iGuanaGaL's Blog

Don't Shave That Hair!!!
I have recently made a mistake in my life, and I offer my story to you, that you may learn from my error. It all started, as many things do, with me having trouble shitting.

No, I was not constipated; this was not a regularity problem but a matter of technique. It seems my ass-hair had grown to such a length that tiny grogans were constantly getting tied up in the matted jungle between my asscheeks. It led to much frustration, with me KNOWING that I still had something to drop, but unable to shake the tenacious turd loose from its butthair dwelling. Eventually I would have to do two things: either reach down with some paper and try to pinch off the lingering loaf (which required careful precision to avoid smearing the creature all over my rear, especially since I had no way of seeing what I was doing) or just go for broke, start wiping, and hope that I could remove all the leftover fecal matter before the toilet paper reached its Can't-Be-Flushed threshold.

I was contemplating this problem, when I had what seemed at the time to be a bright idea. "Hey! This is my butt and my butt-hair, right? So why don't I just eliminate all the hair, and then my grogans will flow out like beer from a keg!" I said to myself. It is a statement that will go down in history with a lot of other regretted statements. "How many Indians could there be?" said by General Custer. "Looks like a good day for a drive!" by JFK. "There! America On-Line now has complete Usenet access!" by some idiot system tech. Such was my anal shaving idea.

I performed the operation that night, with a cheap disposable razor and a towel to sit on. Starting from the bottom, and shaving from the crack to the cheeks, I began the arduous process of ridding my ass of hair. Occassionally, I would have to clean the razor of accumulated hair and miscellaneous slime, which I did by wiping it on the towel. Slowly, my twin mounds and the between-ravine began to resemble the hairless cheeks of a newborn baby. Finally, I wiped the razor one last time, and surveyed my work. The towel was covered with a pile of hair. My ass was smooth as ivory. I smiled, satisfied, thinking my troubles were over.

Little did I know.

I now have a great respect for anal-hair. Like everything in this world God created, it has its mighty purpose in existence. It was only after I had removed it that I started to learn how much I had been taking it for granted. For one, it provides friction. I learned this the next day, when I walked out into the sun heading for class. After climbing two flights of stairs and starting to sweat, I started to notice something unpleasant. The sweat was accumulating in my crack, and was causing the unpleasant sensation of my two asscheeks sliding past each other with every step. I thought about going to the bathroom and wiping it off, but had to get to class. Eventually, I thought, it would dry.

Unfortunately, it did dry, but only after mingling with the microscopic shit- molecules lingering around my brown starfish. When I stood up after class, my cheeks were stuck together with a slimy sticky shit/sweat combination. As I made my way back to my dorm, it started to itch. God-DAMN, did it itch! Felt like a swarm of ants was making its way up and down my crack. Fighting to keep from jamming my hand down there and scratching away, I rushed back to the dorm.

Unfortunately again, this exertion caused me to sweat, and when I finally reached my room, my cheeks were sliding back and forth against each other like a pair of horny cane-toads. I quickly dropped my pants, and attempted to dry my ass off by sticking it in front of a fan and spreading my cheeks. As I pulled the two mounds of flesh apart, a horrible stench burst free and filled the room. Every dog within a 4 block radius started to howl. I had it worst of all, as the ripe aroma of festering shit/sweat went into the fan and blew back into my face. I fought to keep from heaving. And as I sat there, fighting vomit, my ass cheeks spread and dripping, with the concentrated aroma of my body odor mixed with the tangy smell of my own shit blowing right into my face, I had only one thought: "It will be like this until the hair grows back. Weeks."

Later on, trying to deal as best I could, wiping my ass at every opportunity, I discovered another wonderful use for ass-hair - ventilation. I attempted to launch a fart, only to have it get stuck between my asscheeks. Apparently, with no hair, the two pink twins can get vacuum sealed together, and the result was a frustrating fart that slid up and down between my cheeks like a lost gerbil.

As if that wasn't enough, I am now enduring further torture. As anyone who has ever shaved anything knows, when hair is first growing in, it comes in as stubble. Imagine your ass having the texture of a brillo pad. Well, that is what I am dealing with now. It is a hellish torture, and there are many times when I just look out the window and contemplate why I shouldn't just jump out and get it all over with in one fleshy splat, rather than endure this constant agony.

Friends, DON'T SHAVE YOUR ASS-HAIR!

