Escaping work for a moment, out of range of cell phones and e-mails.  Love work, got to get some space sometime.

Hot spring, friends, conversations, snacks, drinks ... nothing's better.  Minus waking up totally frozen, hung over, having to trek back to civilization. 

Life.  Awesome.

Finding new spots to play in the mountains.  Spring, it's warm, and there is still skiing left!

Mountains and skiing and bits of snow.  Fires.  Outdoor hot tubs.   Wine.

And new three year plans.   Stuff is stuff!

Not my divorce.  But the sort of bold statement and costumized attendance has to be recognized as a tribute to awesomeness.  And the single life.

Nice to see people doing things besides farming cubicles.  

And who would argue against torches and melting stuff?  The chief glass torcher even offers apprenticeships.  Temptations of new bits and things.

Do stuffed souls of dead stuffed animals go to heaven? 

Probably they just end up in the hands of apparel alternativists, and become fake-fur coats.  Trophies to thrift store hunters, proudly displayed at tribal gatherings of the wicked, and the restless. 

And the strange.

Different city, but the underground is always out there.  Somewhere.  

A little digging, past the vanilla meat markets full of striped shirt gel haired douches, and wannabe ho's.

So, right.  My first fall in eons, if not even at least 12 years.

Found a great hike in Bell Canyon.  Waterfalls.  That's what the map thing said, the one I decided not to bring with me.  Who needs maps?  Monkeys don't have maps, and we're just a few minor genetic bits removed from a tail and fur. So that one got crossed off the list.

Along with not being much of an evolutionary genetecist, I don't have a talent for interpreting the fuzzy mumblings of grizzled looking locals roaming the trails.  ... 'Oh that's puhhrty damn far, sonny'. 

Oh.  right.  Detailed topographical insights like that ended up washing Columbus ashore and getting a bunch of Indians killed.  But I digress.   Turns out the locals are pussies, and eight miles of granite rock trail in my old-man moccassins is totally no big deal.

Long ass damn hikes.  Suck a big one.  And I had to throw the shoes away.

Turning around without seeing the fabled waterfalls wasn't an option though, and the view was mildly awe-inspiring.  And there's nothing else to do in Utah on a Sunday.  

See some live bits of music.  Random.  Wicked aswesome performances, unexpectedly not from the headliner.  Aranda, Vayden, Atom Smash & Scripted Apology.  

All for $15.  This town does have it going on, after all.

Mountains.  And caves.

And mountain lions, supposedly.  Visiting the carefully lit, tour-guided, sanitized for tourists caves is a wee bit lame.  The real caves are out there too though, waiting for me to go dig around.  On the list, coming soon.

The hang gliding lessons are starting to almost make sense.

Today, my first time running towards the edge of the mountain.  Definitely not entirely clear on all proper proceedings, but I'm having an excellent time figuring it out.

Now the question is ... should I change my flight and just stay here?

The devil is Italian.  And he is red.  

I'm pretty much entirely certain of this, because him and I had a talk.  Just now.  He said, "yeah, it's perfectly safe, I've got your traction control right here, little buddy".  I nuzzle the carbon fiber paddle shifter marked inconspicously with one word.  'Down'.  

Hell, is down.  That's just common knowledge.

But also, hell is a lot of fun.  Hell has an exhaust note that screams from a massive V8 under a glass hood right behind your head.  Hell hath no fury either, at least that's what my foot communicates with the pedal completely down to the floor.  Hell knows that downshift is a clear agreement to hand over the soul, because soul alone really doesn't go this fast from zero to ... "however fast you'd like, little buddy.  Traction control.  It's aaaall good."

Passing sensible travelers on a twisty mountain two lane, limited visibility?  Sure.  Oncoming traffic, veering off to the narrow shoulder?  If you saw the devil screaming towards you, a pointed red grinning horn of speed, veering would be reasonable.

"Traction control, little buddy.  That's what it's for."

I used to be a hapless desk minion, cubicle farming for my bloated middle management masters.  My soul was always somebody elses anyway. 

Ginnie Springs.  Eight gazillion gallons of spring water coming out of the ground every day.  Fishes, turtles, nature bits.  And no cell phone reception.  

Perfect to go mid-week, when the redneck level is at a minimum.  Bring a little dive gear, food, a tent and something pretty to look at - the perfect getaway!

Good times, for less than 80 bucks per year. 

15 minutes from downtown Tampa, all the rollercoasters, strange birds, lizzards, lions, and other animal bits anyone could ever wish for.  Can't hunt or eat them, but other than that snaggly bit of bureaucratic red tape, it's a good time.

Aside from Adventure Islands, this is definitely a strong plus for living in this otherwise brain-forsaken town.

Good times, all around.  The old man's visit to Florida comes to an end, Aoh reveals her secret soup chef side at Mia's, and the Thai temple feeds the resident round-eye yet again!

Seeing your town through the eyes of someone new to the area - highly recommended.

This weekend - a trip around Ybor, downtown, some coffee shops, and the Hillsborough River state park.  Small things, fun times!

Maybe one of the best beaches I've seen in Florida, so far. 

