R80o <br><br>Ramblings from a face <br>in the crowd.<br> <br> Could be interesting. <br> Could be crap. tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5787585 2005-06-29T00:06:54Z Blogger
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 Mark 2005-06-28T19:15:00-04:00 2005-06-29T00:06:54Z 2005-06-29T00:05:05Z tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5787585.post-112000350532471430 Dogs walking <DIV ALIGN=CENTER> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/r80o/tags/happydogs/show/" title="Click for more"><img src="http://photos15.flickr.com/22248781_c23fe84609.jpg" alt="happy dogs" height="500" width="332" /></a><br />click for more.</div> false Mark 2005-06-24T13:10:00-04:00 2005-06-24T17:18:19Z 2005-06-24T17:18:19Z tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5787585.post-111963349913467797 So, is it "froo-froo", "frou-frou", "artsy-fartsy", or just "fluffy"?
I shot a bunch of images last weekend that were more artsy-fartsy rather than testerone laden.

They're here.

Also you'll see a different interface than the regular Flickr page I normally post my shots on. I'm toying with an online portfolio/photoblog for The Brainstorm Lab. Let me know if you have any problems with the site.
 false Mark 2005-06-22T21:02:00-04:00 2005-06-23T01:07:10Z 2005-06-23T01:07:10Z tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5787585.post-111948883085091710 Somewhere in Tennessee, Sometime in June
Mantrip 2005 - The Year of the Shaved Wookie
false Mark 2005-06-20T21:33:00-04:00 2005-06-21T11:50:05Z 2005-06-21T01:45:09Z tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5787585.post-111931830931308993 Warning Sign The pig, he tried to warn me.<br /><br />---<br /><br /><img src="http://www.r80o.com/images/pig/pigpart1.jpg" width="100" height="100" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="1" align="right">We get to cabin and settled in. Several of the guys head off to the music festival. <a href="http://www.nmallstars.com/">The North Mississippi AllStars</a>, a country/blues band, are headlining at one of the stages and they happen to be one of Ken's (the Barrister) favorite bands of all time so he was pretty well psyched to get there.<br /><br />Country music makes my ears bleed so I decided to hang back at the cabin and take it easy. <img src="http://www.r80o.com/images/pig/pigpart2.jpg" width="100" height="100" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="1" align="left">Jon (the aviator) and Tony (the mogul) decide to stay back as well. An hour later the three of us are kicked back on the deck, sippin' bourbon, laughing and watching the river run.<br /><br />Jon mentions something about food, and the barbecue joint we passed on the way in comes to mind. It's on the way to grocery store, and we had to get supplies anyway. Minutes later we're on our way to dinner, then on to the supermarket.<br /><br />The barbecue place was something out of a time warp. It looked to be a 1940's era gas station converted into a 'cue stand. The windows were crusty with grease and spider webs. Its wood siding was rotting and falling off. <img src="http://www.r80o.com/images/pig/shufords_II.jpg" width="320" height="240" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="1" align="right">It was dirty, grimy, and filthy. The kind of place where you skid just a little bit when you walk because of the gunk build-up on the floors. It was tiny, and hot, and smelled like a burning dog (or at least what I imagine a burning dog would smell like).<br /><br />By now you've probably guessed the food had to be monumental. It was... Oh my God it was so good! Hands down, it had to be the best roasted carcass I've ever stuck in my face. And the crack-laced sweet tea was so good it hurt to drink it. Seriously. Like insulin shock induced lockjaw.<br /><br /><img src="http://www.r80o.com/images/pig/pigpart3.jpg" width="100" height="100" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="1" align="right">We're snarfing our pork plate specials (<span style="font-style:italic;">"complete with two deliciously scrumptous side items"</span> and a <span style="font-style:italic;">"decorative green onion"</span>) like we've never had food. The only way we could've gotten the 'cue into our system any faster would've been to mainline it right into our veins. Don't think I didn't consider it.<br /><br />We finish our meals, talk a little longer, then make our way to the grocery store, the Bi-Lo to be exact.<br /><br />We get to Bi-Lo, grocery lists in hand and start shopping. <img src="http://www.r80o.com/images/pig/pigpart4.jpg" width="100" height="100" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="1" align="left">My stomach starts to bloat up rather fast. We're going from aisle to aisle, and I continue to bloat. "Odd." I think to myself as my stomach literally gets basketball sized. We keep shopping. <br /><br />Somewhere between the chips aisle and the drinks aisle I start cramping up. I pass a stockclerk and ask directions to the restroom. <span style="font-style:italic;">"In the deli."</span> the clerk tells me as she points to the far end of the store. The other side of the store, of course. I hand my list to Jon and make my way towards the restroom. I haven't reached panic stage yet, but I'm pretty close.<br /><br /><img src="http://www.r80o.com/images/pig/pigpart5.jpg" width="100" height="100" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="1" align="right">I get to the deli and politely smile as I pass the girl in the Bi-Lo uniform seated at a table. I'm in a casual, nonchalant jog to the men's room at this point.<br /><br />~~warning: do not read below this point~~<br /><br />I get to the restroom, barge in, and damn. The single stall shitter is occupied. I knock on the door just to be sure. Yep, somebody's in there.<br /><br />I walk out, all cool like, to wait my turn. <br /><br />I'm pacing. <br /><br /><img src="http://www.r80o.com/images/pig/pigpart6.jpg" width="100" height="100" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="1" align="left">By this point my toenails have broken through the rubber soles of my sandals and are now gripping into the linoleum floor of the deli. Shit sirens are now wailing in my skull. <br /><br />I have an epiphany. Women's restroom!<br /><br />I ask the girl at the table if she wouldn't <span style="font-style:italic;">"mind covering the door to the women's for me? I really gotta go."</span> <br /><br />You'll never have a sense of true humiliation until you ask a teenager to <span style="font-style:italic;">"cover"</span> for you cause you've got to take a dump. It's harsh, reeeaaaal harsh.<br /><br />So I'm in the ladies room, busy. Slinging mud and sweating bullets. I've offered up almost a half dozen "mercy flushes" when I hear the voice of a small child talking to someone who I presume is her mother outside, but coming my way. They're walking towards the restroom. MY RESTROOM!<br /><br /><img src="http://www.r80o.com/images/pig/pigpart7.jpg" width="100" height="100" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="1" align="right">Fear hits me. What if. What if the teenaged girl at the table doesn't stop her? What if the teenaged girl at the table had to go back to her job? What if the teenaged girl at the table wants a good laugh and just sits back to watch the drama unfold? The poor child will be scarred for life. The child's mother will probably think I'm some sort of women's restroom fetish driven perv and call the cops on me. All of these thoughts flash through me as I race to finish up.<br /><br />I'm zipped and scrubbed up in mere seconds.<br /><br />Thankfully the teenaged girl at the table came through for me and told the mother that the restroom was temporarily out of order ("out of order" there's an understatement).<br /><br />As I walked out I looked over at the teenaged girl at the table, waved and with all sincerity said <span style="font-style:italic;">"thanks, I really owe ya one."</span> <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"You're welcome... SIR."</span><br /><br /><img src="http://www.r80o.com/images/pig/grunt.jpg" width="500" height="381" hspace="5" vspace="5" border="1" align="cemter"><br />The pig, he tried to warn me. false Mark 2005-06-16T08:54:00-04:00 2005-06-16T14:34:57Z 2005-06-16T14:25:58Z tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5787585.post-111893195887549246 It's on.
Toothbrush? Check.
Underwear? Check.
Camera? Check.
Bourbon? Check.
---
At 11am ManTrip 2005 kicks into gear. Over the years it has become a lot less like Fight Club and a lot more like City Slickers.

