humor Archives - wook wranglers

Dispatches from the Quarter

jason — Mon, 18 Mar 2024 18:06:50 +0000

Once more, Emma Jay for the win! Again the friend and wook queen, la reina bohiemea, Lucienda needed when the chips were down. Passing along the skinny on where to park, free and extended, in the bowels of the French Quarter, New Orleans. This was usually privileged “local” information and invaluable when it came to car camping, for the duration of her work vacation in the middle of town. What’s a wook to do? She was was here to make money and the hotel was just not in the budget. She owed almost two-thousand to her luthier for the repair on Ferdy’s guitar and he’d already made it clear that he’d “been patient”. The doomsday clock was ticking. She needed money and some of it was surely in New Orleans. It’s time to strike when the hustle is on? Hold on tight to your dream.

Of course she was still living in the front seat of the Oldsmobuick but this was nothing knew. It had come down to choices, mostly bad ones and while she’d certainly made her bed, she was now crumpled up in the front seat of the car, missing hers. The chickens had come home to roost. When it came to work destinations the last few years, she’d used this vehicle surgically, finding her way into the heart of the city, only to disappear into the sea of soccer moms and street cleaners. Now she was buried deep the heart of New Orleans, nestled inside a constant hum of activity and potential. Laissez les bons temps rouler. Throw me something mister. For Lent, she’d given up self-control and guilt. Thanks to Pig Out BBQ and The Saddle Bar for welcoming the wranglers into their house. Relax. This is “Sans Souci”. Dispatches from the Quarter.

New Orleans Azaleas. photo by jnail, 2024.

Things were going finer than frog’s hair as she’d found her parking/living spot a few blocks from one of the several dive bars open twenty-four hours. Except for a few errant drunks falling into the hood and someone crashing into the front bumper, amidst a hasty parallel parking exit, things were coming up roses. She had it better than most hippies on the block just because she could sleep in the wagon, as borderline miserable as it was, it was better than the sidewalk. Everywhere she looked, people were falling down drunk. If her vehicle was going to break down, this was as good a place as any. Sure, everyone knew about Sarah Fortier and her ground glitter, (the dirt/moss blend that could be found in her hair at Suwannee), but here in the womb of the French Quarter they had something called gutter glitter and while she wasn’t sure what it was, she knew she’d worn the scent.

Rib plate at Pig Out BBQ, New Orleans, jnail 2024.

Lucy understood there wouldn’t be enough days or money to get to all of the food she wanted to embrace. Red beans and rice, shrimp po boys, etouffee, gumbo filé. It was Mexican Monday in Boone but how could she eat that here with all the Creole fare? By the time it was over, she would alone, consume a metric ton of beignets. Relax Mr. stage manager, I can assure you this is powdered sugar all over me. The Veux Carre was alive with all manner of tourists, homeless, hustlers and an army of patrons waiting to take the order. For days, she’d been planning on taking a shower at the nearest truck stop but life and continued questionable choices had kept that from happening…and things were going south. She was definitely dirty but it didn’t appear as if anyone else noticed. She wondered if she smelled like a goat and was just unaware. Wherever she went, a swarm of fruit flies circled her vaginal area. Occasionally she would “wipe up” in a restroom or anoint herself with groundscored medicated powder from Hulaween and Dollar Tree deodorant. Indeed, these were the times to be thrifty.

The Saddle Bar looking toward Bourbon St. New Orleans. j.nail, 2024.

There were always lots of people carrying guitars in this town. And how is it homeless folks always run with dogs? That seems like a expensive hassle. She definitely understood the idea of companionship but dogs, like kids, women and potted plants required attention and money. She always felt like a noob when it came to the ways of the street. How savage could she be when she’d never even hopped a train?

As usual, Lucy was making money just about as fast as it took to spend it. But she was on the skreets and it took money to make money. And it took money to buy oysters and draft beer but from 2-5pm daily the Desire Bar made it easy. Just take it all.

She was close to the edge and for a while she considered busking. After watching how much the hippies made panhandling in Boone, she figured a few hours of busking would hopefully pay for some cheap whiskey and absinthe. But the truth was, almost every back in town appeared to be hauling a guitar. She stayed on the hustle, working when she could and exploring the Quarter when she was loose.

Go Navy. The Saddle Bar, New Orleans. Photo by j.nail 2024

What kind of establishment makes deals with the wranglers? Innovators to be sure. Merchandise for promotional consideration? Networking had replaced traditional commercials and now they were presented as friends to the audience. The worm had finally turned for Lucy.

The Saddle Bar. 715 Bienville St.: With 2 stories of country fun, Saddle Bar is located in New Orlean’s French Quarter, just 60 paces from Bourbon St. With our upscale downstairs bar serving up classic favorites and premium whiskeys, have a seat in the special VIP area, or hang out on the dance floor while the DJ churns up country gold on the speakers! Venture upstairs to play games, visit our rustic bar, check out the extra-large balcony or Ride Randy, the biggest cock in New Orleans! Like a mechanical bull, but it’s a #bigassrooster.

Pig Out BBQ. 537 Toulouse St. (504) 224-2434. Fall off the bone ribs, duck and andouille gumbo was the bill of fare. Served up with slaw, smokin’ macaroni and cheese, pickled vegetables and more duck gumbo? Christ on a popsicle stick, things were finally going Lucienda’s way. This would be a regular stop on all her future trips to the Crescent City. Right down the street from Molly’s and Toulouse Dive Bar, two of her favorite night spots. Like their Instagram page and let Johnathan take care of you the next time you’re in town.

Her mother had warned her about visiting New Orleans. She received all of national information from Fox News so to listen to her explain it, all major cities were rearing from unchecked and rampant waves of criminals, homeless folks and immigrants and a very real combination of all three. Lucy, once again, did not find the hyperbole to be true. #fearmongers?

Usually when one actually visits these locales, the threat is very much exaggerated and otherwise unfounded. And naturally, like any other place, there are hard areas of town, neighborhoods best avoided. Don’t believe the fear-mongers. Don’t support the war-mongers. Hang out with fishmongers.

Monger in fish, not fear.

Enter Welmon Sharlhorn, New Orleans artist with works hanging in the Smithsonian, Collection de l’Art Brut, and the American Visionary Art Museum. Wrongfully imprisoned in Angola for twenty-six years, it was there he honed his skills at ink art. He and Lucy visited several times at Igor’s, where he imparted his amazing story. Visit this article from Prospect New Orleans for more information.

By the time it was all over she just about broke even, ending up about where she started. Her guitar was still sitting in Salesury, North Carolina but she she still had a few hustles in mind. The hard weather had broken and the irises and morels were close to popping up. It was time to head back to the high country.

Welmon Sharlhorn, New Orleans. j.nail 2024.

Ratonita Frita and Gutter Glitter. She’d seen about half a dozen mice in the last twenty-four hours. The first was in a trap in the kitchen of the Marriot. “Someone should get rid of that”, he said to no one in particular but no one gave any indication of hearing her or much less caring. She saw the rest after the all-night downpour. Two had been drowned, washed out from their gutters and the rest were noticed scurrying from overturned garbage cans. At five am she was headed back to Check Point Charlies. At the early hour, the mice seemed to exhibit a pronounced and eerily aggressive posture.

She was sitting in the bar at about 9am when the bartender broke out the Red Rider BB gun. His quary, a medium-sized mouse edging across the brass railing above the beer taps. Time froze as he proceeded to take aim and plug the varmint midsection. Nary a sound could be heard as the patrons watched the beast fall into the vat of hot grease below. The television broadcast “Invasion of the Bee Girls” as the bartender walked past the bubbling vermin and carefully hung up the wooden sign. “Kitchen Closed”.

Follow the wranglers as we roll south to the Florida spring festival season already under way with Suwannee Spring Reunion and a slew of furry, forest animals in Live Oak. Check out the schedule here. Look for the Kamp Happiness Wook Trap at your next feral adventure. namaste y’all.

And now you know the rest of the story.

The post Dispatches from the Quarter appeared first on wook wranglers.

The Summer Mountain Festival Lyme Disease Tour

jason — Tue, 06 Jul 2021 16:16:00 +0000

Molly and Lila had found their way back to the high country of Virginia and the prolonged pleasure that came with its perfect summers. Once again in the womb of the Shawsvegas Mafia they’d been tasked with following the pulse of the summer festival circuit through the mountains of Clayopheus III The Ludicrous and those of his ilk. It’s the land of ticks and cicadas. Welcome to the The Summer Mountain Festival Lyme Disease Tour “21. Don’t overthink it.

Other than a few moderate wrinkles the road was mostly going as planned. It was an ambitious plan but the Oldsmowagon was still moving forward even if all the warning lights looked like the dashboard of a space shuttle. Lila mused that if her body came with warning lights, they would certainly be blinking. But they were moving too fast and loose to get bogged down in classic themes such as caution and responsibility. It had already been a Florida spring festival season straight from the forgotten pages of the lost scrolls. Kamp Happiness had represented at Maddox Ranch Medicine Show, Spring Fling, Suwannee Rising, Orange Blossom Jamboree and lord knows the stink from Fool’s Engagement wasn’t going to come off for some time. Molly was pretty sure somewhere in there she lost third grade.

They ended up in south Florida ready to get real jobs for a change. The coffers were empty and all the music equipment was still in Boone. Where would they land? Whether bartenders, tour guides or flesh merchants, it really didn’t matter. To Lucy it all sounded pretty crappy. It looked like they were really ready to go straight, work fifty hours a week for a $600 room in someone else’s place and still be broke. While that sounded like solid thinking for a change Fort Myers just wasn’t ready to cooperate and after a balmy and extended spring it was finally starting to get warm in the tropics. Sleeping on the couch of the last angry cellist and admitted toad killer, Lucy was getting antsy and not interested in a real job anyway. She would soon be turning fifty and and as she saw it, her hardest days of hustling for the man were behind her.

As the wells were drying up on Fort Myers Beach the hard truth remained that the very next weekend they had two media tickets to Mountain Music Festival in New River George, WV and that was impossible to ignore. Sometimes the pulp just writes itself. It seemed prudent to load Big Betty into the passenger seat of the Oldsmowagon and set off in search of Appalachian adventure with Brood X.. The weather would be reasonable in the mountains this time of year and eventually they were hoping to get seasonal in the right direction.

Pigeons Playing PIng Pong, Mountain Music Festival 2021: photo by Lucienda Rosalita

Bell’s Palsy is no excuse for bad behavior.

After the Mountain Music Festival in West Virginia, which could only be described as an O-ring blow out, they headed straight down 311 to Field and Furrow Farms in New Castle, VA with its the lightning bugs and frog ponds high in the Appalachian Mountains. Their organic vegetable gardens and mobile chicken coop would offer safe haven and a place to paint rocks while they licked their wounds. Lucy’s mother, who’d been concerned with her ability to shower on the road would be fascinated to find that now they were working strictly with creek baths and hippy shampoo.

The Cascades National Recreation Trail: photo by Lucienda Rosalita 2021

On the banks of Craig’s Creek, New Castle is a a rural hamlet on the Virginia-West Virginia border. With three cops (one trooper, one county and one city) two restaurants and zero bars, save for the Moose Lodge ten miles away which Bucket was seriously considering joining, they figured it was a good place to lay low. Lucy was still sipping off Emmitt’s Gummy Bear moonshine and had managed to procure a little Virginia weed, which was supposedly going to be legal in that state as of July 1st but supplies were ever dwindling and rationing had become necessary.

Summer is the season to build stages, clear brush and drink rum. Bri the hillbilly princess, drove the party down to Spirit Haven where they helped build the new main stage at Front Porch Fest. Molly was under the impression that a little volunteer time would get her in the line-up the following year. They were both very excited to see Katie’s Butthole and its potential was obvious. People were still working at Floydfest almost every weekend, getting ready for that party later in the month. It was all coming together. The summer festival season in Virginia is interactive and completely time consuming. Molly couldn’t understand how people could have real jobs and live the summer festival season. Virginia is for thugs. Like a freight train of stinking funky fun steaming straight into the middle of the brain hole. Splooshness.

The Ladies, Field and Furrow Farms 2021: photo by Lucienda Rosalita

Their next stop on the tour was to be Red Wing Roots Festival. They hadn’t been picked up for media so they weren’t yet sure how they were going to get in. It had been a while since either had to pay for a festival ticket and as usual neither of them had any money. But how now brown cow? Tamiami’s solution had always been to wear a tool belt and carry a clipboard and of course neither of them were above crawling in through the woods but these were serious times, festivals needed all the help they could get and Lila really didn’t have the energy for those kinds of childish shenanigans. Besides she still had scars on her leg from sneaking into Lockn’.

Were they going to have to volunteer? Like common street thugs? Ye screaming Gods it might end up like Hulaween and fighting off diarrhea Monday morning while sifting through soggy trash bins for aluminum cans. This time it would have to be better. “Oh don’t worry” they said, “You’ll both get to work under the Pickle.” Whatever the hell that meant. Molly had been in desperate foxholes with creatures like him before and knew better than to trust the words of a deranged man-beast. In the long run, everything was going to be lemon squeezy. Unlike many, Lucy was able to work effectively and comfortably within the framework of the traditional acid high. Promoters often provided her with a daily ration just to keep her at an “even-keel”.

Main stage construction, Spirithaven June 2021

Follow Molly, Lila and the wranglers as they drive the Kamp Happiness conestoga wagon broke and blind through the Virginia mountains in search of epic adventure; music and fun. Red Wing Roots awaits, with Floydfest just around the corner. And next month it doesn’t get any easier. Summer Camp and Mi Kulture straight into Backwoods. Oh the humanity. Molly’s advice, “Skip the job interview and spend the day at Cascades Fall Trailhead.”

Check out the Backwoods at Mulberry Mountain preview article and revisit the inane gibberish of Mountain Music Festival. Lyme disease is no excuse for bad behavior.

“Walk before they make you run”, Keith Richards

The post The Summer Mountain Festival Lyme Disease Tour appeared first on wook wranglers.

Covid-19 and the Eradication of Wook Flu

jason — Thu, 25 Jun 2020 16:28:48 +0000

Lucienda Rosalita continued to receive alarm notices on her phone that she was missing canceled music festivals. Recently it was Roosterwalk and Backwoods with many others continuing to pop up weekly. It was a brutal reminder of the present state of things and in her words, “a total drag”. The stark reality was a summer without festivals and its effect would be lingering. Where would it all end? As she lay in the North Carolina sun she dreamed of muddy feet, cuddle puddles and cold chicken bones.

In 2019 the virus known as “wook flu” accounted for over forty-percent of all post-festival illnesses. Just one year later the cancellation of all festivals and subsequent quarantine due to Covid-19 pandemic have impacted the host population in such a way it appears as if there may be a connection between Covid-19 and the eradication of wook flu.

The arrival of the respiratory virus Covid-19 resulted in the economic shut down of all non-essential businesses and subsequent global quarantine and isolation measures. With all of the festivals canceled there would be no more festival conditions which at times can be downright “sporting”. This season would offer decidedly different tones. Rather than stomping through a flooded restroom barefoot, folks would be out hiking and working around the house. Daily showers and healthy eating habits have taken the place of ground glitter and expired narcotics.

How was the wook flu spread?

Surrounded by friends and music, dust and pollen, first, second and third-hand smoke turning your lungs into a chemical toilet, it’s a cornucopia of germs. If the big blow comes through, add mud, mold, grass, weeds and other allergens to the festival colada. It’s a lack of sleep and nutrition with singing, screaming, shouting and dehydration. It’s about not showering, sleeping on the ground and serving as a garbage can for drugs, dumplings and sexual partners.

It’s Tuesday after the festival and you’ve been hit by a case of the wook flu. Hopefully you have a warm place to rest. When 700+ thread count isn’t available it’s good to remember that overnight camping is allowed at rest stops in Mississippi. Typical symptoms are similar to that of the common cold. Headaches, sore throat, aches and pains can be expected along with the normal and acceptable losses of serotonin.

