went, followed by our newfound friends. Until we got to the old-growth grand fir blocking the road. One end was still connected to the root system. The other end, across the road, was ensnared in the dense canopy of hemlocks, pines, and firs. The four of us stood in deep contemplation. If the budget of the Deerlodge National Forest does not allow for road maintenance, where is the money going? Why advertise a major historic attraction and have no way for the average visitor to reach it? And where the hell was I going to turn my car around?

Discuss this Journal entry [1]

Latest reply: Jul 9, 2001


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