Confession of a Gum Swallower

This is the confession of a gum-swallower. I admit it. For as long as I can remember, I have always swallowed my bubble gum instead of throwing it out. This used to be a major subject of contention with my mother when I was a child, as she was convinced that the practice would lead to my untimely demise. The gum mass was indigestible according to her, you see, and as such could not pass properly through the gastrointestinal tract. I was at great risk of numerous medical conditions because of this questionable assertion, including "twisted intestines," "stomach pileup," and choking to death on my own vomit after the bubble gum body inevitably attempts to escape through my esophagus, closing the pipes indefinitely on the way out.

Naturally, I never believed a single word the old lady said. I've been a gum-swallower my entire life, right up until my mid-20s. It was only then that I experienced a veritable epiphany of how wise my mother may actually have been.

Several weeks ago, I purchased a fairly large quantity of Dubble Bubble for my daughter's gum ball machine. The amount of gum I acquired was directly proportional to my own developed taste for the product, since it resembled crack cocaine in addictiveness. After originally buying the pre-filled gum ball machine, I'd proceeded to consume almost the entire contents in just a few short days, and thought I'd better stock up on the stuff if I was to maintain a positive relationship with my young child.

Unfortunately, much like Al Pacino in "Scarface," when confronted with such a sizeable amount of pseudo-cocaine, I attacked it with relish. I practically lived off bubble gum for several days. I couldn't get enough. I ate six, seven, sometimes eight small globes at a time in an attempt to find the perfect mix of synthetic flavors. I studied the texture of chewed gum by placing the most perfect tooth and fingerprint impressions ever taken outside of a crime lab. I watched with fascination as I created drab shades of gray from the most myriad selection of brightly colored items. I was almost a scientist of bubble gum by the end of those few days, you see. And each experiment became yet another lump lying heavy on my stomach.

Alas, I was destined for trouble. After consuming such a vast quantity of bubble gum, certain bodily processes started to become strange. My bowel movements rotated from frequent to nearly constipated for several days. For the life of me, I couldn't predict at what point the need to crap would attack. When I did plop down to plop, both the defecation process and the subsequent wiping would seem almost...

Sticky.

This went on for another day or two. It was only then that an event occurred that would change my philosophy on gum swallowing forever. Perhaps the bolus of evil had lodged itself in my colon somewhere just as my mother claimed it would, or perhaps the passing of such hideousness naturally requires an extended length of time; I fear I will never know the answer. All I know is that during an otherwise perfectly normal evening of watching television and reading a book, the cramps began.

I'm reasonably confident that I know what childbirth feels like now. It felt as though my colon was uncoiling and recoiling itself within my abdomen. I rushed to the bathroom and sat down, expecting a torrent of acidic pain. Ah, if only I'd been so lucky! When the defecation came, it felt as though it came out sideways. My sphincter cried out in agony, the toilet sang in joy at the miracle it was about to receive. When I regained consciousness and brought myself to the point of wiping, I discovered the true horror of the evening.

Before continuing, I consider it necessary to make one qualification. I possess a rather... how you say, furry posterior. I freely admit this. I am a man of gum swallowing and a hairy ass. A hairy ass that was now virtually plastered with partially digested bubble gum.

If you've ever tried to get gum out of the hair on your head, you'll understand the conundrum that I was in. Once bubble gum has attached itself to the hair follicle, the two are inseparable. Inseparable like night and day. Inseparable like my ass CHEEKS now were, welded together with a mass of rapidly hardening cement.

After realizing what had happened, I understandably wished to keep the gravity of the situation private. One does not glue his ass cheeks together with fecal bubble gum and spread the proverbial word, you see. And so, I sat and thought. Thought HARD. What do you do? How am I going to get myself out of this one?

Okay, let's think about this. We have an uneven mass of bubble gum in the ass hair. It needs to come out, obviously. But how do you get gum out of hair? I recall someone telling me that peanut butter is the only recourse. No, f**k that, I'm not making a goddamn sandwich in my ass. The thought of slathering brown sludge in with other brown sludge was not appealing.

Well, option number one: rip it out. old school, yo!!. So, using a small strip of toilet paper as a [shizzle]-shield, I grabbed a lump of the offending plaster and yanked.

WELL HOLY BUGGERY DUCKNUTS, BATMAN! That made my eyes water and my skull expand. Option number one is officially discarded, along with a healthy strip of my taint. Where do we go from here?

Well, maybe option number one isn't *totally* flawed. I'll take a shower! That'll loosen it up, right?

WRONG.

The bubble gum has become ONE with my ass hair now. They are no longer separate entities by any stretch of the imagination. They are joined at the cellular level. Their electrons circle each other in a spinning mass of beauty and PAIN.