Judgement may have in part been swayed by the company.  And Pomegrenate Martini.

Two and a half weeks in Park City.  It's the healthy lifestyle, no alternatives.  Even July 4th parties with the locals, it's a granola eating, Jeep worshipping tribute to freedom.

To avoid any lasting effects, this trip will be neutralized by a week in Key West.

And K & C came back from China with their new little adopted critter in tow.  Turned out well too, a tribute to having a lot of good Karma points saved up.  Parents!  Yikes!

If you wake up every morning knowing how the day's going to play out, something's got to change.  

Some might accuse me of being a little trigger finger on this subject.  But accusation is a long way from conviction, and right now I'm still free to put the ax to habits, relationships, and ownership at my perilous leisure.

The scooter has been getting close to the cliff for a while.  It's just a little too cute.  And temperamental.  And inoffensive.  That's a fairly dangerous combination of attributes to be in my proximity for too long.  Unpredicatably predicatable result, it's now gone.  A sacrifice to the Gods of Change, its' soul resting on the bottom of memories lake.  

"To never be accused of repeating tendencies, is to be beyond reproach." 

- I'm quoting myself, but I was hung over and squinty eyed, so I looked ancient and Chinese.  Which makes this an unimpeachably valuable bit of cultural wisdom. 

Whatever all that may or may not mean, Friday, my favorite little sibling and I ventured down to Venice, FL.   We made aquaintances and fast friends with a new chapter of motorvation:  a Moto Guzzi interpreted by someone convinced that 'Mad Max' is a documentary.

Specs:

• Spray-in bedliner paint job
• Seating for one
• No gauges of any kind
• Single mindedly expeditious forward progress

Meet Max.  

Some people just look so innocent.  So you may think it's a good idea to find yourself all alone with them on some quiet creek somewhere in the secret-keeping swamps of Florida.  In a canoe.

But then you see the Aligators.  Big ones.  Actually, really really big ones.  And they're close enough for you to fully appreciate them looking at you with those "oh is that my afternoon sandwich" eyes.

It would be one thing to turn and abandon the mission, but certain people seem to be all about parading past the seven rows of teeth attached to the swamp beast - and again on the way back.

There can never be enough skiing.  Every time I go back, I get closer to just staying. 

Utah.  All mountains, all quiet, great ski resorts, hiking, stuff.  All that's missing is a larger scale hottie factor, and it'd be a clear winner.

And thanks to Christian I found a new love for backcountry and near vertical bits of mountain with lots of moguls.  I still wouldn't suggest it to be either sane or healthy, but it's FUN!

Life's all about those little moments that stick in memory like a piece of gum on a hot air balloon.  One of the more questionable but fun ways to do it: apply negative appeal to innate survival instincts.  

This is sanctionable and wise, as long as there's somebody to say:

"If all else fails, there's always the rocket-powered parachute option."

That's reassurance at its' finest.  The family legacy is safe, put away the guns and prayer beads, we're all walking away from this one in one piece.  All that and not much at all being said, it's time for picking up hang gliding.

"All limits are self imposed."
                             - Icarus

Mods & Rockers party at the Orpheum.  Two for one drinks.  Let the Gods be graced by gratious consumption of Vodka and RedBull.  Add a few mg's of Nicorette (kill all the smokers!) and it's a full on chemical monsoon for some very happy neurons.

Till the next morning that is, but who's counting...

The back story: 

"Gangs of mods and rockers fighting in 1964 sparked a moral panic about British youths, and the two groups were seen as folk devils. The rockers adopted a macho biker gang image, wearing clothes such as black leather jackets. The mods adopted a pose of scooter-driving sophistication, wearing suits and other cleancut outfits. By late 1966, the two subcultures had faded from public view and media attention turned to two new emerging youth subcultures - the hippies and the skinheads."

"Rockers, wearing leather jackets and riding heavy motorcycles, poured scorn on the mods, who wore suits and rode scooters. The rockers considered mods to be weedy, effeminate snobs. Mods saw rockers as out of touch, oafish and grubby. Mods were usually city dwellers, whereas rockers tended to be more rural. Mods sometimes held down office jobs, whereas rockers were often manual workers (although there were many exceptions in both groups)."

I love to watch gas prices rise.  The ignorant fools with their giant, poorly made symbols of low self esteem, suffering the slow realization of the impeding final nail of their financial eviceration while standing at the gas pump. 

I switched from a fairly fuel sippy Japanese car to real vintage Mercedes diesel style (two of them, for good measure).  If you haven't enjoyed a well maintained sample of these rides, you're missing what was unquestionably the pinnacle of automotive mechanical engineering.  I'm also running biodiesel (NOT vegetable oil, that's reserved for a different type of fool, well meaning, but poorly informed), making my travels effectively carbon neutral. 

Reality check step by step guide on how to escape car payments, dizzying automotive depreciation, and high fuel prices may be coming soon (ask for it, will make it more likely for something to appear).

Oh, and one more thing ...  fuel cost:  $2 per gallon of 75% emissions reducing, screw-you-big-oil, guilt free, high quality biodiesel.