The Trail Beckons

Last night I cowered in the dark
I smelt the weasels closing in
I've no use for sun or parks
When I've not had my medicine
I summon demons, fiends and snarks
And send them off again
Last night I cowered in the dark
I smelt the weasels closing in.

What does one do when cash is low, credit is nil and employment prospects limited to jury duty, or, more entertainingly, shaking down corrupt cops with the help of a remote camera and a 18.1 Ghz link to the hard drives? Nothing produces cash from the corrupt like filmed evidence of their corruption...can't kill the golden goose and all of that.

But I digress yet again. Or maybe not.

Solid arguments may certainly be made for fleeing now, while I'm still the shaker rather than the shakee, as it were. Wiser men than I have pointed out there is nothing more dangerous than a wounded animal--or a corrupt pig you're leaning on.

So I figure I make with one more discreet DVD drop-off with instructions on how to buy the original, then get the hell out of here.

Vancouver, BC is sure nice in summer. I suspect I'll head there, though the Urban Shaman, the BC Marijuana Party HQ and Marc Emery's over-the-counter seed sales have apparently never resumed business after an arson on Hastings Street last year. The arsonist(s) were never caught, and one wonders if the RMCP or the Canadian mob saw fit to dispense with the epicenter of the Great White pot revolution--

We'll likely never know, but I suspect I'll be reporting back on whatever I find.

Astute readers will note that I was talikn' smack about walking the 362-mile Oregon Coast Trail, and indeed, I still intend to. Why not take two months and hike all the way to Canada? I mean, who gets to do this stuff anymore?

Frankly, no one else that I know, save a few trustafarian types. Don't get me wrong, these folks are invaluable allies on the trail. But a trustfunder or retiree has the luxury of not having to be out there on the trail. For them, the choice is not between wage-slavery and the road, rather, the road becomes another in a prized collection of idle-rich experiences--and blokes like myself simply provide color to the story they'll tell afterwards--

And they become part of mine.

I'll post when I can, and tell all, changing names to protect myself and incriminate others.

In the meantime, some older bits, including one entitled Burning Man is Dead, lie here awaiting their final edit. I'll try to have them up soon.

Peace out.

The Bleeding Edge

I suspect that humans as a species currently tread heavily on the razor, and we're probably On The Way Out.

And Blanston's financial situation continues to deteriorate. For the first time in his life, he's about to be jobless AND homeless.

But consider:

The Oregon coast has a continuous, 362-mile long trail which begins on the south jetty of the Columbia River and ends in Brookings, about 20 miles from the California border. There are many more miles of trails, thousands of them, that run into the Cascade and Coast mountain Ranges, as well as the Sierra Nevadas, and the Ho Chi Minh-like Pacific Crest Trail, which ultimately takes you to South America, the Hard Way--

I've always been a man who lives by his impulses, and the wisdom of this approach to life can certainly be debated. Its hold on me, however, cannot. Sometimes you just have to take a hard look at the bones on the ground. The shaman clicks and gibbers at me nonsensically, but his message is clear: Get Out. Now.

It literally almost never rains after June 1 along the west coast. Camping requires only a pad and a bag--no tent needed at all. Fresh water, showers, laundry--all are available along the trail.

I paid a lot of money at the turn of the century to fuck about in SE Asia. I can do the same thing here in my own back yard, for almost no $ at all--

Methinks the signs are clear. More on this later.