Evolution: From the Cave to the Bar

Don't worry everyone. It's been a long weekend, but one that ended with a great big exlamation point. So I decided that I am going to be a photographer and my first pictoral adventure would begin with a day trip to Iowa to see some caves in Maqoketa and some other random small town offerings. My trusty sidekick S joined me on what we will now and forever remember as the day we discovered that Baldwin is AWESOME!

First we go to to this little dot on the map of Iowa called Lost Nation. I always liked the name, thinking it sounded Kerouacesque. We drive into "town" and find a restaurant that won't serve us food and a shop call Jill's This That. I think we were Jill's only customer's that day, maybe even for the whole month of August. Her shop mostly consisted of crap left over from grandma's garage sale circa 1977. This was not a good year for crap. Jack would not approve of Jill's misdoings with said crap.

So Lost Nation was a bust, but the Maqoketa caves were cool and scary.

This is me scared -->

What I should have really been scared of is getting lost. I of course felt that I should follow my instincts, which promptly got us lost in some kind of Texas Chainsaw Massacre/Deliverance situation where we ended up in the Time Traveler's meadow, which subsequently led to an old dirt road. We are lost, but there were three other Quad Citians that took that same stupid path, so we were not alone. (Three chicks, two guys, one ominous state park full of caves that are full of dead bodies?)

Then I see this sign--> Does this shit make any sense to anyone else? This is what we were dealing with, so no wonder the path led to nowhere, as these people are obviously retarded.

On our way out of Maqoketa, S and I stop at a winery because we need a drink and free booze are the best kind. I heart you nice old lady with a heavy handed pour at Tabor Home Vineyards.

We take some pictures of some grapes and head out and S suggests that we continue our path of enlightenment at a small roadside bar. Best ideas are always random. We go in and have some beer, then some more beer, than another beer, and then we talk with the locals. We find out we are in Baldwin, population 300ish, and that these people like their cocktails. We meet this dude named Rory who buys Sarah a sorority-style drink consisting of Mountain Dew and Berry UV and I talk to Terry, a vet who saw the Steve Miller Band while stationed in Germany. Then the owners give us fried food, keep giving us more beer, and then they let us graffiti on the ceiling. Good times. Graffiti. A forgotten pastime.

our sentiments exactly.....thank you baldwin, ia

good morning

is a bullshit term. i don't want to be awake. i want to be warm and cozy in my bed with my dog ellie moose and wake up at noon like a happy person. but no, i'm awake so i can attend a conference this morning. meanwhile that weird old guy that lives with me is giving me a lecture about driving in fog. what? yes vern, please educate me in the ways of driving through town so as not to run my car over a bridge, because you (like the unibomber) never leave the house.

so this officially starts the vern chronicles. for starters, i would like to say that vern in his own right already has a following. those who have met him revere him (though they often shuffle away if he approaches to avoid the hour long lecture). those who have not met him believe him to be a mystical man cloaked in a robe with his pipe spouting words of wisdom only the lucky will ever know. today's robe is the blue nautica that has been special dipped in chlorine to achieve just the right homeless crazy man look.

Deep special though by Vern Greenwood: "See, in the morning, that's when I get my best ideas. I wish I had a Dictaphone to record them." (Pause for lecture about paying bills.) "Don't think of a big problem as a big problem, but a little problem. Then all the little problems will take care of themselves. You know, you've got to get Duracell batteries because they're the best. You don't have to worry about them going dead."

i want my name to appear in the New Yorker

i am going to send in captions to the New Yorker till they pick me. then i will be world famous and everyone will think i'm special.

this is no venture i can do alone. here is what i came up for this week. let me know what you think.

smokey and the bandit

"Smokey, what the hell are you doin'?"

"Well McGruff, I'm lighting this here shit on fire and smoking a j."

"We gotta' leave. 50's around the corner."

"Relax SVU. By the way, that's an analog TV."

pull my finger

Since I was a little kid, I've had this incredible habit where I will be in an aisle at the grocery store, wherever, and I'll let out a little toot here and there and exit the aisle. Someone would walk into my fart cloud, maybe a stranger, maybe my mom, and make the "I just walked into fart" face. Classic.