Naturally the best treatment includes rest, hydration, NyQuil and old movies.

Check out some of these compelling responses from our latest Action Florida reader’s poll.

“What do you think are the main causes of the wook flu?”

“It’s the dust. Cars and people going through it all day. I’ve got nose goblins for miles. Everybody’s wearing masks. And the campfire smoke. Everywhere I move it followed me all weekend.” It’s a conspiracy I tell you. Are you recording this?” E.E. ,Cape Canaveral

“Lord knows I’m a screamer. From the time I pop out of my tent until I drop from exhaustion you can expect to hear my cackle. Naturally it can only last so long at that rate of energy transfer. The brightest stars burn half as long. That’s why I’m usually hoarse by Saturday night at the latest. Remember, hydration is necessary for proper cell function.” Sunshine, Cape Canaveral

“Me personally, I pretty much stay awake for three days. I do all the drugs I can. I don’t really get sick afterward. Occasionally I have to pee out of the tent screen but other than that I reckon I”m just a machine.” J.M., Deland

“The government purposely released the wook flu from a facility in Denver, CO and is working with the WHO and the Gates Foundation in the hopes of inoculating every hippy on the planet.” Baitbucket, Ft. Myers

“Wook flu? It’s all Steve Little’s fault. Do your research. And play some Jack Johnson.” K.E., Orlando

“There is no wook flu, there is only Zuul.” Shrimphead, Estero Island

“What Shrimphead said.”, T.O.. Falkenburg Road Jail

“Shrimphead is the keymaster!”, V.C., Banyan Bungalow

Many are asking, “How is this happening?”

Pedialyte and Gouda Boys replaced by Thai soup and kale.

Unbelievably connected marathons of time awake replaced by concurrent nights of good sleep in a soft bed.

Psilocybin mushrooms replaced by shitake mushrooms.

Spagettio’s and cigarettes replaced by salads and cigarettes.

Cheap whiskey replaced by less cheap whiskey.

Cheyenne is combing out her dreads.

Sweating in the pit replaced by sweating on the disc golf course.

Walking to find firewood rather than using the ADA transport vehicle.

Yes wook flu, your seed has fallen upon stony rock and shall find no purchase.

Where is the ringworm? Donde esta la tina?

These feet are clean. The fingernails are polished and straight, save a little topsoil from spring planting. In the absence of screaming mad throngs of festival beasts, the wook flu has nowhere to go. Come ye forth and be healed. All is beautiful and right with the world.

But beware. While the wook flu may appear to be eradicated, it lingers. From the rivers of North Florida to the rolling hills of Virginia. It lurks still. Quietly buried like a seventeen-year cicada waiting for the right moment to burst forth, where it stalks the perfect festivarian. Five days deep, a tattered and torn wreck of sorts, covered in bruises and leftover ground glitter. Still hoarse and shaking off the internal bleeding and transcendental stretch marks. Something wicked this way comes. It’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon.

Our season of virtual festivals continues with Suwannee Rising Memories: Virtual Festival Scrapbook. Thanks for following the wook wranglers and nailtravels family of platforms. Visit our pages on Instagram, Pinterest and Facebook. Are you not influenced?

Epilogue:

Lucienda considered the state of things and tried to find the silver lining. She knew all this had been good for the forests and fields. The festival hiatus would continue to give the flora and fauna a chance to reclaim and burst ever forth. From Horning’s Hideout to Infinity Downs the terra would be ready when comes the time of the stomp and twirl. She would also be ready when the word came down from on high. Ready to roll. Ready to get down and get it all the way on.

Oh yes. She would be ready.

The post Covid-19 and the Eradication of Wook Flu appeared first on wook wranglers.

Captain’s Log: Grouse Hunting On the Quinault Nation

jason — Thu, 27 Feb 2020 16:15:41 +0000

“Perhaps it is because you are an estv hvtke, a white devil and a savage, and that is why you do not understand.” -Thunderbird

Day 1. 9:12 am—Aberdeen. Our portage begins north from the banks of the muddy Wiskah, toward the thick fog of the Olympic Peninsula and beyond. This shadowed land is steeped in fantastic mystery, where almost mythical creatures lurk unseen from the prying eyes of man. Hambone’s bipolar jack-ass of a navigator, Luke Skywalker has been a huge part of this endeavor’s problems from the beginning. He would tell stories of trappers and travelers who would lose their way in the Olympic Forest and emerge weeks later, barely alive, just raggedy men wearing tatters and strips, looking for nothing more than a warm cup of bourbon. Probably lies. The first or true people still hold many of the keys to this unending expanse, layered with dense forest, rocky beaches, and flowered prairies that look like something out of Rivendale. Between the hundreds of miles of Indian land and government protected areas, 90% of the Olympic Forest has been set aside for folks to do as they want. Except don’t pee in the river. That’s not on the list.

Day 1. 10:17 am—Aberdeen. The air is growing thick and heavy. It can be felt everywhere. The tree trunks are getting bigger…Closer together and no one, not even the red savage knows what kind they are. Everything is beginning to look alike. All is wet and covered with moss but it isn’t raining. Bald eagles and banana slugs are everywhere.

PLACES TO CAMP NEAR LAKE QUINAULT:

Day 2. 11:31 am—Olympic Peninsula: Somewhere toward the south end of the Quinault Nation Hambone pulled over to speak with a homeless looking man standing on the side of the road. After they spoke for a moment Bone directed the man to jump in our wagon rather than with he and Luke, considering their vehicle was over-packed with contraband moonshine and skate boards. The Indian’s name was Thunderbird and he was trying to get home to a little Indian village known as Queets. As he clamored into Lucy’s seat she growled, “That figures. Trade me in for a godless savage. Keep it up”, she dared. “I’m just about ready to split this whole scene.” and moved toward the rear.

“She broke my heart.” the old Indian mumbled. “I’m a three-time loser.”

“Those are salmon berries. They’re not ready yet for another month. We call the moss, mossy-moss. The jacket you’re wearing is an “old shaggy”. Wait for October, then there will be mushrooms everywhere. Morel, chanterelle, slimy spike cap and lobster mushrooms. And we eat the grouse. Brown grouse is white meat and blue grouse is dark meat. I’m an alcoholic, but I have my own house. Two-floors and four bedrooms. You can stay there tonight. Don’t worry about my brother. He’s a loser but he’s harmless.”

I commented on the size and untamed beauty of the Quinault Reservation. Thunderbird shot back, “It’s a Nation, not a reservation! We are the people and this is the Nation. She broke my heart.”

Still searching for concrete answers, I noted, “We have Indians in Florida who say they are the People also, but their land got taken. They seem to have worked it out in casinos. Maybe no one wants your land because it’s cold and wet all the time. You guys don’t have casinos, I suppose.”

“We do. In Vietnam, we would clear fields after they would drop napalm. We could clear a square four hundred yards in six hours. Let’s go to the big totem pole that I carved with my cousin. Biggest one in the northwest. First, let’s buy get some beer. My cousin works in the store. Get the one with the blue can.”

We took the dirt trail north of the Indian village and the sacred burial ground at the mouth of the Quinault River. It wasn’t long before we met some of Thunderbird’s cousins parked in the middle of the trail, leaning against their rusted Bronco and welding large automatic weapons. They were pleased to see Tbird and we all compared and exchanged weapons on the side of the road.

nailtravels is sponsoring a knock-down, drag out, downtown Birmingham, stick ball match between the Quinault Nation of Washington and the Seminole Tribe of Florida for the right to be called the last of the “unconquered”.

