Busted!

Posted on today's SFGate.com, from an article that originally ran in the Sarasota Herald-Tribune:

Florida Teens Try to Swallow Pot During Traffic Stop

(02-26) 13:27 PST NORTH PORT, Fla. (AP) --

Authorities in southwest Florida said two 19-year-olds unsuccessfully tried to swallow a bag of marijuana during a traffic stop and were charged with tampering with evidence. North Port police reported that an officer stopped the teens on Saturday because their car's high beams were on.

The officer said he noticed the smell of marijuana coming from the vehicle. When he went back to the car after checking their identification, he said he found the pair covered in "little, green leafy-like substance," and they were chewing and having trouble swallowing.

The officer reported finding four grams of marijuana in one of the teen's shoes, leading to an additional possession charge.

The pair have since been released from jail.

Feeling dreadful?

Courtesy of yog-sothoth.com

Shambu

"Hey, man. Sure, have a seat. Relax." Stretched out himself, pointing his legs and spreading his toes in an extended hold before sighing and slumping back into his chair, example not taken by the interviewer, who was fussing with his bags.

"Thank you. It'll take me just a moment to get the equipment ready, then we can begin."

"Sure, no rush. Take your time. Say, you don't happen to have any string in there, do you?"

"Uh, no. Sorry. And don't touch the cables. Please take that out of your mouth!"

"Aw, man, it's such a good chew." He patted and stroked the snaking cables with his hand, tilting his head. Will they move?

"How did you live so long? Or not die from electrocution?" He arranged the recorder on the table, pushed a button. "Okay, go when ready."

His radiant black hair was immaculate. "It was a bachelor's dream life, man! Late nights, smokin', prowling the neighborhood, no ring around my neck to say I was taken or whipped. Just me and my man, hanging, enjoying life.

"The ladies? Oh, we loved the ladies! But, you know, the ladies don't always love you back. They're a tough game to play. But I was a great wingman...sure! Most can't say no to me, especially when I bust out my special moves, with my special sound. Rrrrrrmmmrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmm, yeah! Got my man into some space to make special sounds of his own, he and the lady we were romancing. Yeah.

"What? No, I had a couple of years of love-making. I don't know where I lost them...back then, in those days, I'd lose myself days at a time, just kind of fade out then a day or two or three later, bam!, I'd come back to myself. Sometimes I'd be in the back yard, sometimes blocks away, my dick tired and my body sore, ears all scratched up. But I'd pound on the back door, he'd let me in and we'd have some chow, maybe a drink out of the toilet, talk about shit. You know, the usual guy banter after someone's gotten some pussy.

"I was about three I think when I lost my head for a couple of days, and when I came to my ear was seriously messed up. I think I got a bite that got infected, too. Man, those things smell! So my man put me in the box inside the bigger box and we went to that place, the house of fear, and they cleaned me up. And it was a few days after that that I noticed, Hey! My balls are gone. I looked for them for awhile, but I never found them.

"But it was cool. That's when I developed my killer wingman routine, helping out my man. Good times.

"Now, I heard some of those house-bound folks say the life I lived—the life we lived—was immoral. You know: decent folks don't run the streets, don't drink from the toilet, crap in the yard, blah blah blah. Their yards are crap-filled! Their minds are dull! Their man doesn't love them like mine did me! Yeah, that's right. You know how I know? Because when I was an old, old man, so old I couldn't even hardly remember what pussy smelled like, my man invites into our house some friends, and these friends have a friend of theirs, and Oh man! She is fine, young and fine and she likes me. Yes she does! Follows me around, sits next to me, washes my face. Yeah, I shared my blanket with her. You know what I'm saying? 'Cause I knew what was coming. And when she was ready, when the intense heat of life came on her, there I was, and I didn't need a wingman to help me with this lady! We got it on, right there in they foyer. I felt like I was two again. Two months later I came here, but it's cool. I like going out on a high note.

"God doesn't send you a virgin if your yard is full of crap. No way. My house was right, and me and my man lived a righteous bachelor life, right up to the end. Somebody up there, up here, loves me. That's for damn sure.

"Now, let me chew on that cable. Can't hurt me now!"

Mystery Gina

Yesterday after dinner we all decided we needed cookies, so I took Elliot with me to the store. (It was also Jason's first full day as a cashier, so I wanted to stop by and see him in action.) On the way there Elliot sang a little song about "Mystery Gina":

Mystery Gina,
Mystery Gina,
She's a man,
Wagga-wagga!
Mystery Gina

Elliot and Orange Gina have become friends, and most days we have an Orange Gina Hunt. Where's Gina? She's in the cat club! Where's Gina? She's in the laundry! Where's Gina? She's in my room! (Sometimes he even invites her in.)

And for the past few days he's been calling her Mystery Gina. So today I finally asked him why. Because, he said, Gina's really a man. Ooooh. So it's actually Mistery Gina.

The Little Things

I loved it in Albany when I'd see people on the street I knew, or when the shopkeepers knew my name. Which was frequent.

Now that I actually live in a for-real small town, I'd expect that sort of thing to happen all the time. Which it doesn't. Although having fifteen years in Albany helped, I'm sure. But I do run into a lot of people I know biking around town, which is funny as it usually takes me a moment to place the face.

But last week Greg went to coffee with some gamers he knows who live up here. They recommended two restaurants in Eureka—you know, The Big City—and yesterday G-man and I went to one, the Laotian one. It was pretty damn tasty, especially for a pair of Bay Areans jonesing for Asian food prepared by actual Asian people. Which this was. And as dinner was winding down, and we'd finished mopping our plates with the last of the sticky rice, one of the two women running the place said, You're new faces, haven't seen you before. Yes, this is our first time here. We drove down from Arcata. Then she came out from behind the counter, introduced herself, and shook our hands.

Now today, as I came blustering into the PO after a windy, wet, rainy day of mailma'amery, carriers, clerks, and managers kept turning to me and saying, Hey! You've got cookies in the cage. The cage where we keep our Extra Special Mail? Yes!

Angela, the woman who cuts my hair when I get around to getting it cut, had dropped off a bag of homemade cookies, as promised. I'd run into her at the market up the hill, both of us buying the day's lunch special. And when I told her how I'd been since I'd last seen her, she said, Oh you sound like you need some cookies. Which I did.

And that is a typical Humboldt day: crummy weather and warm-hearted people. I love that.

Well

This is why you go in the coop every night:

I woke up at 4:30 am (we all did) to chicken noises, then a strangled cry. I took a flashlight into the backyard to investigate, and surprised a pair of raccoons. One ran over the fence and disappeared; the other was still in the tree looking for the other chicken—who fortunately flew into the other holly tree instead of landing on the ground, as the other apparently had. There wasn't much I could do at that point, so I went back inside and waited for dawn.

When it was light I went back into the yard; that's when I saw the trail of feathers, and what was left of Greta the chicken. Gamma Ray, the other Lakenvelder, was still in the holly tree, sitting tight. I opened the coop and let everybody out. They knew something had happened. They stood in a group in the middle of the yard and let out a chorus of distress calls, which they kept up for some time.

When I got home from work Greg already had them corralled in their coop. I went to check on them, and they seemed mighty glad to be in there. Even the ducks, who usually only reluctantly go into their coop at night.

We'll all have to be extra vigilant until the raccoons give up and move on. Even the cats! (The ducks were making a ruckus about something this afternoon and Gina had to dash out the back door and look in on them; all was well, so she came back inside!)

Sometimes it's a hard world for the small things.

Breaking News

Courtesy of the cheezburger folks.