Now what? The taint is an area of the body far too sensitive to have hair ripped from it. You might as well expect me to rip off my arm to scratch an itch on my finger.

It was around then that I came to the only logical conclusion. We have to
*shave* it out, old bean. I'm sorry, dear sweet anus, but it's the only way. But what shall I shave it with, dear Liza, dear Liza?

I can't use the hand razor I shave my face with, certainly; would I be able to shear my whiskers every morning while knowing where it had been? That microglobs of poo-gum were being ground into my cheeks and neck?

No, certainly not! I do, however, have a small beard trimmer that might do the job. It was only a few dollars at Wal-Mart, after all; I can burn it when I'm done. Alrighty then, pants off, left leg up on the sink, offending mass of bubble gum presented comfortably, mirror positioned on the floor to help me aim. Okay, razor on, let's do this thing!

DEAR SWEET ZOMBIE IT'S STUCK!

Well isn't this wonderful, the undeniable reflex to jump and run from pain has kicked in! I'm now hopping around the bathroom with this two inch electric razor jammed firmly into my ass, dangling around like some sort of freakish technological tail.

The forces of physics have turned on me now. Gravity pulls the razor down as the momentum of my pain dance spins and twists it ever further into the tenderness of my crack. Screams begin to emerge through my gritted teeth. I try desperately to avoid waking my child and/or alerting my delightfully unsuspicious wife. After all, what would I tell them?

"Are you okay, dear?"

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing much. I tried to shave the bubblegum out of my ass, and now I'm waving the razor around like a second penis. Don't mind me, go back to sleep!"

Okay, I've calmed myself down. I cradle the offending piece of plastic and agony in an attempt to reduce the pressure on my tormented rectum. Well now you're in a real pickle, eh? You thought it couldn't get any worse, didn't you?

It was around this point that I started to get my head on straight. One must keep in mind how difficult it is to employ high-level cognitive abilities when one is experiencing pain in his most sensitive of areas. Thankfully, my wits had returned.

The razor wasn't going to come out. I was faced with several options: A) Shave it out. B) Cut it out.

Solution A wasn't viable since I'd already destroyed my only non-vital razor. The only problem with B was that there were no scissors in the bathroom; in fact, the only scissors I could think of were down the hall, within the cutlery drawer of the kitchen. My wife was using the computer in the living room, and could very likely see the bathroom door...

Yet the pros greatly outweighed the cons.

So, hopping like a crippled dog, I held the electric beard trimmer firmly against my battered ass hair and fumbled my way down the hall, praying to any possible deities that my wife wouldn't take this occasion to come get a snack or a glass of water. There was no answer for the situation I was in. The fates decided to smile upon me, I suppose. It seems perfectly reasonable that they would, of course, since they'd taken it upon themselves to so thoroughly destroy my sanity up until that point. I managed to duck-walk my way back to the bathroom, and with a carefulness that only a surgeon could appreciate, delicately extracted the clipper from myself.

Using the scissors, it didn't take all that long to snip away the majority of my post-gum. I shaved two long swaths into my ass, in fact, which resulted in the most agonizing discomfort over the next few days. Imagine rubbing two sheets of coarse sandpaper together. Then imagine a thin coat of unabsorbed poop-sweat turning the whole thing into a circus of embarrassment and skid marks. If there's a deep and philosophical message to be found in what I've written, it's lost on me. All I know is that under no circumstances should you ever... EVER... swallow your bubble gum.

Amazing Choreography

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Hiroaki Tagawa isn't letting his lack of sight hold him back from being an awesome guitar player. Kind of makes you feel lazy doesnt it?

by Bob Lefsetz


"He wants to dream like a young man
With the wisdom of an old man"

Standing in the bathroom at the shrink today I was shocked. That guy in the full-length mirror. That was me. My hair had finally decided to give up the ghost, not only had most of it disappeared, but the gray was unmistakable. But worse was my skin. It no longer had the smoothness of a baby's bottom. It wasn't quite rugged, but it had crevices, my life was more than half over. Where did it all go?

Funny thing about getting older. You do get wiser. Shit, I'd never want to go back to college. I'd never like to revisit any of it. Not without knowing what I know now. It's so great when things finally come together, when you start to get yourself. But it happens too close to the end. And the questions? They keep poppin' up. Part of me still believes I'm twenty three. But then I start to run and my legs feel like lead. There's so much I still want to do, but so much I've missed. Oh, I got married, but I never had children. And the latest research shows birth defects come not from older women's eggs, but older men's sperm. This is my life. How did I do? Was I asleep too long? Shit, I'm still wrestling with so much, do I have to be ushered out so soon?