Day 3: 6:12 am Quinault Nation, Queets: We woke up on a cracked leather couch, Lucy sleeping between my legs, in what appeared to be a huge garage, full of refrigeration equipment and assorted schmada. Thunderbird was sitting nearby, in an old reclining chair. His stare prompted me to turn back over and go to sleep for a little while longer. This storage space plus couch, recliners and television, was attached to a two-story home which had seen better days. Like most of the houses in this neighborhood, it had been run down by time and neglect, much like Thunderbird. Queets is the governing hub of the Quinault Nation. There are no public facilities and technically, the land is off-limits to the white devil, but no one really cares what’s going on anyway. The surrounding beach and rain forest is private and undisturbed. Lucy found countless pieces of quality stones and driftwood, but all of Washington is like that.

Day 4: 6:12 am Quinault Nation, Queets: Apparently, Luke Skywalker done went and got hisself lost last night. As the dead phone begins to drink enough juice and beep alive, I’m already receiving screaming text messages from Thatcher as he tries to figure out how I lost his precious. I knew this was coming. The first step is always blame. If we don’t find this dog, the man is going to come absolutely unteathered. He and his dog have shared the cab of that truck for several long drives across the country. You might say they’ve carried their hundred sacks of flour for each other, but when those toothless Indians on the side of the road started giggling and talking about eating the pit bull, Thatcher discounted their threats as playful mischief. Not me.

Day 4. 5:25 pm Graves Creek Campground: Just south of the town of Amanda Park and Lake Quinault, head east on South Shore Rd and the unpaved, Graves Creek Rd. This leads to the spacious campsites on the banks of the Quinault River. With nearby trail head access to Enchanted Valley, these sites are first-come, first-served and $20 per night. There are restrooms and each site comes with a picnic table and fire pit. This is the most beautiful campsite we have visited so far on this entire venture. This isn’t Colorado. No one cares if you have a fire all day while it burns the old growth cedar that lies splintered on the side of the road. The smell of smoked cedar. Not too shabby. It’s better than wet dog, and speaking of that, Luke Skywalker finally showed up after walking all night down the Indian road. He was worn out and had walked his pads off. We were all just glad we didn’t have to watch Hambone cry.
Day 4. 7:30 pm Quinault Rainforest: After deciding he’d had quite enough and obviously wasn’t going to be fed any time soon, Thunderbird, growled once more about the missed opportunity with the grouse and demanded to be taken home. At this point, Lucy walked up to the Indian and slapped him brazenly across his bristly, wrinkled face. We loaded Thunderbird up and took him as far as the Quinault Rainforest before kicking him out of the A.W. right into the dirt road in the middle of a Panama power slide. “Perhaps it is because you are an estv hvtke, a white devil and a savage, and that is why you do not understand.” As we peeled away in the dry gravel, Lucy dangled his bag of elk meat out the rear window and left him standing in a cloud of white dust .

Day 7. 12:20 pm Moclips— We saw the first grouse not far from the beach. As it stepped out of the tall grass on the side of the dirt road, the old Indian froze. It looked blue, which meant dark meat. He grabbed my left shoulder and shouted in a in a whisper, “Shoot it! Shoot it! I was already fingering the pistol in my front pocket in case the Indian got any friskier. I opened the door and leaned out to take aim. As the shot rang, high-left, the bird jumped and scampered safely back into the brambles. The old man had already been muttering all day that he was hungry, as if I was somehow responsible for his situation or had any money whatsoever. “Once we get to the campground, I’ll get a fire started and make us some dinner”, I reminded him once again. He grumbled back, “If you hadn’t missed the grouse, we’d have supper.”
Day 7. 2:34 pm Tahola–Thunderbird decided it would be best if he manned the wheel while I worked the pistol. As we continued north through the Olympic Peninsula, the road became more narrow with salmon berry bushes and vines. The immense fir trees began to black out the sun. For a reasons yet unknown, the old Indian floored the vehicle in reverse on the tight trail and shot backwards at high speed. Some kind of thick vine wrapped itself around the passenger side mirror and sheared it completely from the vehicle. Like a girl, I screamed for him to stop the car so I could retrieve the busted plastic, not that it would do any good. It wouldn’t be easy driving back to Florida without seeing out the passenger side or the rear view mirror. Thunderbird suggested we use super glue to adhere the mirror back onto the car. I figured if that didn’t work, we could use duct tape. It wouldn’t look good but we passed that point long ago. Without completely understanding what had just happened, no one yet realized that nailtravels had just adopted a new crew member. It would be another in a long line of questionable leadership decisions.

Day 7. 6:24 pm Amanda Park—While tracking a herd of Roosevelt Elk, Lucy picked up the scent of another grouse just south of Lake Quinault. The 22 pistol is traditionally not a bird hunting weapon, but these things really let us get close to them. So close in fact, that as we followed her into the brush, she turned and demonstrated some kind of fluffed-up defensive posture. She was certainly close enough to shoot until we realized she was surrounded by a several fluffy little grouse balls. The grouslings barked at us along with their mother and both Lucy and I decided it was more charitable to allow them safe passage.

Quinault Internet Cafe

Graves Creek isn’t used for anything bur water. No one is rafting down it like the the Arkansas in Salida. No dogs or bikes are allowed on these trails. Lucy has been known to growl at passing hikers. Sometimes it’s a wonder why we keep her around when she makes us all look bad. We can’t even wash her in the river. And there’s no peeing in the river. No washing of the socks in the river. No washing of the dishes in the river. This is really serious, non-invasive camping.

Day 7. 6:24 pm Amanda Park—We’re out of sugar and honey and melted marshmallows have begun serving as a substitute. Thunderbird managed to get a lift home, but turned around at Queets and hitched another one right back to our camp. We both began using the rocks in the river as target practice and there was a newfound confidence that we would still be eating grouse cooked over a campfire.

Internet and amenities–The Quinault Internet Cafe is in Amanda Park and serves as a place to get online, grab a burger, or enjoy a hot cup of joe while you play the piano. Tell Ros that nailtravels sent you and she will surely steer you right. The closest place to wash clothes or get a shower is at the Lake Quinault Lodge on the way to Graves Creek. It’s close to where the road becomes dirt so keep a keen eye for crossing grouse.

Day 8. 2:30 pm Free Camping–if you are dragging around a vehicle, free camping can prove to be a chore. Graves Creek is the only place to park and it’s not free. Campers can be seen pulling their vehicles off the road and camping right on the creek. It’s not very private and the dust from the passing cars is non-stop. We found a long, private driveway that led to a secluded spot, perfect for our needs. The campsite overlooks the entire river valley with not a soul anywhere around, save for elk on the next mountain.

Be sure to take a gander at the East Nashville Hot Fried Chicken recipe that one second place way up north in Tennessee.

Day 9. Experimentation with Marshmallows—Our days are pretty scheduled in the Quinault Rain Forest. Lucy and I are hammock sleeping under a canopy of spruce. We get up around sunrise and go for a hike through one of the nearby rain forest trails, hunting grouse and elk. After that, we head to the Quinault Internet Cafe to hang out with Bo and Ros for a few hours of inside time and then it’s all woods all day. The afternoon is filled with exploring the forest and hauling firewood. Each evening, while whittling cedar sticks we experiment with marshmallows and assorted fixins. After experimenting with combinations of peanut butter, honey, strawberry jam, and apple butter, the verdict is in; they are all delicious and work perfectly well mixed together.

Stay tuned to nailtravels as we continue to hemorrhage money as we head south to Oregon for adventures at Saddle Mountain, Salem (thug central) and perhaps the best festival of the summer at North West String Summit.

origininally posted August 23, 2017

The post Captain’s Log: Grouse Hunting On the Quinault Nation appeared first on wook wranglers.

Dead Cats and Voodoo on the Mississippi River

jason — Tue, 04 Feb 2020 15:33:36 +0000

“And they shall eat the meat of a cat. And of his bones. They would be the feast”

Book of Sorrows

Don’t pick a fight with a Mardi Gras float.

He was still locked in the bathroom grinding his dentures down with a drimel. They were painfully over sized due to the fact they had belonged to someone else as recently as yesterday. That guy certainly wouldn’t need teeth where he was going. Even the laminate faux wood paneling begin to smell like burnt bone. Burnt pig bone. Like the grinding of metal-on-metal gears gone far too long without the save of some lubricating salve. The grinding may just go on forever but there’s always a way back. El zono finale has a rocky reputation.

