Are the Aliens After our Weed?

It’s not everyday you get to witness an honest-go-goodness UFO sighting. My guess is that most people probably haven’t had the experience for themselves. The last time it happened to me was over forty years ago in the Air Force while living in the barracks at Peterson AFB. A bunch of us jumped in a car and chased down the source of that “UFO” to a low flying advertising plane with matrix light displays under the wings operating about six miles west of base towards the foot of Pikes Peak. So up til now, my only UFO sighting did get identified, thereby making it identified, and therefore moot. And that’s how I figured I’d go out of this world. My one chance at achieving crackpot “I’ve been alien probed” notoriety, nothing more than an ephemeral incident of my slightly more succulent youth.

Well I figured wrong, but in a good way. Turns out I did live long enough to see another UFO, yet (so far at least) avoid the dreaded probings. Let me expound. I was staying out in the high mountain plains with one of my host families last month, about twenty miles east of my many holdings here in the high mountain meadows. It was nearing sundown when my friend came out to Nellybelle for a late afternoon Colorado smoke session.

Out of the blue he inquires, “Have you seen the UFO’s?”

“No, but I see you Bogarting that blunt over there! Don’t try and distract me with stories of ET you cheeky bastard! You know you are in the presence of a superior skeptic!”

I thought that was the end of the conversation but my friend insisted he wasn’t bullshitting me. Been my MO to take claims of UFO sightings from dudes sitting around at sunset, toking blunts as fat as my middle finger, with more than a fair degree of skepticism.

I dropped the “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence!!” bomb on his ass like I was a WWF wrestler standing on the top of the ring, about to slam down on my off-kilter opponent. Just like on the WWF, there I was, airborne and dropping from the top rope when he rolls outta the way and I smack down hard on the mat……

“Google it” he says as I peel my face up off the canvas and try to collect my wits, all the while reminding myself, “Mama said there’ll be days like this“.

End Part One……..

Solstice Blessings

I see those around me gearing up for Christmas, doing their best to meet the cultural and commercial expectations our mamas all raised us with. I’m not unaware of the change of the soundtrack as I shop for my daily dose of chocolate milk at the local King Soopers or stroll the aisles at Wally World restocking hobo essentials. Santa-branded candy is as overpriced as a class at the late Trump University which is slightly abated by the recent heavy discounts on Bronco-branded merch. You can also pick up some heavily discounted pumpkin-spiced croutons for your salad right now if you know the right aisles to shop.

The sounds of the season and the Xmas themed end-caps at the stores were in place long before Thanksgiving eve. This is the Christian holiday snatched from the pagans and assigned as the birthday of Baby Jeebus fully re-dedicated to the American God of Retail. O’Holy Night and all that and “get your grimey ass back to Mexico” says Tucker Carlson on God’s Chosen Channel. I’m eternally and daily thankful I’m free of the cognitive dissonance required to carry water for this imaginary monster. Hippie Jeebus I could stomach.

Now what to celebrate? Are we totally screwed? Maybe for those whose imaginations need to be filled by self-righteous holy pricks imaginatively interpreting The Goat Herders Guide to the Galaxy. Somebody give these people a science book ferchrissakes.

This Rambo Jeebus, this malignant Christian Nationalist Jeebus, this “FU dirty hippes!” version of Jeebus has soured the entirety of the American religious landscape and made many realize that the true history of Baby Jeebus is as nebulous as the the position and speed of an atomic particle. At least an atomic particle leaves a reliable footprint. Though we may sometimes tire in our attempt to hang onto that which is most precious to us it’s best to maintain a firm grip on the reliable atoms in the rope than to let go and pray for a miracle against gravity, and everybody dam well knows it.

As for me? The most blessed all of the hobo heretics the high mountain meadows can muster? I’ll continue to spread honesty, cheer and happiness around me in as eager and prolific a manner as the spirits of an aging hobo and his old hobo hound can muster, fully leveraging the utility of the companionship my cute publicity-loving-pup adds to the mix. There may be some weed involved, all legally obtained and distributed under the laws of my totally utopian state. I’ll always strive to maintain as much of a positive public image as can be had from such a minimalist perch as this poverty-tainted platform will allow.. Build new friendships and try to maintain the many acquired along the happy trails.

