I was sloshed while writing this last summer after I was pressed into full time action on the river when one of our guides came down with flu-like symptoms and sidelined everyone living out at the Chumstick Country Club—affectionately referred to as the CCC (“Why do you call it a country club? Well, it gets country real quick out here.”)—until they could get tested and cleared for COVID. 95% of our guide staff lived in close proximity to one another. In hindsight, we were fortunate it didn’t wind up shutting our business down for the summer of 2020.
As for me? Four days paddle guiding! That’s more than I had done in a decade.
So it goes.
I think this was written on the final evening before my last day on the water. Nothing but nonsensical stream-of-consciousness. I figured today was as good of a day as any to publish it because real world news is relentlessly depressing and diametrically opposed to the ebullience I’ve been feeling of late. Ebullience not tethered to anything you find at the bottom of a bottle.
Let the foggy impaired consciousness streaming begin!
I am several sheets to the wind.
Where did that expression come from?
Don't be taken aback to hear that sheets aren't sails, as landlubbers might expect, but ropes (or occasionally, chains). These are fixed to the lower corners of sails, to hold them in place. If three sheets are loose and blowing about in the wind then the sails will flap and the boat will lurch about like a drunken sailor.
Or a drunken rafter. And, what do you do with a drunken sailor?
Well, you…
Shave his belly with a rusty razor
Then you…
Put him in a long boat 'til he's sober
Then you…
Stick him in the scupper with a hosepipe on him
Then you…
Put him in the bed with the captain's daughter
Way hay and up she rises
Way hay and up she rises
Way hay and up she rises
Ear-lie in the morning….
And, since we are in the realm of the Kingston Trio, we may as well quote Scotch and Soda.
Scotch and soda, mud in your eye
Baby do I feel high, oh me, oh my
Do I feel high.
Dry martini, jigger of gin, oh what a spell you’ve got me in, oh my! Do I feel high…
People won’t believe me, they’ll think that I’m just braggin’
But I could feel the way I do, and still be on the wagon.
All I need is one of your smiles
Sunshine of your eyes, oh me, oh my!
Do I feel higher than I kite can fly!
Give me loving, baby I feel high.
This is what you get with two Hazy IPAs from Icicle Brewing and one Sidecar. Not scotch and soda.
The recipe for a Sidecar being:
Courvoisier Cognac - One Shot Glass full
Paula’s Texas Orange Liquor - One Shot Glass full
Meyer’s Lemons - More than enough for a shot glass
Shake them with some ice cubes.
Pour into a frosted fluted glass or something similar.
You must be wondering? What history is this? It is an evening with your host. Erstwhile writer, long time river guide. Father to Sally. Grand Poobah to a host of people. Lover of sappy movies, board games of all kinds, beautiful smiles and minds.
I spent a day on the water today. With guests of Orion River Rafting. Chatting them up about this and that, ins and outs and what have yous. Turning on my best Dude behavior. I got a $40 tip via Venmo. How modern and technologically savvy of me.
Why, yes, I do have Venmo. Just Venmo me. @blahblahblah Thank you!
I could not remember my PayPal account for the life of me.
Does my mask make my ass look big?
Back to the river tomorrow morning.
No time for love Mr. Jones.
But not this one.
Also, Bob Dylan’s 80th birthday happened yesterday—here are 80 things you may not know about him—and it is never too late to revisit some of his cutting-through-the-bullshit writing. He is one of America’s greatest poets.
Come you masters of war
You that build the big guns
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masksThe original version.
You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets flyEddie Vedder and Pearl Jam during their rendition of Masters of War in the midst of the ongoing Iraq “cakewalk”—2004
Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain
You fasten all the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion'
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud
You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins
How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
That even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do
Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soulFor a ‘lighter’ version, here’s Ed Sheeran in 2014.
And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand over your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead