So far this year…

Song for Matt E -

Zuppiger on Ice -

Went fishing on ice. Cheers Pat and Rich!

Made this wrench roll with the sewing machine – Big ups Mormon Joe and Mrs. Mormon Joe for use of the sewing machine.

Rode the vintage cycle to crown king and back – 100 miles round trip! Sore undercarriage.

Horse race with Pooch, Joe, El, Pat, Adam, and Amy. Pat, Adam, and Amy not pictured here.

Peace and Love!!

Happy New Year!!


Resolution this year: Mt. Whitney

Let it Snow!!

Garret Zuppiger turns 25! Don’t worry, I am still running it hard! I am playing with house money at this point! Everyday is like a gift!!

I got a motorcycle for christmas!! This is going to help me run it even harder!! It is vintage, older than I, and pure rock and roll!

Loud, Hot, Black, Red and Dangerous! I don’t know whether to ride it around in the dirt or have sex with it in the garage.

When I do choose to ride it, I listen to this song:

I am building “ski-chair”. It is a fully horizontal, antique recliner that I picked up from a Mormon in Prescott. It sits on 190cm skis, that I picked up from another Mormon in Prescott. It tows behind a truck with a waterski rope, or goes down steep hills.

When it is done, and it snows enough, I will listen to the above song and run “ski-chair” hard.

I went to college with this guy, Mormon Joe:


Joseph the Mormon has a motorcycle too. I doubt that he has ever contemplated having sex with it though. He is a co-founder of MTMC, or Mormon Thunder Motorcycle Club for those reading that aren’t familiar with notorious biker gangs. I am the other co-founder. At current, we have two members and one of our members has a wife that doesn’t think he should ride a motorcycle anymore. I don’t have a wife.

The ski-chair was his idea.

The view from my job-site at sunrise:

The 94 being cold with me:

This is what turning 25 looks like:



You can turn 25 with your friends, your grandparents, or whoever. I recommend only doing it once though.

I have to go now, John Wayne is on TV showing me how to be a man.

Shout out to my boy Paddy O’Shaw!

Peace and Love!!

Best Hair Day / Catching Up!!

Shout out to BK!!

I am coming off of what is probably considered my best hair day ever!! Matt Erra confirmed this as he stood in overwhelming awe of my coif last night. Couple of shots here of the sculpted perfection.

No product, no stylist, just natural glory and a well placed part. I would imagine that this Thanksgiving I and everybody who saw me were very much thankful for my hair. It is a gift. A gift that will probably need trimmed soon.

During Thanksgiving, I was afforded the opportunity to hang out with Moddie, my Grandmother’s one eyed chihuahua. I didn’t know this until yesterday – apparently she lost her eye in a drug deal gone bad in Nogales. She was jumped and received a brass-knuckled right paw from a mexican street dog. She didn’t have dogsurance and had no choice but to harden up and go at life with one eye. She still goes to church though.

Also my bud Buck is in town!!

My mother made it up Camelback!!! She is a bad ass lately, and I would expect that soon a movie will be made about her entitled, “Terminator Mom: Don’t Even Think About It!” or “Chicken Bone: Nowison!”

Before Mom started being a bad ass, I went to a Gertz Wedding.

Matt went around taking pictures next to pretty girls. When asked why he always prefers to stand on the same side of his female counterparts during picture shoots, he replied, “Because Daddy likes to be in the driver seat bro!! You Know?? You know.”

This is my bud Cole. Booth and I took him around for a while telling girls we were domestic partners and Cole was our adopted son. We are doing the best we can to raise him and a woman, or a couple of women around would really help. Something like that atleast. Didn’t work, everybody there knew him and didn’t know us.

The man pictured to the left of Nick “I look sharp” Gertz, is Forrest Sr. Him and John Wayne are why my hair has started receiving a part.

Lately, priority number one has been helping out my family and my buds the best I can. I am getting ready to head north for the winter much like migratory birds – but in the opposite direction.

Peace and Love!!


Zuppiger Pro Model!!

It’s here!!! The “Zuppiger Pro Model”!!

I really like typing and saying “Zuppiger Pro Model”!!

This makes me the only one of my friends that has his own pro model skateboard!!

I met up with my bud Matt G at the skatepark last friday, and slammed within the first thirty seconds of being there (still sore). I know that I am getting old, because I brought coffee to the skatepark. Also, Matt G stretched before skating, hahaha.