At this most blessed of holiday seasons, I’d be remiss not to note the most serendipitous of the many hobo blessings (that coincidentally happens to make a fundamentalist Pentecostal wince hardest) is that I am living as close to the purported lifestyle of the beloved Baby Jeebus as is humanly possible in the 21st Century. That noted, I’m not nearly as incommunicado, nor has my army of a dozen female apostles completely gelled, just yet. I’m less inclined to push against those wishing to form a religion around me the older I get. It’s a feature, not a bug. Hoocoodanode?

Chalk it up to the curiosity of my nature. It’s what my mama raised me with. That, and a round Earth.

Enjoy.

HoboTalk – Episode One

Since I’ve mostly defaulted to using my YouTube channel for documenting the last several years of my life (Daily Dose of Tim), I’ve stopped blogging as much as I use to.  I’m not actually writing any less, as those who follow me on Facebook can attest.  I’m just ‘Done’ with Facebook as a platform. They’ve repeatedly shown they are incapable of handling my account and my data responsibly.  WordPress has it’s issues, but at least it hasn’t been front page news for the last couple years for trying to sell us out to the Russians and/or anybody else with ten cents to spare!  And don’t even get me started about the time they blocked me for a month for posting pornography.  I consider the added gravitas of that incident not only a resume enhancer, but also a sign of just how occupational flexible I could be in a pinch.  It’s all about finding the right angles, but I digress.

While we’re on the subject of porn I’m reminded of a cartoon porn version of Star Trek I saw about forty years ago.  One particular line of dialog is forever etched in my brain.  Doctor McCoy to Captain Kirk, “Dammit Jim, I’m a doctor not a dildo repairman!” The plot twist that led to that statement is lost to the vagaries of my galloping senility (though I lose the names still I know the faces. Time has come and left its traces.) but if I recall, it had something to do with an alien army of angry cartoon “Dickheads”.

I am extremely active on Twitter for an old hobo living in a van, tethered to the net with nothing more than spit and vinegar (whatever free public wi-fi is available),  Even with the ‘professional handicap”, I’m still heading towards a quarter million earned impressions, just in the last 28 days! 

That noted, my heart has always been in blogging and I find it more satisfying collecting up a loyal ‘blogging family” than any of the other social media options, though I’ve acquired friends through Instagram and YouTube that are very dear to me as well.  I’m trying to increase my Instagram content at the present time.  The only one I’m actively avoiding is Facebook.

My desire to do video content has waned for the moment, along with the technical means to do so.  This may change if/when I purchase a new videocam.  I’ve been lucky to produce what I have considering the highest level of tech I own is a series 5 iPhone!  This DJI product which I might be able to afford would do a bang up job for me.  It’s the Osmo Pocket seen above.  At three hundred fifty bucks it’s right at the cusp of what an old hobo might be able to manage if Nellybelle doesn’t fall out from under me in the process.  If you haven’t seen or heard about it yet, I’m pretty sure you will before long.  Here’s the skinny.

I had previously claimed success concerning the manner in which I have accommodated the changes in lifestyle made necessary by my habitation in Nellybelle, my beloved ‘classic’ 93 Dodge minivan, but now I am officially claiming total ‘success’ on my relocation project of moving back to the US from Germany.  This is not meant to imply that things couldn’t potentially still go wildly astray in my immediate future.  It’s an important life construct to be constantly wary.  The Boy Scouts call it ‘being prepared”.  It’s what my mama raised me with.

I’m several winters into #vanlife here in the high mountain meadows.  As such, I’ve become somewhat of a local celebrity/curiosity around here, elevating my otherwise lowly status well above the average homeless derelict.  It helps that I worked here in a highly visible retail position here in town for a couple years, and having built up a lot of friends and goodwill along the way.  Being frugal and living long enough to secure the most minimal of SS benefits worked out pretty well for me.  The not dying along the way was a huge part of it.  When trying to parse the elements involved in any of my myriad success stories, be they real time events or rosy historical retellings of past glories, one must NEVER overlook how much my innate fabulosity had to do with it.  I never do. You can be sure of that! LOL.

Given my recent acquisition of another rescue pup who is just as fabulous as I am, there’s every likelihood me and Sammy are going to continue kicking our own brand of high mountain magic right along down the road with us.

The many friends I’ve made here, along with all those I’m still connected with from afar (by virtue of over a decade on one form of social media or the other) are a big part of my ‘success’ here in this mountain village.  Now I’m ready to take it up to the next level in a manner consistent with proper hobo motion (slow).  Baby steps.  I could get a helluva lot more aggressive with my campaign for overnight success, but there are standards of hobo decorum that need to be considered because of my status as a role model for hopeful future hobo heretics to follow.