He promised himself if could just find his dead cat and get out of New Orleans with a shred of what he used to call his mind, it would be the straight and narrow from here on out. From now on, the choices that lay ahead would be attacked with a furtive drive reminiscent of a more noble and stoic figure, like Thomas Jackson.

Another lost cat? There’s no way that’s a real thing. Full tilt Watusi boogie of the second Def-Con, to be sure. The last real tragedy was Lucky, who after mixing Ketamine and sawdust, threw himself into the Holiday Inn La Concha incinerator. Sometimes bad things happen to bad cats.

Around Bienville St. Frito saw Doornail entering a side door with a with a crate full of stolen Mardi Gras beads. Long ago, the crooked sign used to read “The Low Hanging Fruit” but most of the milkleaf had faded. Luke saw him huddled in the corner, suppin on a dusty bottle of Butterfly absinthe and watching Baylor and Texas play girls softball in the afternoon shadows. Predictably, as the sun dropped in the sky the bits of shouting and profanity increased and after one unforgiving rant he was ejected from the tavern only to be seen stumbling from the curb into a mud hole slotted between broken cobblestones. At this point, all signs pointed to Madame Francis. He wouldn’t be able to go much longer without one of her Le Omelets Dauphine.

Known as an absynth drownery, Jean Lafitte’s has been a, “Muse”eum of sorts since way back. Thatcher Owen Mullins has always been a big fan of the, “Synthdriver”, an imaginary cocktail featuring absinthe, eye of newt, powdered bat wing, and the juice of virgin oranges.

The short man’s fountain of bigness is a prominent effigy in this fine establishment. None other than the biggest short man ever tops this pyramidal obelisk.

“Black Lung”

Her Christian name was Odessa but folks called her Black Lung and it was not a self-moniker. She found herself to be critical of people who gave themselves hippy-dippy names like “Harmony” and “Peace” when they were anything but. She was drinking wine out of a cardboard box. She said it was cardbordeaux. Eventually, she dumped the box and slung the bag over her should like a bloated udder. She made everyone slap the sack in order to get a shot of cheap wine. Somewhere between the warm wine and the second tin of grease, Frito realized she was trouble and no more than a godless savage.

She had been using dead cats in Vodoun ceremonies for years, but with all the new fly-by-night tourist brands of “voodoo” it had begun to seem gauche. Normally, it was pretty harmless business. A head full of mescaline and a couple weeks of dancing nekid with painted chicken’s feet punctuated by the occasional vat of animal blood. Often, the leftovers could be found wandering Lafayette St., covered in neck tattoos and uttering nonsensical gibberish about Mayan codices and the end of the world.

GRIS-GRIS LOVE SPELL

Author: Okrabeaux

Prep time: 30 mins

Cook time: 1 hour

Total time: 1 hour 30 mins

Serves: 1

This magic will help someone to fall in love or at least have an attitude adjustment.

INGREDIENTS

leather pouch
powdered lizard bones
3 pebbles from a cemetery
human hair
malachite crystal shard
freckle
shot of bourbon

INSTRUCTIONS

To create a gris gris, you should set up a basic gris gris altar or working space. This altar should contain the four element: a bowl of water to represent water, incense to represent air, a bowl of graveyard dirt to represent earth, and a candle flame to represent fire.
Choose a color specific to your need.
Gris gris must contain an odd number of items: more than three, never more than thirteen.
It must be filled with items that are specific to the desired purpose.
It must be dressed with a liquid of some kind.
Be very careful of the words you speak when making gris gris.
Each ingredient can be smudged or smoked in incense, and so can the final bag.
A petition petition should be added
Words of power are spoken over the bag as a means of activating the divine energy.
Breathe upon the gris gris to give it life.

In his screened-in kitchen, Okrabeaux used to tell stories about the old river woman who used to make up the gris gris. In the New Orleans tradition, there’s a gris gris for anything. It’s a mixture of herbs and common ingredients such as powdered minerals, graveyard dust, roots, bones, and sacred words and seals. It can be used as a powder thrown in the path of an enemy, in an amulet or gris gris bag, in a doll, mixed with water and drunk, or used in a bath. Gris gris is part of a belief system that has remained relatively intact in New Orleans since it came from Africa by the first Senegambian slaves in the early 1720s.

Dead Cat Hit By Falling Statue

MAY 11, 2017

During the Jefferson Davis Statue removal today, an unidentified dead cat was crushed by the 400 lb obelisk. Subsequent removals of Robert E. Lee and P.G.T. Beauregard Monuments will involve increased accountability measures.

NEW ORLEANS – After two years of planning and court discussions, City officials continued the process today of removing the three remaining monuments that prominently celebrate the “Lost Cause of the Confederacy.” The crowd of onlookers was still applauding the removal of the statue as the unidentified dead cat was found crushed under the ruble. Said one eyewitness, “I guess the war called home one more soldier.”

All inquiries should be directed to New Orleans Police Department.

From his perch on the second floor, Thatcher saw the cat get into Black Lung’s El Camino. It was the one she’d driven since Reuben’s death but it had a new, bad paint job and the shag carpet on the dashboard had been changed and not for the better. She was perched behind the wheel, a mulatto girl with nose rings and a tattoo of Jesus eating a bowl of cheese and rice. The old man in the back seat had orange eyes and reeked of urine. Once he’d probably been handsome, but an M-16 bullet changed that, so now he was forced to eat, pray and love with scant amounts of teeth. They were all obviously tweaking and a curious cloud of dark magic seemed to follow them as they sped away from the drive-through daiquiri shop. Maybe never to be seen from again. Cat or no cat, the G-Train train was rolling to Texas and beyond. Maybe he would show up on the Mexican Blackbird.

May 22, 2017

Check out some other wookish delights including The Spirit of Suwannee Music Park: A Pictorial History. Keep up with the family as we head to Brainquility, Suwannee Spring Reunion and more.

The post Dead Cats and Voodoo on the Mississippi River appeared first on wook wranglers.

Breck Rescue Blue Monkey 22

jason — Thu, 09 Jan 2020 16:27:49 +0000

Haffiz had been turned completely loose in Colorado.

Traveling solo had always been fun and even therapeutic. Out here there was no one to blame. It’s low-hanging fruit when one is in a close relationship but going about the trail alone, when things go south, there’s only the mirror. And the t.v. screen.

He was in Breckenridge visiting Spud, a close friend of more than fifteen years and an admitted sexual predator. While living an entirely thugish lifestyle in the same South Florida grotto, sewing their sick seeds not one calendar mile, as the crow flies, from Michael Lazlitamos (the jew killer), they endured fresh lessons like unavoidable chaos and sickening trauma.

Spud had just finished the last of the Sierra Nevadas and as a result of his small frame and girlish drinking habits his judgement was now seriously in question. Maybe it was the altitude. Here in the shadow of the Tenmile Range, less blood makes it to the capillaries of the brain, causing it to prune and blacken. “Let’s take the wagon up the mountain and shoot guns,” he muttered while slipping in the mud of the washout. “Don’t worry about a thing. You are in safe hands. This is Breck Rescue Blue Monkey 22.”

“You have ceased to make sense,” Hafiz said, lighting the nectar collector from his chair near the campfire. “What the hell are we shooting at? Old televisions and Heineken bottles?”
Spud threw up a little Tropical IPA and cackled, “Immigrants you sorry Muslem. You’re lucky I don’t start with you. Lest you forget this is Colorado. Liberals have been trying to wrestle this country away from the cowboys since they took it from the Mexicans and Indians but I’d venture to bet they would all likely give me some kind of civilian service medal if I left you in a shallow hole halfway up Methodist Mountain.”
“I dare you. Don’t mistake me for a damned Quinault Indian.” Hafiz cautioned, fingering his sandal for the switchblade.
“Yeehaw.” shrieked Spud. “Tied up with rusted barbed-wire. All tangled to an aspen trunk just below the treeline and left for the elk. They were rutting and hungry. Damned-near picked his bones clean like buffalo shrimp before we bagged a few for sausage gravy. Life is really good.”

