Monday, October 21, 2002

Late last week I got a site tracker attached to this site, which revealed that, drum roll please, NO ONE READS THIS BLOG BUT ME!!! Whoo hoo. It's a given we are born alone and die alone, but now I know I live on the web alone. I've got a complex about solitude. Or thought I did until my recent trip on the Superior Hiking Trail, alone in the woods and it didn't bother me. Burg schlurgle booga booga boo. Oh, did you hear that? No you didn't. You're alone. What if a tree fell down in the forest and nobody else was around... God, to be a shaven monk among the pines, or a woolly miner. Hmmm.... Both require a celibacy of sorts. Screw that. I need that sweet poon tang, the conjugal rights of a married man. Yeah, I'm a sexual creature. So what? So are you. I'm the embodiment of what the preachers and teachers and pillars of society would like everybody to be like. I'm married, clean, educated, monogamous, don't even think adulterous thoughts. Or if I do (all married men do) I do not dwell or act on them. Am I making you squirm, writing about the wriggle worm flaccido which controls most men's destinies? My gonad's never left me astray. A happy marriage to a wonderful, lively, active woman keeps Mr. Happy, the phallic wonder, six inches of Superman, well, satisfied.

What turns me on is water. Warm water. And only on an empy bladder. Also the sight of those tiny little hairs, whorled, that you can only see in a certain light, on my good wife's upper arm. Well, hell, we're being honest here, any good arm will do, but I'll focus me amour on me esposa. I'm not a religious man, don't adhere to any creed but the church of Greg Locascio. A prime tenet of my beliefs is honesty and loyalty. That's why I have many old friends. And even though I may be broke, a hack, a wandering fool backpacking nitwit, you can count on my word. Call me Mr. Reliability. Even though I am Mr. Unpredictable, like the time last week at dinner when I threw a half cup of water in Esther's face, just because I wanted to see the arc of flying liquid and the aqua drip off her chin. See beginning of paragraph. That didn't turn her on. Pissed her off. But she'll get revenge, she said. It's all good. I'm also a tits, ass and legs man, very pedestrian that way. Tits and ass and hips stir the age old fertility impulse in me, that desire to propogate the species, kind of misguided in this 6 billion populace. Mammalian impulses can't be avoided.

glork shrax ikka ooka plooj Can't hear myself over the deafening conversation of the millions of wriggling sperm in my low-hanging nads, slightly lower than body temp so factory production of my DNA contribution to the gene pool continues unabated. Brief shut down during bike rides, production in overdrive after, er, coitus, horizontal be-bop. You are surrounded by wriggling things, from the mites eating the dead skin in your eyebrow to the swimming tadpoles in your middle. The bugs lie dead October between the storm and shutters, but little microbes eat away giggle goggle goo, leave a husk in the spring. And all the worries and philosophies and hype and global warming and civilization comes down to, organically, an inch of topsoil. The cockroaches wait in the wings. Mosquitoes enforce their dominance until the cold spell hits. How many did West Nile Virus kill in Illinois this year? Small potatoes compared to black plague. These skeeters is pikers on the genocide scene.

Weekend did the trail building thing at Devil's Lake State Park. Cool evenings. Good company. Saturday night drove away from group to Little Red Schoolhouse, just up the road from Franke's summer home where Esther and I spent a five day vacation in summer 1996. Brought back memories of ages old romantic meal we had there. What did we talk about? What were we concerned with? I looked around for the Franke's, but didn't see them. Instead watched Game One of the World Series until I was only customer left in bar. Help stayed after and chatted with each other about things that help chat about in rural restaurants in central Wisconsin. And we all know what that is, sex, sex, sex, and deer hunting, and tips and the Green Bay Packers, and sex, sex, sex. Oh, yeah, the Giants, thanks to solo homers and solid testosterone pitching kept the Angels at bay to win, 4-3.

Stay with series for a moment, have to think about baseball to keep me from being a one-minute wonder. Great game last night, when Angels won, 11-10. I stayed awake until the bottom of the 8th inning, then dozed off until game's end. So did Dad. We didn't wake until the next show's opening credits listed. Missed Salmon's two-RBI homer heroics and Bond's two-out solo shot off Percival. But rest of game was memorable slugfest, and Angels needed every run to get it. F. Rodriguez (Francisco), 20-year old phenom Sept. call-up, got the win for the Angels with 4 K's and allowed no hits in three innings of work. A different F. Rodriguez (Felix) got the loss for the Giants when Salmon smacked his game-winner.

Earlier I watched as Packers trounced Washington despite Favre's injury. Got going from Mobile Skills Crew at around noon. Turtlehead dump urge (Sorry Bob Croman) tore me away from work site. Worked hard 8 hours Saturday on re-route in state park. Made sure the back slope was rock free and flowing water (ahhh-qua) could ease off trail past critical edge. Earlier trail work we did in April has held up well. At Potawatomi State Park work weekend earlier this year, Tim Malzhan, south central field coordinator for the Ice Age Trail, asked me why Esther and I feel motivated to do trail work. I said something about giving back to a trail and an activity which has given us so much. Returning good karma and all that jazz. But it's only part of the answer. Other reasons are to hang out with cool people who have the same feelings about trail we do, and the intrinsic value of working outdoors, being in the woods, using the body. There's more to life than sex. But there was this calm flowing stream nearby. And the smell of freshly turned earth, the scrape and spark of metal on stone. The reroute makes for a gentler grade of Ice Age Trail and takes it past a gorgeous stone escarpment the park's naturalist did not even know was there. The MSC discovered it in April when we scouted around for a possible re-route.

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