I had a good first day out though. This friday will be better. Skate video is going to have to come out soon.

Here are some pictures showing the manufacturing process of the “Zuppiger Pro Model”:


My new truck:

I love this truck. It is from 1952. When I sit in it, I feel so happy.

Here is the dream: As the sun comes up, I take my coffee outside to fetch the paper. I take one look at the paper, and immediately through it in the recycle bin. I start up the five-deuce, it takes a few seconds, but it gets going. I tune the radio to 91.5 (NPR). I drink my coffee, the truck warms up, all while I listen to some obscure news story about Jane Goodall or a career librarian. If it’s Saturday, it’s Car Talk.

Into gear the truck goes, and I motor to wherever at the blazing top speed of 45 – 55 mph. Old Truck, Warm Coffee and Talk Radio. And me smiling.

I cannot wait!!!!

Tucson tomorrow to go to the courthouse, skate downtown, and take care of my bud Joe who just got a Vasectomy.


In Hiding..

I have been using my time wisely in the desert, while hiding. Here is a short video detailing some of my work.

Yes, it is all me in this video. Pure talent, I know.

Hair cut in one hour, Laughlin tonight!!

Garret the Kid!!

I found this flyer posted on the courthouse!! This guy looks mean!! Look at those guns!! In old westerns, they call these handbills.

I am, at current, an outlaw. I have been forced to go from town to town, to hide my shame.

I have a six string though, Bon Jovi would be proud.

It wasn’t always this way. The beautiful city of Tucson got me again.

Tucson got me for jay-walking once. I was building a parking garage in downtown. I jay-walked to a hot dog cart, during my lunch break, on a one way street, that was under construction, by me, for $163-american fine.

This is much worse however, Cracked Windshield. Outlaw. Never mind the drug cartels, jaywalking-junky-truck-having outlaws must be stopped, before it goes too far.

It all started when I left Joe and Tami-lynn’s house for the Blue Willow one morning in early summer 2010. I was meeting my buds Adam and Amy (Amy Good Gorilla) for breakfast.

In order that the community be better as a whole, and to protect and serve, a do-a-good-job cop stopped me. After the license, registration, insurance and me not being under the influence was established, alas, I had committed a more serious offense!! Driving while having a crack in the windshield!

How could I?

I am glad that he addressed this issue, though. This is an epidemic after all!! I would assume that the majority of people reading this, have at least a chip in their windshield!! It is everywhere!!

I did what any Arizonan would do, in order that the hinderance in driving with faulty equipment be remediated: I went to South Phoenix with my Grandfather and found a dude to fix it. $100 later, I am safe to drive again. (sigh of relief)

Ah, I made a misstep. I did not return to Tucson and give notice that my windshield had been fixed, that the world was safe again, and people of Tucson can rest most comfortably.

Suspended License. $260 fine now. Also, driving on a suspended license is punishable by a jail stay and impounding of vehicle. I’m sure more fines come with that, too.

I am in hiding!! Much like Billy the Kid – my whereabouts must not be known. I am armed with shovel and knife. I am in the desert. I wait. Until my grandpa and I can get this figured out. Outlaw.

All in the name of protecting and serving. It is a noble job, windshield enforcement. It must be done to keep cracked-windhshielded riff-raff out of our cities!!

I can’t help but to think of how beautiful Tucson would be if its windshields were free of imperfections!! The Raider and Dodger fans could move drugs up through Tucson to the rest of the country with no worries of faulty auto-glass causing driving impediments and accidents. The homeless people that call Tucson home could be seen easier, and use smaller signs to beg, without cracked auto-glass. The borrowers of car audio electronics, could more easily ascertain which vehicles had the best offerings, and then borrow better stereos, without cracked auto-glass. Efficiency!! Let us keep our auto-glass immaculate!! For a better Tucson!!!

Anyhow, I have to file a motion to try and recover my fine and get this offense put to bed. I should have taken this much more seriously. Let this story not fall on deaf ears!! Keep your vehicles in good repair!!

Let my martyr-esqe actions be a lesson to all!!

Edward Abbey would be proud of my civil traffic disobedience at least.

The Bruce man is loose on them now! I am pretty sure my Grandfather Bruce has Esq. after his name. We should be able to use that. Also, his middle name is persistence.

Before buying a fake mustache, and dying my hair jet black to conceal my identity, I drove through nearly the entire state of California.

People graffiti in the wilderness in NOR-CAL Bro!! Yeah dude!! Check out these gnar-gnar ups on the forest bridge brah!!

It isn’t all that way though – Most of it is beautiful!

There is some very pretty coastline to be had up north. San Francisco and south, is pretty much citified though. Big Sur was cool.

San Francisco!!! My favorite city in the world!!!

Here is what happened there, bullet-pointed, in no specific order:

  • Chaz and I ate pizza at 3am with two pretty girls, Montana and Mika, – we had cheese and supreme slices.
  • A crazed homeless man named Phillip introduced himself and then drank a kamikaze next to us. While he did that, he yelled the most sexually perverse things, concerning fellatio, that I have heard. Phillip made for an awkward bar neighbor.
  • I found a fly-fishing practice area and wild buffalo in the park.
  • Irish Car-Bombs.
  • Chaz and I ate hamburgers and drank beer for breakfast.
  • The giants were playing on TV at all the bars. We hate the giants. We secretly cheered against them, everywhere we went. I don’t remember who won.
  • I slept in my sleeping bag on Golden Gate Bridge.
  • At one bar, we stole some birthday cake and ate it. We didn’t STEAL IT – we just sliced a piece off. It was very good.
  • I told two pretty girls that were alone, that Chaz and I were doing our best to look cool, and that it would greatly help if we could sit next to them. They laughed. We didn’t say anything to them, just sat next to them looking sharp and talking amongst ourselves. They started to talk to us after about an hour. I didn’t expect that to work. It was better than our “good cop, bad cop” technique. They followed us around for about the rest of the night. They were cool girls.
  • We played the basketball game in a bar. We watched an Asian dude score a 17 and then the girl after him score a 39. haha.
  • From a nice bar, we took the two girls to a shitty bar and Chaz bought them “two gin and tonics – make it really cheap gin”. The drinks were strong and unpleasant.
  • I decided Haight Ashbury is my kind of neighborhood.
  • Chaz decided that when I call him “Chaz from Marina District”, it sounds “douchy”. Charlie from San Fran doesn’t sound much better, though.
  • Chaz and I decided that we need to work on becoming better friends. We are getting matching tattoos at homecoming this year in Tucson.
  • Either Chaz or I, or somebody, stole a pumpkin from a bar.
  • Either Chaz or I, or somebody, traded the pumpkin for 3 clove-cigarettes.
  • Either Chaz or I, or somebody, gave the 3 clove-cigarettes to a bum so that he could sell them for money to eat.
  • Nobody knows what Chaz does for work. I asked him. He didn’t say. Him and another dude were talking about working in finance, I overheard a bunch of acronyms. It sounded terrible. I don’t want to know what Chaz does.

That was about it for San Francisco. I love that city. Pictures:

Obama and Biden smoking pot-marijuana!

The fly-fishing practice ponds. They have casting accuracy competitions. There is no fish. NO FISH.

View of Chaz’s block of the Marina District from his patio. Really cool place. Good job Chaz!!

For Ome – This plaque was in the Shakespeare Garden, I thought you would like this.

Up next: Hiding in the desert from the law , Bachelor Party in Laughlin – Oh dear! , Back to work!!!


Epic Destiny.

* Author’s Sidenote – This post comes live from Haight Ashbury in San Francisco. . I slept on the Golden Gate Bridge last night, haha. I am in a coffee place called, “Coffee to the People”. At this establishment there seems to be an unwritten law stating that all who sit here shall use Macintosh computers and iPhones. I fit right in. San Francisco is my favorite city, by far. There are beautiful girls coming in and out of here. Dogs are allowed in here too. Two guys next to me are talking to me about Vietnam and rolling a pinner. This is the real deal.  Gotta be quick, parking meter is running out. I wish my Grandpa Bruce was here!*


In what a man from the desert would consider a wintry day, the story of WHAT WAS and WHAT IS unfolds. We are in the month of October on the Oregon Coast. The chlorophyll that once made the scene green has seasonally retired, leaving the hardwoods in the vibrant woody colors of autumn. Where the sky is concerned, an amazing range in greyscale built of mists, fogs, and rains exists and through this, Canadian “Honker” Geese fly south overhead. South has Joseph thinking of home. Almost.