Haffiz decided that rather than gut him like a fat mullet, it was time for the morning devotional. A long scratch now ran through the middle of his Out of the Blue by ELO, so that was out. He’d been dabbling in poetry for years and learned that it also, was known to mellow situations that had begun the downward spiral.
He softly read from his notebook;

WHY NOT BE POLITE

Everyone
Is God speaking
Why not be polite and
Listen to
Him?

Spud looked up from the burning lawn chair he’s just slung into the fire.
“Shut your mouth or resend your filthy godless ambitions,” he stuttered as he was clearly beginning to walk with a pronounced limp. His jeans were still stained with blood from last night’s events and his face, which had been utterly pale, was now beginning to turn a shade of bland vanilla.
“Blasphemer! You are a heretic and an idolator and this will not be permitted on my watch,” Hafiz hissed. “I’m not kidding. You can just forget it Hoss. If it were up to me, I’d drag you back to Florida.”

Spud closed one eye so he could clearly see the brown man in front of him. “Never! That place is worse than Attleboro. Here in the womb of the Colorado mountains, I am a king. You’ll have to drag my frozen corpse away from this place.”
He was right, of course. Even the homeless women in Denver were gorgeous. Especially the young birds who lived in the tunnels near Coors Field. The whole of the Centennial State was a hotbed of legal drugs, snow bunnies and ski slopes and Spud was right in its spiraling vortex. He’d been in the pocket for years and his station was only improving. Long into the fireman/rescue/ski-patrol teams, he’d lived like royalty in the vacation hamlet of Breckenridge. Now, he wanted to own property in Salida and learn to play acoustic guitar. Like he wasn’t do well enough for himself. Just plain greedy.

View this post on Instagram

Lessons in bad skiing. Breck. 2017

A post shared by Jason Nail (@nailtravels) on Mar 23, 2017 at 5:18am PDT

Thanks goes out to Breckenridge Ski Resort for the lift tickets and equipment. Visit their website for all your equipment rental needs and check out their social media sites on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Youtube. Welcome to Breck.
It’s time to carve the pow.

Hafiz had gotten hold of some WiFi slather in Salida and had already gone through a gram of it by the time he reached the ski rental place. His Daytona Dash (Rum and orange juice with a splash of tonic and a lime) was camouflaged in a large coffee cup with an ill fitting lid. The lift ticket and equipment rental was all pro bono in exchange for a little internet publicity so no expenses were going to be spared. The attendant asked if he would like a lesson before hitting the slopes.

“No thanks,” he smugly responded. Being naturally graceful and athletic, we’re going to do this the old fashioned way. The James Bond way. Simple crushage from the get-go”
He found his way into the equipment rental area, surrounded by all manner of what appeared to be, space exploration accoutrements. “What type of skis would you prefer? What kind of rider are you?” the young attendant inquired. She looked very healthy. People on this side of the Mississippi really go a long way in making one feel out of shape. Their hairless, brown legs ripple with calve muscles born from skiing in the winter and bicycling down the same trails in the summer.

Naturally, Hafiz had never stepped a foot in skis, but still his answer came sudden and loud. “Greased and fast is the game today. Gimme the slick skis. Just barely missed the bronze in Sarajevo, but my fastest times are still ahead of me.”
This was, of course, an abomination of the truth and he would likely end up smashed at the base of a fir, waiting on some kind of ski basket to haul him to the nearest trauma center. Blue Monkey 22. Back in the day, Colorado skiers would simply throw themselves into trees just so they could get their red card. Now anyone over the age of twelve could saunter into a weed shop like it was a corner Woolworth’s. Pot was legal and it was en vougue to be a Dead fan. It looked like the hippies were trying to take over yet again.

THE SUBURBS OF GOD

Complaint
Is only possible
While living in the suburbs
Of God.

Spud was already at the brink of unseasoned madness and Haffiiz’s hippy poetry had gently pushed him over the ledge. He went to fetch to his 10 mm pistol out of the wagon, but as he opened the rear door, the immense bottle of Paisano fell out and exploded in the parking lot with a dull pop. He screamed and fell to his knees in the middle of the mat of broken glass and begin lapping up the cheap red wine from the pavement. It looked like a river of blood as the Carlo Rossi streamed down the street and into the rain gutter. His sunken eyes darted back and forth, in search of possible hazards and he licked wine from his beard, which was stained dark red like some kind of deranged cannibal.

Hafiz found Walker, an old kayaking friend from the redneck days on the Gulf of Mexico, at the Nines’ ski lodge and ordered several Banquets before launching toward the slopes. After the incident with the snowboard on this very same mountain, it was fair to say that this was a time for adult caution. His hypothesis regarding the ease or lack thereof of picking up the nuances of snowboarding had been ultimately flawed. This time, he sputtered around for the cameras, tripping and sliding in all manner of uncomfortable directions. There just weren’t enough drugs around to get him back on a ski lift anytime soon.

They left the rented skis outside on the rack and joined a wedding party of drunk Hoosiers at the ski-lodge bar. The rest of the afternoon was spent drinking shots of Snakebite and debating the root of the civil unrest in modern-day Nicaragua. Only millennials in tight jeans would have the naivety to bring up Ronald Regan. Unlikely they’d know about Herbert Hoover or even the Beatles.Tempers began to flare as one of the Hoosiers throttled the bartender for not having a back-up bottle of Yukon Jack and Walker and Haffiz decided they’d enjoyed enough of the slopes. As the afternoon sun drifted behind the mountains to the west, they started back for downtown Breckenridge, with its blinking gift shops and expensive margaritas.

Check out Lessons in Bad Snowboarding, Salida Green Chile Sauce and Free Camping in Buena Vista for more Colorado gibberish. Visit the Kamp Happiness website for more festival fun from the Roanoke Mafioso. Stay tuned to nailtravels as we head north to Purple Hatter’s Ball, the Northwest String Summit Kids and Family Tent and hillbilly fun at LOCKN’.

And I know, it’s my own damn fault.

THE VINTAGE MAN

The
Difference
Between a good artist
And a great one
Is:
The novice
Will often lay down his tool
Or brush
Then pick up the invisible club
On the mind’s table
And helplessly smash the easels and
Jade.
Whereas the vintage man
No longer hurts himself or anyone
And keeps on
Sculpting
Light.

The post Breck Rescue Blue Monkey 22 appeared first on wook wranglers.

The Wook in You

jason — Tue, 07 Jan 2020 19:51:09 +0000

They slowly strolled through the parking lot of the Miami Arena, checking out every bit of the unimaginable scene. It was April 6, 1994 and the Grateful Dead was in town for a two-night stint. Everyone had a ticket to the show except Crispy and he didn’t care. If someone was to miracle him a ticket he would have gone in, but it really didn’t matter much. He liked to play in the lot. As it would work out, he didn’t get in to see the show and even without the use of cellphones, they all met up after it was over. Everyone fell in behind the tall hippy as he began walking away from the arena in concentric circles. As he paced, he held his nose to the sky like he was smelling or listening for something. What could it be? Around dark corners and down long alleys they lurked, looking for what? It became clear, several blocks away, when they finally found the fenced-in parking lot and the hidden party of hippy revelers, smack in the middle of downtown Miami. Welcome to the wook in you.

Welcome to the bus young man. It’s your turn at the wheel.

Back in the sixties, the word hippy was used by many straight-liners as a derogatory term for the drop-out, dead-head, left-wing, pinko commie scum born of the free-thinking, revolutionary breath flowing out of San Francisco at the time. It was also used in a positive connotation by those who were proud of their traditions of love, fellowship, music, and an ideal devoted to environmental stewardship. Since that time, the term has softened a bit as America’s classification system has become more fine tuned and further subgroups have been identified.

/ˈhipē/ noun: hippy

1.
(especially in the 1960s) a person of unconventional appearance, typically having long hair and wearing beads, associated with a subculture involving a rejection of conventional values and the taking of hallucinogenic drugs.

synonyms:

flower child, Bohemian, beatnik, long-hair, radical, free spirit, nonconformist, dropout

What is a wookie?

