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.