Walter is in the zone, all his legs striding in unison, straight-lining to deaden the desert-man. As he approaches the mouth of the Bay of Alsea, a sailboat cruises in the surf above him at a cool 11 knots. Walter is the type of crab that checks things out. He paddles to a position 50 yards from the stern of the boat. The Alcantara.

He gets closer. 2 passengers, one male, one female, quarter century or so old. Walter would imagine they are in love. He hears the cheers of two Reidel crystal wine glasses purposely over-poured with Cabernet Sauvignon. He hates Cab. They are listening to The Shins, Walter god damn hates The Shins!! He starts feeling sick, not the infirmary type of sick, worse. The sick he feels, means action is necessary. He smells pot-marijuana. That’s enough!!!

Walter makes little more than short work of this vessel, destructively splitting it in two it with one graceful stroke of his metal-wrapped left CMD. After the murderous blast, he wades in the water, where the middle beam of the peaceful boat used to be. The Alcantara, the couple, the vino, the music, and the pot-marijuana all drown around him. Delightful!!

Practice. He continues toward Joseph, elated in the ease of his pregame warm-up.

In what a man from the desert would call a maritime bakery, Joseph sits enjoying coffee, studying pastries, and listening to the coast guard broadcast.

Mid maple-bar the shortwave radio offers this: In a developing story the Alcantara has sunk in calm seas and pleasant weather. Coast guard helicopter on scene reports a crab BEASTLY BEYOND MEASURE exiting the scene, grinning.

Joseph sets down both pastry and coffee and listens to the balance of the report. This is the first time this man has interrupted pastry and coffee for anything. Anything.

His chance at greatness. He knows it is now.


He calls for his check. He follows his no pastry left behind policy, for it is a matter of consistency, and consistency has made him great. No use faltering at the brink.

Putting pen to merchant copy, he writes “Maple bar 98% – Bear claw 100%“. He tips in cash.

Pastry discernment.

He passes the paper across the counter. With one look to the words-written, the waitress’s face becomes blank. Her beautiful blue eyes tear. The silverware she’s rolling drops and bounces on the concrete, near her feet. She knows what this means. She is worried he won’t be returning for breakfast any longer. She hates to think of life without him.

Although it happens constantly, Joseph is still not used to waitresses being in love with him. He does his best.

He tells her she is more than just a pastry server to him. He whispers softly to her about being the type of man that eats two breakfasts. He winks and she smiles lovingly. “Next time” is the last two words they share.


Joseph leaves her at the maritime bakery, he will never see her again but he suspects she will think of him during the majority of her most intimate moments.

The bass-filled horsepower of the 94 pick-up gives little regard as Joseph motors toward the dock. He goes through his crab-fishing list, he loves lists. Crab rings and stink bait – check. Cold beer and Sperry Top-siders – check. He never wears a seatbelt or sunscreen. That’s the John Wayne in him, sorry mom.

His training and his soul will be tested now, he knows this. His knots, his dancing, him. ” This is wear it pays off “, he says repeatedly. This is where it pays off.

The thunderous roar of the 94 pick-up reverberates through the depths of the oceans and lets Walter know that it is show time. Walter is adrenalin filled from deadening that unsuspecting sailboat. He hears the truck power off and silence at the top of the dock. Good.

Walter begins beating his knuckles together repeatedly. Over the terrifying, rhythmic clang he chants, “Only a crab that knows how to live, knows how to die!”

He walks with a confident gait through the mouth of the bay, repeating this mantra.

In the split second it takes Joseph to exit the door of his vehicle, he ties an in-stride-left-handed-no-look-cigarette-between-ring-and-pinky-finger bowline to secure crab ring to rope. It is this the best knot that has ever, or will ever be tied in Earthstory. He’s that good now.

With the crab ring underarm and the loose end of the rope wrapped diagonally around his torso, like a pro would do, he grabs the rest of the day’s ingredients. Cooler of ice-cold delicious beer, stink bait, comfortable chair. This load would be burdensome to most anybody beside Joseph, he was born for this.

He sets up shop atop of the dock, which I will call the DANGER-ZONE from now on.

Being a man of impeccable taste, and knowing what type of music giant crabs hate, he instantaneously picks the best song to await his EPIC DESTINY.

The Killers – All these things that I’ve done.

* Sidenote – Pay no attention to the video, but feel free to dig the song in the background if you would like. I feel it adds, you know? *

As the song starts, he opens a beer and drinks half of it while tapping his foot. He begins dancing in the most bothersome of ways, and finishes the beer.