A wook or wookie is just another word for hippy. Earlier in the term’s growth, it referred to a fan of the band Wookiefoot and subsequently, a hippy from Michigan. It has come to represent an original idea of the word hippy. Physical stereotypes include sandals, dreads, jewelry, tie dye and a strong drive toward fellowship and the scene. The term can be considered inappropriate slang, especially when used in a negative connotation. There must be several websites devoted to just that kind of thing. Let’s not get too caught up on semantics. Just be sure if you’re being hard on the wook who drifted into your campsite, you’re not the pot calling the kettle black. Everyone has found themselves alone at a party and gone looking for new friends. Hippies in glass tents shouldn’t throw rocks. There is a definite modicum of wookish behavior that all people exhibit at one time or another. Depending on your station, sometimes the hard rain falls more than others. And while labels may make things easier to classify, be wary. Your eyes don’t always know what they’re talking about.

Who are you?

These are the folks who man the pizza ovens and sling the grilled cheese. They tie-dye the shirts and sell the wrist warmers.They set up the stages and work the sound. They sit around Monday morning separating the recyclables from the trash while the rest of the crowd hunts for groundscores. They sling glass and pins through the forest and send you home with the t-shirts and posters that adorn your cluttered closet. Is it you?

Wanderlust: Who cares if we have to drive 1400 miles without brakes? That’s where the party is. The wooks show up in buses, thug vans and adventure wagons with glued on side mirrors. Girl hillbillies from Boone sleeping in the back of their car on a blow-up mattress. Their vehicles are want to emit heavy cavitation when exceeding speeds of sixty miles per hour. The windshields of their school buses are covered with festival parking stickers and everyone has to jump out and help stop the bus when it comes to red lights. Just remember- when pulling over for a police check point, it might just be a bunch of frightened construction workers on the side of the road. Thank you Lazlo, for absolutely no help at all. And what exactly is hippy crack?

“You’ve got a pocket full of loose change and a splendid want for roving adventure.”

“Wookie is the new hippy.”

The Fancy Wookie: Check your six for the Birkenstocks and trailer trailers. These folks slept under tarps in the sixties and now they’ve figured out the secret to glamping camping. Don’t judge. An RV is a perfectly private spot to do the things that you do. They attend more festivals than anyone and they purchase more merch. They are the mommy bloggers, entertainment corespondents and photographers that used to play around like drunk monkeys. Now they just do it with nicer cameras. Check out another of our favorite wookie websites at RoadtripMojo. Covering festivals for free can be the best job a thug ever had.

The Energetic Wook: These teams make up the Suwannee Boche Invitational and the Magnolia Disc Golf Open. They get up Sunday morning to attend sunrise yoga and they twirl everything from flames to sticks to balls of colored light. They walk on stilts and balance on long straps. They are the beach hippies and surfers from San Diego to San Juan del Sur. During Sunday String Cheese, they are slinging the long frisbee in the big field at the main stage. They are the soldiers who get up at sunrise just to hump the desert all day and the fisherman from the coast of Mississippi who spend all day hunting the specks and reds.

“Yesterday’s hippies are today’s ad execs, just like yesterday’s teachers are today’s hippies.

Hippy Names: They have fantastically fun nom de plumes like Sunshine, Fubu, Trinket, Moonpie, Cat, Sunnie Ray, Timber, Sky Walker, Wanderer, Bee’s Knees, Harmony, Lunarewolf, Solarwolf, Turtle, Turtle Soup, Cinderella (trail name), Rosie (biker name), Cypher, Murman?, Flight Risk, Baitbucket, Hambone, Arendall, Honeysuckle, Huckleberry, Tahlia, Jerry, Luke Sky Walthall, Darth Walthall, Clayopheus III, Star, River, Rain, Ridge, Thorn, Crystal, Dakota Rose, Crystal, River, Crimson, Clover, Spirit, Storm, October, Autumn, Summer, Willow, Guthrie Govan, Solongo (rainbow), Tsetseg (flower), Altansamai (Golden rose), Jaimebfly, Moonbeam, Waylon, Neil, Dusty Bubbles, Moon, Hum, Toomuch, and Arayah Sunshine, Easy, Astro Boy, Moonchild Leroy, Wonder, Sun Turtle and Pipe. You get the idea. What’s yourn?

The Spunion: This is the broken wookie. Like Keller said, “there’s a tweaker by the speaker.” It’s not entirely his fault. He just tried to reach for the stars…too much, too soon. And he probably didn’t have a capable doctor to help him augment his prescription. It might just be time for a Jedi mind flip. One certainly doesn’t have to be a wook to be a tweaker. Even the guy who owns his own pressure washing company can eat too many mushrooms and end up in his tent like a little lost kitten. It’s some weird business to get so spun that you get lost in your own forest, but strange things do happen to good people. If it’s your first time at a location and you’re planning on rolling the dice, you can expect to wander around some place like Infinity Downs at five in the morning looking for high field camping. Welcome to the forgotten dance of the dablatures. That’s why God invented Spirit Aid.

Wooks Know Where To Meet: Why stand by yourself at the main stage while your friends hide in plain site only thirty yards away? Have you ever felt like you knew everyone at the festival only to spend the entire show searching in vain for your people? Here in Bohemia, serious festivarians don’t leave this kind of thing to chance. It’s usually all the way back and to the left. At the main field stage at the Suwannee look for the Hula sign and maybe you’ll be lucky enough to grab a loose ticket for Trinket’s VIP Dance Party.

The back is a nice place to gather for several reasons. It’s easy to find and one can carry on a conversation while the music is playing. (shut up. Bobby’s singing!) It also allows for traffic and netwooking with other passing travelers.

There’s also an occasional need for traveling around the venue. Sometimes it just gets right and an trek to the rail is in order. Other times, it’s a run to the sweet spot right next to the sound booth. It’s a fine place to enjoy the music and there’s always spinners behind the booth doing their thing.

Pay special heed to the elder wook for he has continued to run the gauntlet in the face of the fray. He should be celebrated for the genuine love, concern and effort. Remember the way of the peaceful warrior. Note the young wooklings playing with hula-hoops in the sun. Their tiny dreads flopping around in the breeze, they bring young energy to the camp, something every family needs.

Consider one of the positives of Facebook is that it can serve as a tool for collecting data. As a virtual focus group it can help us find out the relevant variables in a given set. In this case, we asked a Hulaween thread what were some wookish innovations to which they were introduced. We’re smarter together.

WOOKISH INNOVATIONS FROM HULAWEEN 2018:

Dry shampoo!
neighbors camp chair doubles as a great toilet
Marshmallow gun!
Bull whip..
if you’re lost and trying to find good music right after a set ends, follow the general direction of the crowd
Blankets lots of them add them with you’re neighbors and it’s a great way to make a group if solo
Make friends with people around you at a sett not only more enjoyable but you make friends and people will watch you’re stuff more
When in a group constantly do silly things to keep everyone in a conversation it helps group chemistry and helps from getting lost
Having a good attitude and treating everyone with respect and helping people out around you creates the vibe of the fest you would be surprised how fast it can spread from just a few people
Having some type of art or tradable craft is something that’s very special and will help support you at a fest.
Haircuts for trades is a great idea
And when in total doubt befriend an elder wook and just follow them around. They may know some tricks.
It doesn’t hurt when a spider boofs you!!
Hand Wiping, self administered boof, and ground scoring golf carts
Laser limbo
Sequin injuries lol
Netwooking for the win!
200mg of Magnesium and 1 Aleve a day.
Gatorade helps.
She and her friend were on the rail for Nectar, and a guy asked for their cigarette butts when they were finished smoking. After they finished, they each gave him a butt, and the dude stuck them in his ears for plugs
His totem got lost the first night, so he used a broom for the next one (had a back up inflatable banana to tape to it)
Leaf bump
Witch fingers for bumps!!!
During the Polish Ambassador some friendly offered me this gadget. It’s an electronic pulse stimulation machine. He and his lady applied stickers to the lower back and the get down continued. 30 min later he was in pure bliss and it felt like an hour of stretching during one of the best sets of the week. Needless to say an eBay purchase was in order.
Solar powered LED fists. When you need to get out of being at the rail for any medical emergencies/emergent poops/whatever the hell else, you can flash them in people’s faces and dance around them to open up space and get out! (Trapped at the rail. #hippyproblems)

What fresh wookery is this?

