#bourbonrocks

[theabundantyogini]

This literally made me laugh out loud. So freakin true! #Repost @netiebee (@get_repost) ・・・ My entire day. #iknowwhatimtalkingabout #bourbonrocks #auntiemaxine #reclaimingmytime #fixthemlord

[ayearwithmybeard]

Week 10: Scraggles and Fuzzies...Shared Memories With A Titan Of Timber

For those of you just joining us, this is the new home of Jeff Newman and his budding companion, Reginald Buford Brimley.  Check out past posts at A Year With My Beard.

JN: At long last, the day has come! When I looked in the mirror this morning I noticed for the first time since the great No-Shave-2013 began just ten weeks ago that Reginald is now sporting those random jagged hairs that stick out in different directions making a person wonder, shouldn't he be brushing that thing or something? I gave a mighty Huzzah, chortled a mild Guffaw, and immediately gave up showering since the hot water evidently decided not to show up for the singularly massive snowfall we've been blessed with the last 24 hours or so. Whatever. Who needs hot water when you've got a beard like Reginald? Worse comes to worst, I can always boil some water on the gas stove for a bath. Just like my parents used to do in the old days when the booze money was drying up. You gotta cut corners somewhere. From the desk of Reginald Buford Brimley:

Greetings once again to one and all. It is quite gratifying to have returned to my regular, or perhaps more accurately semi-regular addresses concerning my somewhat random observations of human culture. Having cleared me finally of all charges and suspicions, Mr. Newman has apologized profusely and assured me such a breach of trust will never come between us again. Knowing all too well the hot-headed irrationally the human animal is capable of, I naturally remain skeptical, but like Mr. Newman I am anxious and eager to put this whole mess behind us. After some drink and much reminiscing, he reminded me of a particularly enjoyable evening we spent together many moons ago in northern California. There we were in Los Angeles, California. The City of Angels, some call it. The exact reason escapes me at the moment, but I'm sure like any nickname ever coined that it possesses an origin completely devoid of logic. Mr. Newman was being paid to entertain a group of medical professionals in their very extravagant home with the assistance of a lovely and talented young lady he'd only met that day. Apparently it didn't take long for Mr. Newman to decide that this girl was the one, because he immediately reorganized his priorities for the evening. Doing his job professionally and ensuring both the clients and his boss went to bed happy that night now took a backseat to ensuring he would go to bed that night with the young lady in question. After several bad jokes, boring anecdotes, and awkward silences on a lengthy car ride down the LA freeway, it became clear that she wasn't the least bit interested. It may have saved his ego some damage if he'd only exercised some basic observation and taken the hint. Alas, he was blinded by confidence or determination or desperation or some toxic combination thereof, and finished his evening with a sore fat lip and slightly bruised groin. Any ordinary man would have crawled into his cheap motel bed to sip cheaper beer and lick his wounds. For good or ill, Mr. Newman is not an ordinary man. He insisted that he needed to conquer something before this night was over, whatever that meant. It didn't sound good, but what could I say? I've seen that look in his eye before, and found it's best just to stay out of his way. After hot wiring a 4-door sedan with Wisconsin plates from the motel parking lot, we found ourselves traveling at an incredibly high rate of speed heading north on California Highway 14. I asked what could possibly be so important that it necessitated committing grand theft auto and speeding through the darkness of this abandoned stretch of road at two in the morning. He sipped some more bourbon from a bottle resting between his legs and mumbled something about looking up an old friend. Two hundred and sixty-six miles later, we were dead center in the middle of the Giant Forest of Sequoia National Park in Tulare County. This was when Mr. Newman screeched the car to a halt. And a good thing too considering the sedan had been running on fumes for what seemed like hours. Mr. Newman seemed far less worried about the lack of gasoline, and far more concerned about the lack of whiskey. To each their own. He emerged stumbling holding on for dear life to the nearly empty bourbon bottle. He took one final sip before pouring the rest at the base of the largest Sequoia I believe I've ever seen while muttering, "And one for my homie." I then pulled focus to a nearby sign proclaiming the name of the Sequoiadendron Giganteum standing before us.

General Sherman, a tree which stands at a dwarfing 275 feet and boasts a 25 foot diameter making it the largest living single-stemmed tree on the planet. Named in 1879 for the US Civil War general, this titan of timber is regularly visited by climbers, photographers, and wood enthusiasts of all varieties. As Mr. Newman began hauling rigging and gear out of the backseat, it became clear exactly what he was determined to conquer at this ungodly hour of the morning. The biggest surprise came when we were a good hundred feet or so up this staunch, proud, tower of power and Mr. Newman showed no signs of tiring. In fact, he began what seemed like some strange kind of dialogue with the General. Apparently, he visited him many years before when he was a very young boy on a family vacation. Mr. Newman has always been a celebrated tree climber, and was quite plainly dumbfounded at the notion of climbing such a mammoth monster as the great General. Naturally, he decided right then and there that if it took him the rest of his life, he would someday scale to the top of this gorgeous giant. Of course at seven years old, he was still under the thumb of his human birth-givers and was told in no uncertain terms that he was strictly forbidden to climb the General. They hadn't seen each other since, and the night after an easily predictable sexual rejection nearly ten years later seemed as good a night as any to climb his old friend and cross this deed off his bucket list now and forever.

It was during the latter hundred feet or so that Mr. Newman began to grow delirious. He started ranting and raving about the superiority of trees to humans. Sighting that countless trees like the good General here selflessly exist as a habitat for several creatures ranging from insects to birds, squirrels, leopards, and on certain occasions even Predator. He continued to explain that trees unlike humans never commit acts of aggression. They have no ego, no greed, ambition, or fear. "Trees would never create something like jeggings!" he suddenly cried for all the forest to hear. Somehow, he pressed on. I couldn't hide my admiration or amazement as he rose further and further into the sky. Closer and closer to the canopy of the good General. As he reached the top, he began explaining that while he loved trees there was no way he could ever imagine himself engaging in dendrophilia, assuring me that this practice was, "more of a German thing." He then launched into a violent oratory accusing JRR Tolkien of stealing the idea for Ents from him some fifty years before he was born. Considering we were nearly 270 feet off the ground at the time, I decided it best not to argue and assured him I shared his plagiaristic pain. The climb down and subsequent day and a half we spent sneaking out the Giant Forest on foot to elude local authorities was by no means easy or simple though technically it was a walk in the park. A national park. But this long pilgrimage back to what some would call civilization was more than worth the breathtaking view and sheer ecstasy felt by conquering the living legend of lumber himself, General Sherman.

I never questioned how we made our way back to Chicago with no money, food, or mode of transportation with half the California National Park Rangers on our tail. Call it providence, grit, luck, or maybe the deep rooted power of a newly made friend because sure enough, within five days we were strolling down State Street looking for a good slice of pizza. It felt like 150 years since we'd had a decent slice, and home at last we were finally ready to get back to the basic pleasures in life. Resting safe in the knowledge that our great wooden compatriot would be standing sentry for hundreds of years to come. -RBB