I'm Definitely Not in New York Anymore.

The other day I got up early to try out my new mountain bike in Waterton Canyon, which is an eight mile stretch of dirt and gravel road that leads you alongside a river to a dam at the end. About six miles in, I heard a cascading of rocks falling from the mountain on my right and upon looking up I saw a mountain goat. Now we've all seen mountain goats at the zoo and they seem harmless and cute, but I've discovered that in the wild they are totally different animals. This mountain goat had more muscle than Arnold Schwartzneggar in his prime and was by far the biggest I have ever seen. Now most people would've kept on biking, but if you've been reading my blog so far you've probably realized that I'm not most people. I decided that this was a great picture opportunity and stopped to photograph the giant as it slowly made it's way down the mountainside. Then, when it was off the rocks and on the dirt road with me, ignoring all common sense, I continued to photograph the mountain goat. I guess I have a bit of the Crocodile Hunter's spirit inside of me, because I just couldn't look away from the animal and kept hearing the late Steve Irwin's voice in my head saying, "That's a beautiful animal." A few seconds later though, when the steroid pumped mountain goat lowered it's horns and started to charge, I heard Steve Irwin's voice again, but this time he was saying, "Danger-danger-danger!"

At this point my self preservation instincts finally kicked in and I ditched my bike and backpack and ran for my life. It's amazing how your mind races with so many thoughts when you think you are about to die. As I was running I realized that although I can out-run most people, I am no match for a large mammal with four legs. I also realized that I was being chased towards the edge of a cliff with a fifty foot drop and jagged rocks below. I remember thinking to myself that this was going to be a really crappy way to die. I mean people who die in other ways like cancer or old age are remembered not for how they died, but for how they lived. They're remembered with fond memories of Christmas's and birthdays and the good things they did in life. I would be remembered as the dumbass who photographed his own death. The pictures would probably end up in the paper, and then featured on Spike tv's, "When Animals Attack", somewhere in between a Herbal Essence and a Geico commercial. These were the thoughts buzzing through my head as I turned around and screamed, charging like a lunatic towards the mountain goat. Luckily for me, my bluff payed off and the goat ran away. I watched as it stopped about two hundred yards from me, picked up my backpack and proceeded up the mountain with it. I had to follow it for about ten minutes until it lost interest in my backpack and dropped it in the bushes. Upon retrieving my backpack I returned to the path, got on my bike and pedaled home, happy that I would live to see another day and hoping that many, many years from now I will be able to die a more dignified death, preferably not involving some four legged creature.

Billy Mays is Dead

Billy Mays is dead. Now while relaxing in my bed and watching tv after a long day of work I no longer need to worry about some pudgy, unshaven crackpot appearing in a commercial and yelling his head off. I wouldn't mind so much except for the fact that his commercials were always ten times louder than the one's before and his yelling would wake my girlfriend up, who in turn would yell at me that the tv was too loud. When I was growing up in my parents house my dad would yell a lot and so, late at night after Billy Mays and my girlfriend were done yelling at me I would drift asleep and dream about good times gone by. Good times like learning to tie my shoes, to tell time, and of doing homework with my dad standing over my shoulder all the while yelling how I couldn't possibly be that dumb. After these dreams I would awaken, usually at 3am or so, to stand by a window awaiting the sunrise, and for it's light to push these dark thoughts from my mind. It's amazing how one idiot and a household cleaning product can cause a person so many bad memories and so much grief. At times I've wondered why the man was always yelling. Maybe his personal supply of oxiclean were really containers filled with cocaine which he would snort before each commercial. Maybe he suffered from erectile dysfunction and he yelled to release his frustration. I realize Michael Jackson recently died and that's been all over the news, but he never really bothered me or affected my sleep. He kept to himself, quietly molesting little boys, in the middle of hundreds of acres of privately owned land where no one could hear there screams, and paid the parents to keep things quiet. Billy Mays on the other hand did not believe in being quiet, he believed in yelling and costing me many sleepless nights. But finally that's all over. At least that's what I thought until he came on the tv last night, yelling his head off about this great new health insurance company. Of all things for him to be advertising posthumous, health insurance! I consider myself to be a very twisted individual and even I think that is messed up and also, I would think bad publicity for the health insurance company. I mean they obviously didn't do him any good!