Joseph grabs his Home Depot bucket of stink-bait – a precisely measured mixture of raw turkey necks, hot cat food, chewing-tabacco spit, cheap beer, and urine stirred together and left to sit in the sun for at least a week. He grabs a piece of the putrid meat, and baits a ring.

As the crab ring descends to the floor of the bay, he rolls and lights a cigarette, He pulls from the beer can. His dance looks uncontrollable, that’s his style. He is ready.

The bouquet of the stink-bait tickles the tip of Walter’s palate and sends him into a crustaceanal frenzy. Walter is an old crab, and knows the tricks of fisherman, but never before has he had chance to fancy such a delicately-built flavor. He his rapidly dock-bound, now.

It is about half-cigarette, when the danger-zone starts to shake beneath his feet. Every crab within 20 or so miles has converged to savor the world’s best bait. Oh Yeh! Joseph says. He extinguishes the cigarette and reserves it atop his ear, concealing it from the weather in his fiery red coif. He de-shirts. He has to.

He looks port-side from the danger-zone and sees a red behemoth coming straight toward him! If he knew what scared felt like, he surely would be scared. But this man is fearless! He has come too far for fear now! He tenderly whispers, “Walter.” and wipes away the mist collecting on his brow.

From Walter’s vantage, there is mayhem. Thousands of frenzied crabs fight to get to the danger-zone for a chance at the bait. Walter pummels through the mess, killing crabs that wont move. He has battled to within twenty feet of the danger-zone when he hears The Killers, the only band he hates worse than The Shins. He shouts loudly a multitude of vulgarity, at this point, that is entirely too heinous to type in this forum.

The shouts are audible above water, but Joseph doesn’t understand crab language. This is a shame, because if him and Walter could have communicated, this situation might have been more diplomatic, or avoided all together.

Walter is so pissed at this point, that the water around him starts to boil and cooks most of the crabs in the proximity. The cooked crabs rise, and aromatically give notice to the bystanders at the dock. People of all sorts swarm the danger-zone collecting these food crabs.

Walter rises, steaming and grabs the rope Joseph has tied to one of the pile-ons. Joseph shouts warning to the crab-collectors, but not in time. The crab pulls, the knots do not give way, and half of the danger zone collapses. People are struggling in the current shouting, as Walter grabs for Joseph.

With a mixture of dancing and top-siding, the desert-man is able to elude the crab and quickly clove hitches the offered claw. As he turns to run, Walter’s other brass knuckled claw lands square on Josephs left eyebrow, obliterating it and spraying blood, into the rain, and onto everything else. Joseph and his rope are sent flying from danger-zone and slide into the curb in the parking lot above the dock.

Joseph lies still for a few seconds having dreams of Nogales. Not again!! Rain taps his face awake, and he makes it to his feet. He notices blood all over his favorite “I’d Rather Be Flying!” shirt, tucked in his belt. He hopes that it will wash out as he runs to his truck for his knife. He ties the other end of the rope to the bumper.

Everybody is screaming everywhere. Walter has ascended the dock and is killing people of all ages on his way to finish Joseph. The rope hitched to his massive claw is tangled in a mess of scattered dock material and dead bodies.

The mayhem has attracted all of the townspeople of Waldport, who stand in awe of the spectacle.

The wild red-haired man runs shirtless toward the mess. The rope between claw and truck has become taut, limiting the crabs mobility. As Joseph gets near, the crab swings his free claw ferociously. Joseph dodges the efforts and stabs the crab in the soft underside of his shell. Walter is hurt. He stands for a moment holding the knife and then twists the blade to kill him, like in the movies.

This doesn’t work. The crab sharply gives Joseph a straight right hand, knocking him cold out.

The great man lies on his back, bloodied and unconscious. The fight is seemingly lost.

The crowd watching at a safe distance from the danger zone starts to sing, “I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier! …. I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier!”

Joseph’s foot starts tapping to the beat involuntarily while he is unconscious still, it’s instinct.

“I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier!”

He nods awake and looks down to dancing legs. He makes his way to his feet and hears the crowd’s voice!!

“I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier!”

He starts, what many today would consider, the best dance ever!! His legs are so wild with dance, he struggles to stay upright, while his torso moves like a frantic jellyfish – it is perfect!