So after taking my mom and sister to Texas Roadhouse tonight, I realized that I was again going to need to do this. Don't worry, I am no amateur. I have farted at Borders before, normally around the travel section. So I pulled my mom aside before entering the store and I told her the signal would be one eye wink. She laughed and said, "Oh dear." As soon as I entered the crappy discount books section before you enter the store, I told her that the there was a rumble down under. She left while shaking her head as if to signal I am not her child. I go in and peruse the magazines and oops. Farty fart fart fart. First one was silent and harmless....second one more audible than I had hoped. Don't worry, I didn't drop an entire meatloaf or anything, but when my mom came back with two lattes in hand, I gave her the signal (wink wink). She began laughing and said I was a dumb-ass and she scooted away.



as far as i am concerned, farts are always funny. why else would they exist? our butts could simply be smaller and air could just fly out like an air-conditioning vent, but they don't. they are loud, vibrating, smelly wonders of joy. if you hear some old guy let a real skid-mark fart who blames it on an invisible dog and you don't laugh, well then you are just Satan himself.

so far, so good

i am still demonstrating television sobriety. it has been 1 1/2 days. don't i get a chip or something for that? last night was a real struggle. i worked on the computer, read, napped, took a shower, watched mr. fishy, talked to the weird old lady that lives with me, and ate gummy worms for dinner. i have a feeling the real challenge will be not to watch the royal pains season finale (luckily i have DVR -- best invention ever!) on thursday.

what are your favorite programs on the happy box? let's take a poll. fill out your thoughts or favorites in the comment box. i know someone out there is a closet full house fan.

thank you for being a friend

quick update, this is hell. i want my happy box. right now i just know there are happy folks learning about the komodo dragon's pooping habits, how to deep fry a cake with Paula Deen, or whether or not Sophia Petrillo will reminisce about Sicily or insult Blanche's ho-bag tendencies.



so far I have filled my day with doing paperwork on the computer, making my dad an ice cream sundae, reading the newspaper, and taking a picture of the one lone fish in our aquarium. not exactly the enlightenment i was hoping for. i need to get m. night shamalamananon creative to make my life more Happening.





Deep Special Thought By Janelle Greenwood: Mr. TV... Thank you for being a friend. Traveled through your channels and back again. Your signal is true, your a pal and a confidant. And if you increased your prices, invited every channel to join that I knew. You would see the biggest bill would be from me and the check attached would say thank you for being a friend.

like pulling off a band-aide slowly...this is going to be painful.

In efforts to recharge my internal battery, and for everyone's amusement, I am swearing off TV for one week. I will keep you updated on how this turns out. I have a feeling that this will rival a crack addicts binge turned sobriety. I will break this week long fast with True Blood next Sunday, with a side of Entourage. If I start foaming at the mouth, please administer The Golden Girls immediately.

on a side note, i am up to any suggestions on how to spend my time otherwise. i'm thinking about really giving this whole hard work ethic thing a go, finishing a lingering painting or two i have been commissioned to paint months ago, finishing a book, tra la la

No First Amendment, Thank You and Other Valentines to the Bill of Rights.

I love the drive to Champaign-Urbana. It’s like a free speech sundae, broken up with several layers that ends with a real cherry on top; located on local interstates in-and-around Champaign County are these fantastic Burma Shave-like signs supporting the interests of gunssavelife.com. On these fantastic signs is a rhyming message to warn of the ways that not having a firearm on hand.

Here’s a visual for the kids:

These people make sense.

In honor of the new school year, I’d like to share my favorite gunsavelife.com verse that really says what I feel:

"Never worry / Thugs won't attack / If the teacher / Might shoot back."

I fully agree with this statement. As an educator of teenagers, I know the importance of self protection. You never know when a kid might throw an end table at your head or try to bite your boob. Hey, it happens. I would feel much better knowing that not only am I packing heat, but that I can in fact pistol-whip any child who dares to get out of line. One flash of my click and those kids will not only say “Yes Ms. Janelle,” but they’ll do it with respect. That’s something everyone can believe in.

I used to be one of those liberal nut jobs, you know those folks who think a little temperature change is going to kill the polar bears and ruin the planet. I used to throw away litter and buy locally grown produce, trying to decrease my impact on the environment. Pshh, Nonsense. What has the environment ever done for me? Hail damage.
I now understand that when the second amendment gives me the right to bear arms, it is not in fact giving me fashion advice to go sleeveless.

Deep special thought by Janelle Greenwood: Seriously, guns are no funny matter.

In 2006, incidents of gun murders, gun suicides, and unintentional shootings in Illinois killed 154 children and adolescents ages 19 and younger, a 18% increase from the 2005 total of 130 in this age group. Nationwide for 2006, gun violence killed 3,218 American children and teens ages 19 and under, an increase of 6.3% from the nationwide 2005 total of 3,027 this means that in the U.S. an average of 9 young people are killed each day by guns. Numbers obtained from CDC National Center for Health Statistics mortality report online, 2009
http://www.iansa.org/, http://www.bradycampaign.org/, http://ichv.org/Statistics.htm

My Indian Name is Runs with Beer and Other Happenings at the River Roots Festival

Thank you man in the Poopy's shirt. This Bud's for you.

Frontal shot of the best dressed lady at River Roots.

Action shot of the best dressed lady at River Roots. That cane is priceless.