Did I already mention?  It’s what my mama raised me with.

Enjoy.

 

How Subtle is Racism?

I was catching up with clips from SNL last night and among the tidbits I caught was this clip of New York humor.  It’s rather ironic that it was used in a bit delivered by a Black comedian leveraging humor off the most racist and corrupt President we’ve had since the 1800’s.

After viewing the SNL piece, I’m left to wonder if he really has a cousin named Tasha.

I’m also left to wonder if he realizes that the sorry state of masculinity and fatherhoodlessness in the Black community is a direct byproduct of the war on drugs and the destruction of what were once very stable Black neighborhoods in my early youth, and that by perpetuating an image of intentional familial recklessness on the part of both male and female Black couples he’s earning a racist paycheck whether he knows it or not.  That’s just how one White guy who happened to graduate from Jackson State University sees it anyway.

I’ve always said that if you’re going to present racist stereotype humor, it’s best delivered by a member of the minority being caricatured.  Kim Wade, Mississippi’s favorite Black Christian Nationalist, exists mainly for the purpose of having a local Black guy bash on other Black people.  It’s the way you get past the most blatant and obvious of the racism at the juicy center that even a semi-respectable right wing broadcaster couldn’t get away with back when I worked with him on-air.

These days the Christian Nationalists aren’t as beholden to the Black dog whistlers because they’ve abandoned dog whistling in lieu of Proud Boy marches and bullhorns.  I don’t think the comedian delivering these lines is in any way comparable to someone as hideously macabre as Kim Wade, but at the end of the day, I’ve got to call these things out when I see them based on my special sensitivity and expertise in the matter.

Contrary opinions will be scrutinized and mocked accordingly.

#hoboheretic  Enjoy.

The Ugly T(r)ooth of US Dentistry

It was Saturday night when I realized that my ongoing attempts to delay a much needed visit to the dentist were not going to be operative moving forward.  Suffice to say that the amount of misery that unceremoniously struck me that evening was a rude reminder of the degree of pain that one’s own body can inflict upon itself under the right/wrong conditions.  It’s as if Providence decided right there Saturday night, that it was time for my physical suffering to match that of the emotional pain I’m dealing with watching Trump trying to turn the United States into his own little Banana Republic.  But I digress…

Saturday night was fitful, with periods of semi-peace interrupted by brief sufferings mimicking nothing short of Medieval torture, but Sunday had me waking relatively pain free, figuring I could probably hold out til Monday when surely there’d be more dental options.  I can’t speak for everybody in America, but there are more than a few of us with a disdain for dentists so ingrained that a little Medieval torture seems like a fair trade off to avoid them.  Besides, I’d already made arrangements with Thomas, an old coworker friend of mine from 7-11, for an early Sunday round of Disc Golf, though that was before I knew that Saturday evening was going to be a challenging nightmare from Hell.  I mentioned my issue with tooth pain to Thomas when confirming our plans to meet at Poudre Middle School on Sunday morning and he offered and brought me a tube of OraGel which I applied lavishly upon his arrival.

We leisurely walked several rounds of nine hole disc golf in the cool breeze of the high mountain meadows morning.  In the ensuing Battle Royale, I was soundly thrashed beyond all hope and recognition as Thomas put on a disc golf show he’d previously been hiding, presumably up his ass somewhere.  I think he was taking out his frustration and aggravation on somebody smashing his car door with their foot, leaving both a huge dent and a matching dusty shoe print in the process.  Normally I could use such distractions to my advantage but I was a bit wrung out from the night’s torture sessions and didn’t really feel like inflicting the extra emotional carnage on Thomas that he’s come to expect from me.  Next time I’ll have to double up on the distracting old guy rants if I want to have any chance of upending these youngish middle-aged sport sharks.  Be assured, he took no mercy on me whatsoever during the round.  I’d have preferred to win but not having done so is no reason to denigrate the good time we had.

In what had to be one of the most awkward goodbyes in the Hipster Era, Thomas left me simultaneously writhing in pain, and wishing him a good day from my cot in Nellybelle because ‘the pain’ decided to go Level 10 at that moment and I was hopeless against it.

It was Thomas who mentioned Comfort Dental in Loveland, informing me that they accept my government dental benefits.  Thomas is close enough to being poor I knew he’d have advice on poor people health and dental care options.  I zeroed in on the Comfort Dental in Loveland near the Walmart at 57th and 287 for first thing Monday morning.  End Part One.

#hoboheretic  Enjoy.