Did I mention poop yet?
This is the story of a stranger doing all of the travel planning for the final day of our vacation. And we owe it all to poop.
Quick history lesson: It all started on the second day of this blog. I wrote a post entitled Gold Nugget Economics where I espoused the commerce philosophy held by most bosses that everything they produce is a solid gold nugget and everything made by anyone else is poop.
I didn’t set out with a poop agenda on my new blog but there it was on Day Two. What can I say? It fit my economic theory perfectly. Before long the word had been used in several posts. It became a trend. Eventually it became my #1 tag. It was officially a thing.
At that point I did what anyone would do. I vowed to do whatever it took to make sure it stayed #1. Forever. And I would literally move mountains to keep that promise to my loyal reader.
Fast forward to our vacation in Seaside, Oregon this week. We rented a beach house with good friends. We were walking down the main drag. The women folk were shopping. We men were wandering, lost and bored and wondering, “Why the hell aren’t there any fucking benches in this town?” It’s almost like they didn’t want people sitting when they could be spending their money on the quintessential beach crap like fudge, salt water taffy, wind toys, plastic implements of sandcastle construction and nautical-themed nicknacks.
It was then I spied the shirt hanging in front of the cheesy t-shirt shop. “I pooped today.” Houston, we have a problem.
Two days earlier…
It was a Friday. The crew and I assembled in the aft quarters to review the weather reports. They said there was a 10% chance of rain on Saturday and a 30% chance on Sunday. We decided to depart on Sunday.
One day earlier…
On one hand it was a good decision to delay because it gave us an extra day to perform dry runs. We ran equipment checks and drills. Our first trip had caught us unprepared. I’d be damned if that was going to happen on my watch.
We took some time on Saturday and got the rigging down to a science. That last portage had almost killed us.
While the canoe was out of the garage, we decided to go home improvement on this old house. For some strange reason we were tired of dry dock consisting of the canoe precariously balanced on the refrigerator and an old bookcase.
A one-hour construction project was about to go 500 percent past deadline.
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Nothing too heavy today…
And, regarding my beloved chemical suit, I leave that to … what? Are you kidding me? None of you get that. I’m taking it with me. Bury me in it!
—The Last Will and Testament of Tom B. Taker, Chapter 1, Section A, Article 1
As most of you know, I have been busy most of the last few decades planning my wake. A wise man in a Stephen King movie once said, “Get busy living or get busy dying” and I took to that advice to heart like a leading a guru to tequila and telling him not to drink.
Of course this planning primarily took the form of picking out songs that participants (guests? attendees? celebrants? wakers? invitees? z-list celebs?) would, at least once, get to enjoy my eclectic taste in music.
I thought it was a pretty good plan. Besides, nothing pleases me more than the thought of people coming together to remember my life and having to listen to some random songs while they are left to ponder, “What the hell is this crap supposed to convey to us about Tom?” Ha ha ha! Suffer!
Then, this week, in the name of research, I attended the memorial service for a gentleman I knew and I thought to myself, “See? This is what happens when you fail to plan and allow your loved ones to pick the music on your behalf.”
Actually, I didn’t really know the man that well. He was the father of one friend and the husband of another. After attending the service I have to say I regret not knowing him better. He was a great guy, the kind who would give away the shirt off his back, always with a warm smile at the ready, and the sort who could cheer people up even when the chips were down.
I also knew him from the liquor store where he seemed friendly enough as he handed me bottle after bottle for several years before he got sick. See? We just went full circle. From tequila to the liquor store and back again. That’s what this guru calls the circle of life.
This post will document the set list that was used to send this soul on its way back home.
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Note: I was going to entitle this On The Street Where You Shiv but apparently I already used that for a different post.
I’m not sure why, but the city gave the developer permission to make the streets narrow in the subdivision where I live. How narrow? If you are an expert driver and can balance your wheels on the curbs, you’re just able to navigate a normal sized car while hovering six inches above the ground.
Perhaps I exaggerate just a skosh. I claim the right due to umbrage.
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