The real reason to attend the River Roots Festival is mostly for the ribs. Yes, there was some Blue Öyster Cult, but the pungent aroma of pork is what brought me and my lovely little S to this celebration of all things redneck. S is a real treat. She very actively represented the Jewish population today at the rib fest. As the Goy to her Jew, I continually wonder if she is going to get kicked out of the club for such unorthodox eating habits.
Goy (Hebrew: גוי‎, regular plural goyim גוים or גויים) is a Hebrew word which means "nation".[1] Historically and up to modern times it is a synonym for Gentile or non-Jew.

On to other topics. So we wait in line longer than it takes to down our respective Bud Light and Coors Light cans. I was already suspicious of the vendors since I was accosted for drinking the Silver Bullet in lieu of their other piss light offerings. Bah. The ribs were good. The scenery was better. To our delight, a fantastically clad couple sat down next to us and provided us with our gold standard which to judge everyone else for the evening. Her outfit consisted of something akin to a woman lost on her way to a Renaissance festival who happened to have been previously kicked out of Middle Earth. A crimson, Friar Tuck-esque cap with hood, red socks, white sneakers, some sort of dangling bell contraption hanging from what looked like Rosary beads and a drinking gourd. Underneath was a pink flowing skirt and grandma’s Hawaiian shirt courtesy of last year’s garage sale, a bun in her hair, and the pièce de résistance, a large walking stick. She was accompanied by a man, maybe a husband, maybe another Wiccan, who resembled a roadie for .38 Special. Good times.

S appeared hesitant at first, but I needed proof of something so marvelous. Eventually she caved into me taking her “picture” so that I may crop the awesomeness from it for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy.

After capturing the flag, we decided to drink a few more beers and play count the camo, which is a game that centers around us counting how many people are wearing camouflage in a given area and time span. Camo count at last call was 35 in about a forty-five minute window. Not bad. There was a run of camo men’s shorts that worried me to the point of where I may have to investigate if Sears was running a sale or something. Seriously, the animals are dead here and covered in BBQ sauce, which is awesome. Can’t you just put on your “My Indian Name is Runs with Beer” t-shirt and go with it.

Deep special thought by Janelle Greenwood: I believe that you are what you eat and in this case, you may call me Pig. Oink.

I Ought to Sue for Libel…

I have an alter-ego. She is not cool, she is not pretty, she isn’t even the star of the crappy romance novel she’s featured in. I simply cannot have this. Let us look at some of the written facts – “Janelle Greenwood was young, even younger than Allison – midtwenties at most. She wasn’t plain, but she wasn’t beautiful – Lincoln’s favorite type. She had chin-length brown hair, a wide honest face with almost no makeup, a snub nose and ears that stuck out just a bit.” First of all, if I were to date someone, it wouldn’t be Mr. Marfan Syndrome. Second, my face is less than honest and well covered in MAC cosmetics (I practically kept them out of the red last year), and my ears are just fine thank you. Well Kathleen O’Brien, author of Everything But the Baby, it’s on like Donkey Kong. I will be contacting you via your publisher very soon. If I am going to have an alter-ego out there, she better damn well be something along the lines of Jem because like her I am truly truly truly outrageous and I believe that music, drama, adventure, and fashion can save the world. Now all I need is Synergy and the Holograms and I’m good to go.

Five Dollars and a Dream

Several friends have been bugging me for awhile to start a blog to share in writing my misadventures and misgivings. Good dear Lord, help us all.

Today’s inaugural blog features the Jumer’s Casino and Hotel located in fabulous Rock Island, IL. On my way home from work each day I drive by this wonderful establishment and often think to myself that I am so fortunate for this den of sin to be within two minutes of my home. My friend S and I ventured here several times previous, but I decided to brave up and take this one on my own in a spontaneous bit I call “Five dollars and a dream.”

Let this be said that I was listening to Beck’s “Loser” as I drove up to the circular neon habitat and waltzed by some pathetic looking usuals outside loitering/aka/taking up space. This musical sign should have clued me in for what was about to happen. I walk up, present my ID, which the guy has to smear with his thumb several times to get it to scan or whatever casinos do to ensure that I am not cheating the system via a fake ID. What a load. When I was in Vegas, I happen to be with my friend’s brother who gambled and drank every night away without getting carding….EVER. Guess Jumer’s really needs to monitor these things, whereas nobody gives a shit in Nevada.

I am in the casino now, with my five dollars and I scope the place for the best slot, like that exists. I find a cozy 25₵ machine and blow 2 bucks in what felt like 2 seconds. I am dumb. I then find a penny slot and waste away my last 3 bucks that I have on my ticket stub, only to be sandwiched in by the Axe twins within a two minute gap. Yuck. The patheticism is palpable this evening and I am right smack in the middle of it, marinating. I suddenly realize that my adventure was not going to end up with me ahead financially, as it never does, so I walk out and get back in my car. Last thoughts….why are the neon lights so dazzling? Why did I just throw away five dollars? Why does cheese normally smell good, but if it’s associated with my car, it smells bad?