Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset

I got "blog-tagged" by my friend Jeff. The theme is to write three things I learned the hard way. Here goes ...

#1. Don't allow people who're tripping balls onto my sailboat.

In 1999, I had no clue how to sail. At the time, I thought sailors were hoity-toity, blue-blooded, blazer-wearing stiffs, but I was wrong. Real wrong.

My friends from the Anarchist Soccer League (ASL) got a bug in their heads to obtain an old sailboat and conquer the Chesapeake Bay ... and global capitalism, if it came to that.

Through good luck or good charm, we scored a free 1972 sailboat once owned by Charlie Byrd.

Knowing nothing about the rules of the sea, we loaded the boat with my LSD-buzzed ASL pals on a blustery day. There was no declared skipper, no one onboard who knew how to make a wind-powered vehicle move forward correctly, bottled beer, and mind-altering drugs that made the chaos really whirl.

People tripping balls are useless on a sailboat. I'd rather have a rat in a cage nailed to the bulkhead than someone on psychedelics; at least a rat knows when to move to windward during a blow. And tripping people are klutzes; there was broken glass everywhere (everyone's barefooted), we're risking a broach, and have hardly an idea which lines to pull --- salt water spraying in our faces. I was the only sober person onboard.

Never again.

#2. Don't eat wild mushrooms raw.

I was in Warsaw in 2001 visiting a friend. Mushroom hunting in the woods has a long tradition over there so you'll often see people from the country selling 'shrooms on city streets.

We bought a batch of yellowish mushrooms picked fresh from the forests of Poland and I was too excited to wait to cook them. I popped a few cold fungi in my mouth on the walk home and an hour later, I got a stomachache that felt like a demon was inside me, pissed off, and head-butting my intestinal lining for 48 hours.

Couldn't leave the bed.

#3. Punching bags are harder than they look.

When I was a teenager, I was visiting a friend who lived on a farm. His older brother Tommy had rigged a massive punching bag from the ceiling of the barn.

How can there be a punching bag hanging around teenaged boys without them socking it? I nailed that big bag with my closed fist as hard as my 120-pound body could manage. With a sharp thwack, my knuckle met leather and sand, resulting in immediate and prolonged pain.

That god damn bag broke my hand, and it was my own stupid fault. I had to go the doctor's and get a cast. Apparently, the break is called a "boxer's fracture" --- more like "idiot's fracture".
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So now I'm blog-tagging:

Faye

Justin

Cuff

Emi

Pete

Edward

Let's see who takes my offer ...