It doesn't seem that long ago I graduated from college. Funny how it's just like "The Graduate". You're at loose ends, you've got no clue. I dealt with the sense of loss by going record shopping at Sam Goody's. And over in the corner, amidst hundreds of cut-outs, I found Bob Seger's "Back In '72". I played it. Not that I got it. It had been reviewed so highly seemingly only months before, but now it had been abandoned. Still, there was this one song that penetrated me, that I played over and over. "Turn The Page".

And then I left home.

That's what you've got to do. I feel sorry for those who've grown up in the metropolis, with no need to move on. But you can't really find out who you are until you cut all ties and try to start over somewhere else. Finding not only your digs, but your social group. Building your life, as opposed to continuing to reside in your parents'. And, after two years of loose ends, skiing for a living, more like flipping burgers for a living, I found myself in L.A. Going to law school. It was great to live in a major radio market. With five rock stations. There was the choice of soft rock KNX. And exploratory KROQ. And hard rock KWST. But we all started in the middle of the dial in '76, at KMET and KLOS. And in the heat of the summer certain songs started pounding out of the radio. Stuff from Bob Seger's "Live Bullet". He'd been around forever, I'd even bought an album and had given up. But suddenly, with this live greatest hits album, his career came alive.

"Up with the sun, gone with the wind
She always said I was lazy
Leavin' my home, leavin' my friends
Runnin' when things get too crazy
Out to the road, out 'neath the stars
Feelin' the breeze, passin' the cars"

On most live albums, the singer oversold. He was trying to reach the back row. But Bob Seger seemed to be in a therapy session. Or on your couch after a couple of beers way past midnight. Telling his story.

Now "Travelin' Man" eventually portrays the life of a desperado, the same one the Eagles sang about. Still, I always resonated with the freedom. I didn't want to be tied down, I didn't want to sacrifice. I wanted to experience, I wanted to live. I always heard from my parents I was a lazy son of a bitch, but out here in the new world, trying to find out who I really was, I was fully active, I was fully alive.

That Bob Seger could get it so wrong year after year in the studio but get it exactly right on stage surprised me. After the above lyrics, more of the instruments came in, there wasn't only the wispy organ, there was a full tilt boogie band. That might have been from third-rate Detroit, but didn't give a shit. They weren't citified, not all slick like their Angeleno brothers, but these guys in the Silver Bullet Band knew how to ROCK!

And halfway through the song, Bob hung back, the drummer pounded, and the band worked out. And suddenly, in the height of the break, the groove changed. They sneaked into a whole new number. One we'd heard in its studio version on the radio now and again the year before. But instead of being poised, this "Beautiful Loser" had the feel of a bumpkin beaming on a country day. Of a come from behind local winning the U.S. Open. Of a band denied their spot on the national stage for so long finally claiming it. Yes, when Bob Seger and the Sliver Bullet Band launched into "Beautiful Loser" you smiled on the inside, you were with them, you shared the joy of their long-postponed success. When the crowd cheers when Bob starts to sing the words you tingle, you've been there, when you know every note your favorite act plays.

"Beautiful loser
Never take it all
'Cause it's easier
And faster when you fall"

Everybody starts out playing to win. But when sometime in their twenties they realize how hard it is to succeed, to fulfill their dreams, they give up. They make internal excuses. They become fans as opposed to players. They become shadows of their former selves. With no schoolmarm to push them, and out of their parents' sight, they're lost and broken. No, you just can't have it all. But you're entitled to quite a bit. But you've got to fight for it.

Suddenly, with the release of "Night Moves", primed by the success of "Live Bullet", Bob Seger was the biggest act in the land. He dominated the airwaves. And every time I heard the live version of "Turn The Page" on the radio I never forgot where it started for me, "Back In '72".

They say that Bob Seger doesn't want "Back In '72" released on CD because he doesn't like his vocals. But I never noticed a problem in the title cut. The kind of swagger rock absent from the scene today except for the Black Crowes. The kind of stuff that used to pour out of the jukebox at the bar after work and on weekends, when America cut loose from its factory jobs. There's a power and a soul that's irresistible. And there's a great cover of Free's legendary "Stealer", so legendary that if you've never heard it buy it immediately on iTunes, to hear why Paul Kossoff's death was a tragedy. But the piece de resistance is "Turn The Page".