The crab knows it is over, his health is about 50%. He can’t remove the knife. He lacks dexterity because of his huge claws. There is a shirtless, bloodied, 150-pound man dancing like a maniac coming to kill him.

“I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier! …. I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier!”

The rest of the fight is what you would expect, really: A crowd of strangers holding hands and harmonizing perfectly the words, “I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier! …. I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier!” while a drunk shirtless red-haired man – dancing like he has birth-defects – mexican knife fights a monster brass-knuckled crustacean to death in a pool of stink-bait, mixed with bloody dead bodies.

As Walter takes his last breath, a clap starts from the crowd and continues while Joseph walks to his truck. He rolls what will be his last cigarette in Oregon. He has to get home, this is getting ridiculous after all.

For his efforts, the mayor of Waldport gives Joseph his own holiday. Joseph agrees, on the condition that Walter gets one too.

On Dia de San Joseph (August 17th) in Waldport, no one wears underwear!

On Dia de San Walter (April 22nd) in Waldport, everybody dresses up like crabs and gets hammered!

Oregon is a crazy place, it is a long way from home.

* I have recreated the dance Joseph did this day. I will post it when I can. Meter’s running out!! *


Clothing Optional!!!

Yesterday, I took a nap in a pool, filled by a geothermal hot spring, in the middle of the morning, in the middle of the forest, NAKED.

Best nap of my life, by far. When I awoke, I felt as if I had been asleep for years. I had an epiphany (with a lower-case e), that there was no other place, at that moment, that I should be.

The Stoke. That’s what that is called.

Cougar hot springs is an hour east of Eugene, in the mountains. It is really tricky to take pictures there, because of naked people everywhere, so we will have to make d0 with words here.

After a heavily forested 1/4 mile hike from the road, you approach a tiki-style hut. That is the “changing area”. It is weird that it would be called a “changing area”, because no one changed there. It should have been called a “disrobing area” or a “naked-time area”. Everyone leaves the clothing at the hut. At first I was going to adorn my trunks into the pools. “When in Rome”, I remember thinking. Also, I can’t let these Oregonians think that Arizona is full of squares. Off with the trunks.

Sometimes nature winks at you. This is one of those cases. In the middle of a forest, that is colder than Kanye West, there is a hole in the rocks, shaped like an eye. Out of this eye, flows 114 degree water. This beautifully hot water collects in four main pools. The first pool is the hottest, the fourth is the coldest, probably by about 10 degrees. Pick your pool, they are all fantastic.

Day 1 – I pick the fourth pool. The first three had a lot of naked people in them. I was just a pre-naked-nap rookie at that point, I chose to chill solo in my own pool. I get into my pool. #4 . It is unbelievable. A natural hot tub, that is in the middle of the forest, that is sat in naked. Found a spot with arm rests and head rests. I was in there for about 2 hours, I would guess.

The first 15 minutes: I am naked with a bunch of hippies, in the middle of the forest. Why? Chill out dude, don’t be a square. Relax man, look at the trees. Look at the sun. Relax, check out the steam rising from the rocks, the rays the sun makes, through the trees, through the steam, …. Asleep.

The next hour or so: zzzzzzzzzzzz…… no dreams, no night-terrors which I can’t seem to shake lately, just zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz’s

The post-nap 15 minutes: Yeah bud, welcome to the big times!!! You have done it Zupp!! You have become a forest-hotspring-naked-napper!! An entirely new way to nap!! Are you sun-burned on the privates, did you drown? NO sir!! That-a-boy Zupp!!

I got up, feeling phenomenal. By far, the best nap or sleep of my near quarter-century. Walked up hill. A naked women says to me, “We were beginning to worry about you down there!” I tell her, while naked, hands on hips – I noticed thats how nudist-men stand whilst delivering speech, “No need to worry mam, just took a little nap, feel great!!” She and the naked others laugh at this. Do work.

* Side-note: The word “naked” is fun to type. It is fun to say. It is fun to be. *

Day 2, This morning – Trouble at the hot springs. I pull up and there is two dudes in a sleeping bag together next to a car with slashed tires. I woke them up by parking next to them. My bad dudes.

I get to the hot springs. Ton of people again. When in Rome, again. This time, your boy opts for pool #1. Right in the business.

I was much more social this morning, after all I feel that I have earned my naked stripes with yesterday’s achievement in napping. I need a naked merit badge.