“We are the wooks our parents warned us about.”

They are Jax and Jax Beach trash. They drip down from Michigan in great droves. They spill out from the mountains of Trashville, NC where they certainly have wooks but they are slightly fancy beer snobs, like Boulder, Grand Rapids and Denver. They are cracker trash from South Florida and the Roanoke Mafia. They are the hard-slingin’ last of the Mohicans from Mexico Beach. They are the beautiful bohemians from Horning’s Hideout, whom have olive skin and muscles. Many people refuse to camp away from the wooks because that’s where the action is.

You find them on the lot, smashing large jugs of moonshine on the asphalt. Take note young grasshopper, there’s so much one can learn from watching an elder wook. Remember, they own their own plumbing and pressure washing companies. Some have advanced degrees in Education Administration, which almost certainly comes in handy when selling low-brow transfer t-shirts and walking sticks on Shakedown Street.

Contrary to what you may have heard, not all of them like the Grateful Dead. Some are Phishheads, Cheeseheads and Widespread Muthu Fuckin Panic fans yo. They come from the mountains to play their own version of Chemical Bluegrass with the wiggle and jive that comes with the likes of Greensky Bluegrass, The Travelin Mccourys, The Infamous Stringdusters and Yonder Mountain String Band. Don’t ever forget that all of these festival stemmed from bluegrass shows in the seventies. They are the long-haired hippies like Waylon and Willie, who traded in their sequins for blue jeans on the sawdust dance floors of West Texas juke joints. The are the desert bikers who rock out to John Prine and Primus. They come for Moe, Pigeons Playing PIng Pong, My Morning Jacket and always Umphrey’s. Even if, like the Roanoke Mafia, you aren’t into the Dead, please don’t have any misconceptions where all of this came from. That is the creation story and there still can be only one.

Growing up in the south, it always figured that rednecks shared many cultural traditions with hippies; mutual respect, love of family and friends and a penchant for ecological decisions. If this were true, the Suwannee River Jam wouldn’t be so infamous for arrests and grotesque amounts of leftover trash. Maybe the hippy inside of every redneck is the sweet part that takes care of each other and the earth. It doesn’t make complete sense.

Tagged and bagged baby. Lockn’ 2019

In conclusion, the word “wookie” is currently being used as the preferred nomenclature for a subdivision of hippies but that classification is a misnomer. As a stereotype, they are the real deal among us. And have no illusions, they are in charge. They have the best art, the best drugs and music, the best people Be careful before looking or talking down to the wook who fell asleep around your fire. You’ve been blessed grasshopper, so consider covering him up with a warm blanket and giving him a safe place to relax.

And also consider going a little lighter on the labels. In this day and age it’s getting ever difficult to tell what someone’s into by their physical appearance. There’s really no reason to try. There’s only so much you can learn until you sit around the fire or take a walk to the lake together. We’re all mixed-breed, fusion food anyway. It’s all one family yo.

“So I can die with a smile on my face, without feelin’ like the good lord gypped me.”

MIAMI ARENA – APRIL 6, 1994

Setlist

Jack Straw

Jackaroe

Wang Dang

Broken Arrow

West LA

El Paso *

Row Jimmy

Promised Land

Here Comes Sunshine

Samson and Delilah

Cumberland Blues

Way To Go Home

Women are Smarter

Drums/Space

Wheel

Watchtower

Standing on the Moon

Johnny Be Goode

Check out the adventures of the Wook Wrangler from Hulaween 2018 and Lockn’ 2018 and keep up with the Kamp Happiness Florida Charter as we head north to Lakeland, Florida for Hometeam New Year’s Rally. Something silly this way comes. Be sure to visit one from the archives: Hulaween 2018: The Kamp Ha Penis Dumpster Fire.

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Circumcision Revision

jason — Tue, 07 Jan 2020 15:51:54 +0000

According to a report released Tuesday from The American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP) and the Mayo Clinic, a radical new procedure has been developed by scientists at the Helsinki Institute in Stokholm that will allow men who have previously undergone circumcision surgery to permanently reverse the procedure.

Circumcision of Christ Painting by Giovanni Bellini

Circumcision is the surgical removal of the prepuce, or foreskin, of a male. The word circumcise literally means “to cut around.” Circumcision is common for newborn males in certain parts of the world, including the U.S. Circumcision after the newborn period is possible, but it’s a more complicated and painful procedure.

For many families, circumcision is a religious ritual. It can also be a matter of family tradition, personal hygiene or preventive health care. For others, however, circumcision seems unnecessary and disfiguring, and after the procedure, it, unfortunately, isn’t generally possible to re-create the appearance of an uncircumcised penis.

With the recent innovations in laser surgery, Nail Enterprises has procured over thirty patents in regards to this new technology. While many procedures are still decades away, The Journal of Western Medicine states in their November/December issue; “The results of preliminary lab studies in newborns and prisoners have resulted in the overwhelming majority of test subjects accepting the foreskin transplant with high levels of success.

The Circumcision, by Luca Signorelli

RECENT CIRCUMCISION INNOVATIONS

Foreskin Transplant: Many families continue to cling to the ancient Hebrew tradition of physical mutilation, allowing others to reap the whirlwind. Outpatient laser procedures now allow for the removal, preservation, and transplant of the prepuce. Used, adult foreskin will be available for moderate expense with newborn skin being prized and highly valuable.
New Options: Dr. Hans Greuber, a pioneer of foreskin transplant surgery, recently released a report providing evidence that replacement prepuce now offers choices in both size and skin pigment. Procedural options now include tint and shade choices and many recipients are opting to replace their lost foreskin with that of darker or lighter colors. Trademark techniques such as the “patchwork quilt” can now allow your member to be safely snuggled away in a mosaic of color.
Eyelid Skin: Stem cell research has shown that in the absence of prepuce, eyelid epidermis provides a reasonable substitute in test subjects. With the gentle feel of actual foreskin, not even your partner will know the difference

The Circumcision Painting by Peter Paul Rubens

Animal Prepuce: Although still in its infancy, the use of foreskin from primates; family Cebidae, has proven to be a viable and cost effective option for many. Other successful trials involving alternatives such as the domestic pig and the common Eurasian wild boar (Sus scrofa) have continued to pave the way for innovations and discoveries.
Scrotal Tissue: In an absence of available foreskin, scrotal tissue has proven to be yet another transplant option in the making. Dr. J. Allen of the Digby Group in Seattle, was quoted on a recent episode of the Dr. Phil program, “As your scrotum begins to stretch with age, it begins to resemble that of an inverted high-altitude weather balloon. This extra flesh is a reasonable substitute for foreskin and our specialists can now take some of that extra skin from the top of your punching bag and use it to replace your lost and forgotten flesh.”

Related concerns center around repeated operations and the potential adverse physical conditions. As with other cosmetic procedures, ongoing surgeries can result in negative outcomes and in this case, a condition where the testicles literally sit above the shaft. Consult your physician before proceeding with any foreskin donations or scrotal reduction procedures.

Don’t wait, donate! For the time being, newborns continue to provide a bank of foreskin tissue for transplant recipients, but as modern parents continue to alter their traditions and mores, skin banks will decrease and donations will be imperative. Organ donors now have the option to recycle their prepuce for future generations. There’s really no sense in taking it with you.

In conclusion, for years psychiatrists have been aware of the devastating, long-term effects that result from involuntary circumcision at birth. If you are one of the millions of men around the world who have been mutilated with no consultation, help is on the way. The days of living exposed and cold with no respite from the trials of this world may well be a thing of the past.

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