It used to be a pilgrimage into the wilds of north Georgia to whitewater raft the Ocoee or Chattooga rivers (no pig squeals please). Then after rafting we were off to find the sleaziest, rankest, meanest bar in whatever county we happened to be in.
The "Pickin' Parlor" in Habersham County holds the dubious distinction of being hands down the worst and of course our all time favorite. At the Pickin' Parlor a woman with no teeth came up and asked Tom Wilson if he knew what a "wirlin' durbish" was, then asked him "hey perty boy... You wanna daince?". Also while we were there a fight broke out, the kind of fight that started to spread like a wildfire. We hit the door as soon as we heard glass breaking.

"You wanna daince?" has now become part of the ManTrip lexicon.

The whole trip was an adventure package deal.

Now the trip is less about adventure and more about experience, fellowship, and history. History among friends. It's a time when we get together and just be. There's no jockeying for positions, no ulterior motives, no upsmanships. For me it's a centering experience that reminds me that all of the day-to-day "static", in the grand scheme of things doesn't matter. That "history", that's what matters. The connection to be able to say "Remember when..." and somebody does.

Most of these friends I haven't seen since last year's trip. No worries, we'll be able to pick up where we left off, talking and laughing like we just saw each other yesterday. It really is quality time.

The last thing Leslie said to me as she kissed me goodbye this morning was "Now don't go and do anything stupid."
Huh! As If.
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