Naked guy tells me the guys in the parking lot were in the pools passed nightfall – a very serious offense. They were drinking and smoking – also very serious offenses apparently. Their tires were slashed in the parking lot, so they had to sleep in the parking lot. The rest of the nakeds in the pool start laughing.

I guess, hippies get serious when protecting their environment up here.

Here is what I learned, by paying attention today, about communal nakedness. Some notes -

1. They call it a place for communion. Being naked in a hot tub in the woods, is far better than drinking wine in church.

2. Don’t be bashful, Be naked – Nothing is possibly worse than wearing clothes in the midst of a bunch of nakeds.

3. Trying to hit on naked-stranger-girls while naked yourself, is like playing poker with your cards face up. You can’t bluff. You also can’t fold. Haha.

4. I am pretty sure no one lies to each other in the naked-zone. Two reasons. The first and most obvious – it is impossible to lie to a naked woman. The second reason – Everybody whispers, no one can lie while whispering.

5. When in doubt, walk around wearing nothing but a t-shirt. I have no reason for this suggestion, other than I couldn’t help but giggle while doing so.

I thought for sure it would be all old dudes up there, it wasn’t, thank God. There was everybody up there. Great Place.

The sign at the trailhead to the hot springs had a Pay-n-Take sticker from Flagstaff, AZ on it. I have no idea why, enough to make a dude crazy though.

Before naked Garret started napping in pools in the forest, there was Eugene.

Beautiful campus there. This is a grassy area where frisbee is played, not during big football games of course.

I was able to park my truck at my bud Matt’s house, who is a deer hunter, that I drank whiskey with him and his girlfriend, in the forest by the coast.

I walked to downtown from his house. I asked a bunch of people where “the street” is. I explained, Tucson has 4th ave, Tempe has Mill ave, where is “the street” here in Eugene. Everybody pointed in different directions.

The entire town of Eugene is stoned. Nothing happens quickly there. It is fantastic for relaxation, but hell if you want to do work.

I found a bar right on campus, Taylor’s. Great place. $1.50 Pabst Tall-Boys.

Made some friends, watched the game, good game. GO DUCKS!!

My bud Nate took me on a tour of campus and afterwards the city. He knows a lot about Eugene. Good dude.

Earlier that day, when asking around for bars to go to, a very attractive tattoo girl told me about John Henry’s being a place to go. Live music, etc.

I talk Nate into going there with me. We get in there, there is “Great Skate” type music on. I like that, you know.

That’s when it got a little weird. Told the barkeep to give me two of whatever was on special. He gave me two Berry-Stoli-Fufu-Type of pints. Guys on stage dancing in underwear. Chicks with leather jackets.  Oh no.

I asked one big leather-clad biker chick if she would give me a ride on her motorcycle, she said, “No because you have a penis.” Her words not mine.

Found some hetero-girls. They were pretty. They said it isn’t usually like this in here, but tonight it is “LBGT Appreciation Night”. My luck.

Not another Chuck-from-the-Swizzle story!!

I bought the straight girls some drinks, had to.

The tattoo girl from earlier came up to me and said, “How do you like it in here?” while laughing. Tricky tattoo girls.

On the way out, I gave a big drag queen a high five and pounded my berry-frizzy-lala beverage. She was like 6’5″ – 250 with purple hair.

LBGT people like to party, that is for sure.

Shot some pool down the street for a little bit. Met up with my bud Matt. We drank until close and then drank more and re-loaded rifle cartridges in the garage for a while.

Slept in the truck.

Eugene, weird but good place. They have hash browns stuffed with sour cream there for breakfast. If for no other reason, that makes it a good place.

Heading south now. Down the coast.

Coming Up: Catch Walter, Redwoods, Morro Bay.

I have to come home to do work again, getting really restless.

Cassie Gertz – Your boy needs his buzz cut!! It is getting out of control!!



*Author’s Note – In my travels this far, everybody that becomes aware of the fact that I am an Arizonian wants to tell me their opinion of SB 1070. I find this makes for boring conversation. It does have me thinking about Mexico though, that and the fact I had a chile relleno burrito yesterday. *

How did it get this far? Walter thinks over his Clamato beer. He drinks out of 55-gallon drums. He drinks a big beer; He is a big crab.

His morning thus far has been spent tailor-fitting his new weapons of death. They are almost ready. He is bloated from cigarettes and $1 potato burritos. He is becoming irritable.

