Obligatory Sentimental Fall Clog Post

I always get a bit anxious around this time of year.  The month of November marks the strange transition into winter (complete darkness and a lasting chill) that is punctuated by a fleeting feeling of warmth and life.  Even the trees struggle to hang on to the few glowing leaves they posses.  I am always trying to wring out every drop of life from autumn's burning life force.  Knowing that fall is merely a transitory season, how do I live in the moment?  How do I obtain that perfect state of seasonal equilibrium, wherein nothing is coming nor going.  Do I toss the jack o'lantern out the moment Halloween is and start preheating the oven for Thanksgiving, or let that rotting gourd soak into the steps on my front porch and eat stale candy on my couch while watching Nightmare on Elm Street?  I should probably calm down, because I am sure that in a month or so I will be lamenting over a dying Christmas tree.    

Thirty Years of Pete

Peter Raffin taught me how to walk.  Not literally of course, my parents are to take credit for that.  More specifically, Peter showed me how take walk as a means of taking in every bit of the world around me.
As skaters, and Peter being one of the best I know, we almost always choose to travel by four urethane wheels rather than two legs.  The skateboard is clearly a faster and more enjoyable form of transportation.  But Peter would rather walk.  He traverses the urban landscape of downtown San Jose with speed and decisiveness equal to that of cold sap rolling down a tree trunk.  And just as the sap gathers little pieces of bark and other debris along its way, Peter absorbs the city of San Jose.   
He is that chipped piece of tile at the base of those stairs.  He is the hidden patch of graffiti behind that dumpster.  Peter is not a resident of San Jose, but an organic life form melded to the infrastructure of the city.
I leave my skateboard at home and take my steps a little slower sometimes because of Pete, listen to the voices of the pavement.

 

Hallohhhhh Well I am a Little Behind on Clogging

My current emotional disposition has left me fervently vexed.  I feel obligated to fill the month of October with as many Clog posts as humanly possible, being that it is my favorite time of year.  However I cannot for the life of me find a solid foothold to begin the arduous task of climbing this mountain of blogging.  I may as well start here, and after a few miscalculations perhaps I shall tumble right back to the base of the Everest sized pile of shit writing I have stacked up.



I want to see a show of hands from those hopeless souls, drifting throw the digital tundra of the internet, who are sick of watching the superhero car flip.  This gimmicky action device has been thoughtlessly thrown into several science fiction and action films.  Most recently the superhero car flip reared its hideous Medusa head in the the television series Stranger Things, a show that certainly should hold itself to higher standards.  I am boycotting this bollocks!

Instead of turning to cheap computer generated sludge this Halloween, watch something like Nosferatu, a vampire movie made during the silent film era that remains creepy as hell to this day.  

   

Cured Meats and Skate Treats

I decided to take The Clog to Barcelona in order to gain a new perspective on pork products and skateboarding.

As promised, here is a picture containing meat.  Below is a video containing skateboarding.  Beer is also involved, as per usual. 

Coasting Through Life

 

"Ouch, that hurt, you inconsiderate asshole.  Try setting your glass down a little softer next time."
If these words sound familiar you should probably seek therapy, because they are those of your bar coaster.  That's right, the thin little piece of cardboard that works thanklessly to keep your drinking surface untarnished.  These faithful servants of the imbibing world are routinely soaked in beer, ripped to shreds by the sexually frustrated, and tossed into the waste can without so much as a thank you.  The work of a bar coaster makes being an experimental drug test subject seem enjoyable. 
That is why I have proclaimed September 23rd bar coaster appreciation day.  On this day I encourage everyone, regardless of intoxication level, to take a moment during your overindulging to praise the coaster that rests under your glass.  Give it a high five, tip your hat, or perhaps do as we Calderwoods do, and bring it home with you as a keepsake.  Just do not use your coaster as a frisbee on this most sacred of days.  Save that for tomorrow.
Side note,
Tegestology is the term used for the collecting of bar coasters, which apparently makes me a tegestologist.  I learn something new everyday.

Sensible Yoga Alternatives

"Why can't I be this flexible when I'm sober," asked Austin while stretching at the bar during one of our wiener Wednesday sessions.  His statement got the gears within my pea sized brain turning.
The average male lacks both the body contorting ability and monk like attention span needed to survive a full yoga class.  It just is not part of our genetic makeup.  But what if there was some way to loosen those muscles and relax the mind, making that downward facing dog pose not such an uncomfortable chore.  Here at The Clog we feel the solution to this problem, and most other day to day issues, is beer.  And thus drunken yoga was born.  Classes will begin August first at our Los Gatos studio.  The bring your own beer policy will be enforced, along with limitations on hard alcohol consumption.

        
In addition to helping students loosen up mentally and physically, booze may also contribute to casual hookups between males and females within the class.  We have all been enamored of that limber goddess at the other end of the yoga studio.  The one you'd love so badly to ask out for a beer, or even settle for a wheat grass shot, just to have the chance to sit down and chat with her.  But after she rolls up her mat and lets down her hair, you simply watch as her perfectly toned yoga buttocks struts off into the distance.  Well friends, those days are over.  Drunk yoga is about to change both the fitness and dating world forever.  Just make sure you do not throw up mid child's pose.

Back to the Soil

My friend is dying right across the room from me.  He won't eat, he wont drink and death is peering in through the door of the room we both share.  He rejects the water I pour for him and the crickets I feed him.  Insects that have sustained him through over two decades either wither away and die at his shaking feet, or keep me up during the night with their relentless chirping.  They are a constant reminder of the thousands of crickets I have sacrificed so that may dear lizard Mookie may eat.  I either hunt them down and kill them so that I myself may sleep undisturbed, or remain deprived of rest in hopes my reptilian friend can have one last meal.  Payback is a real mother fucker.

Shown above is Mookie's final resting place.  He is buried next to the grave of his female companion, Mocha, who died many years earlier.