Puerto Penasco, he thinks, where the girls are always at least 18 and food is always $1. He promised himself he would never come back to Mexico. This is business, no choice. These brass knuckles are taking too long to make, Walter thinks with extreme impatience.

Another hour. Another 55-gallon Clamato Beer. He might as well get his buzz on. Half way through what must be his 17th plate of $1-sktechy-cart-in-front-of-Manny’s-tacos, he sees an octet of draught donkeys pulling a set of knucks his way. !Andele Pues!! Walter yells to hurry them.

Finally!! He tries on the brass knuckles, they fit perfect. Oh yeah bud, Walter says. He starts waving them around, they are lighter than he expected, he is drunker than he expected.

People gather, watching this marvelous beast get set up. Walter feels their anticipatory energy. He flexes for them, he winks at the women. The crowd reciprocates with loud cheers. He begins swinging his claws through the air. First delicately – jab, jab, hook…..jab, jab, hook. The old one-two. Faster the crab spars, multi-punch combos, footwork.

Now the crab is vicious in his demonstration, until all of the Mexicans on the strip are cheering and dancing. Music sounds from a car stereo borrowed from Tucson, perpetuating the energy!! He begins to dance. He is unexpectedly agile and something of a suave dancer, accounting for the fact – he is a giant crustacean.

A shout from the crowd, !!Eres chingon guey!!! Walter knods and lifts his Claws of Mass Destruction overhead. All while keeping rhythm, he brings the CMD’s back down and obliterates a few beer bottles being thrown at him for practice! Fireworks begin!! Holy Shit!! The streets are alive!!! Walter is alive!! He is a monster!!

The dancing Walter turns ocean-bound, with a legion of partiers following him. This is great, Walter thinks, but I must get back to the Northwest, I must put these CMD’s to work. Joseph dies by my brassed-claw soon.

On the beach, he takes a snapshot with a group of girls that are probably at least 18. They yell Spring Break 2010!! It’s summer. He dives into the sea and vanishes.

13-hundred miles North, Joseph sits relaxed, drinking beer, eating chips ‘n salsa, on a dock in Waldport, OR. Spicy. This makes him think of Mexico, to the east side of the train tracks in Nogales. Joseph amassed a respectable bit of work down there in his yesteryears. He thinks about going into detail – He thinks about the audience that is possibly reading this. He thinks he will stop thinking about Nogales, now.

Anyhow, Joseph hasn’t been to Nogy since the time he tripped and fell into the brass-knuckled right hand of a neck-tattoed, spider-web goateed, gentleman, providing momentary loss of consciousness, and 9 stitches in order that his eyelid be properly relocated. His backbone chills. Brass Knuckles. He thinks of going south to retaliate, this thought is short-lived however – when his iphone alarm sounds -time to pull up the crab rings.

Joseph pulls the rings from the ocean floor. No keepers. Women, children – throw them back. He giggles at that. He checks his bait and tosses the crab rings back into the water.

Crab fishing, started as a hobby, now has quickly become the focus of his life. That’s fine, he needs something to do – he has almost finished mastering the list. Items left are charm and pastry discernment. Those will come.

He has added a few skills, he felt mandatory, to the Astoria outhouse loves of great men list: picking bad stocks, returning library books on-time, parking in the space absolutely farthest in the lot from the entrance to the grocery store, and lastly, smoking cigarettes in sleeping bags.

He continues to work this list, for it is this list that has made him the great man that he stands today. So great has he become, that his inner voice now sounds like John Wayne.

He turns up to the bar at the top of the dock, where old weathered sea-dogs sordidly gather to whistle-wet and fish-story. A homeless god-fearing drunk, who looks like his name would be Leroy, often stands on the bar, cigarette in-mouth, and acts out age-old epics of a clawed leviathan named Walter. These stories fascinate Joseph. He imagines, though, that a man of his standard could easily deal with this Walter.

Joseph spends the rest of his morning then afternoon, between bar and dock. What crabs he catches, he subsequently trades for pints. He is good at this. Accordingly, he decides he will spend evening then night between bar and dock as well.

This is the last good day that will be had by both parties. Walter knows he must attack tomorrow, as to not let Joseph strengthen his skill-set further. Joseph knows that he must fish and drink, for it is his life’s work at current.

The author surmises that either Walter or Joseph, would be delighted with THIS DAY serving as their penultimate. Who wouldn’t be?

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