"On a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha
You can listen to the engine moaning out its one lone song
You can think about the woman, or the girl you knew the night before

But your thoughts will soon be wandering, the way they always do

When you're riding sixteen hours and there's nothing there to do

And you don't feel much like riding, you just wish the trip was through

Here I am, on the road again
There I am, on the stage
Here I go, playing star again
There I go, turn the page"

And you wonder why all the musicians do drugs. You're adored by twenty thousand people and then you get in the bus with the same four assholes you've known your whole life, onto a new city to start all over. "Turn The Page" is the best song about the road I've ever heard. Because it's got a sense of desperation. Bob doesn't know why he's riding the bus. Should he give up? At this point, in 1973, almost nobody was listening. It's like hearing Elton John working out in his flat in London before "Your Song". Bob had all the talent, all the greatness, but somehow it all didn't matter. You can hear the fatigue in his voice. He's so tired, he can't even be desperate.

Metallica did a great cover.

And the live version smokes.

But the best take is still the original, on "Back In '72". And this week, I play it on the Rhinocast. You should hear it.

Bob Seger quit the road. To have a life. He got it right, as opposed to all those who died living the rock and roll lifestyle. His latter day career is marred by too many ballads, but for years he rocked. And when I hear that rock I'm reminded of who I once was. And wonder if my journey has been the right one. Whether I've got a blind spot and am really the beautiful loser. Whether I'm just not old enough to understand it, to get what life is about. I'm still listening to records to find out what life is about.

--
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Ya just gotta love things like moving to bumf*** Utah.
Being a Miami girl, I'm used to some pretty strange goings on between the animal kingdom and me.
Like the time my dad brought me a new "pet lizard" he'd caught in a tree somewhere - knowing how much I loved iguanas (since he'd bought me my first one when I was six) he thought this new lizard would be something really cool for me. Cool it was, until I opened the box, stuck my hand in, and that little lizard latched onto my finger like nobody's business and WOULD NOT LET GO!
Being a wimp of eleven, this freaked me out and I started crying - which meant my dad got in MAJOR trouble with my mom, who suddenly appeared on the front steps and proceeded to let my dad know a thing or two, all the while I'm sitting there freaking out with this green reptile attached by the fangs to one of my digits.
I was not favorably impressed.
Here's a picture of the sweet little thing:






Isn't he just a glorious shade of green? Yeah, I thought so, too.
That is, until the cute little thing turned out to be the Dracula of the reptilian world, opened his little green jaws and BIT MY FINGER TILL IT BLED!





INSERT 11 YEAR OLD'S FINGER HERE: ==>>






Ah well, I finally extricated my finger from "Jaws" and he was let loose in the big Star Fruit tree in our front yard, where he lived for years and years and became quite large - I'd see him sneaking around the tree trunk in the afternoon, searching for his insect snacks - always had a healthy respect for him after that.

Stuff like that happens in Florida - but when you wind up in some god-forsaken desert in Utah where even the bushes have a hard time growing, you don't really expect to get much nature action. The area I live in DOESN'T EVEN HAVE SQUIRRELS for heaven's sake!
"Why", you ask?
Elementary, my dear Watson: THERE ARE NO TREES HERE! Just scrub brush and juniper bushes. Not the most squirrel-friendly habitat. It tricks you - makes you become unsuspecting and unwary when nature suddenly rears its head and scares the daylights out of you.

I went out this afternoon to do some shopping - in the middle of it all I got hungry and stopped off at a food joint for a quick sandwich. While I was devouring it, I decided to call above mentioned mother and chat with her while I ate my lunch. Just minding my own business, sitting in my Jeep with the windows down having a nice conversation with my old mom, and this *huge* seagull appeared out of NOWHERE and TRIED TO FLY THROUGH THE WINDOW OF MY JEEP - WITH ME IN IT! Seems old Jonathan Livingston Seagull has a habit of hanging out around the drive thru window of the food joint and accosting unsuspecting picknickers who are chowing down in the parking lot!

"Seagulls in UTAH?" you ask? Why YES! The state that is home to the Great Salt Lake, is also home to thousands, perhaps even MILLIONS of Salt Lake dwelling seagulls, since the Lake is is LOADED with Brine Shrimp, which just so happens to be MOST seagulls' favorite food. I say most, because wily old Jonathan had developed not only a penchant for fast food, but a quite bold and non human-fearing attitude .. he was ready to fly right through the window of my vehicle and share my sandwich with me. I didn't share his enthusiasm for this adventure. He had a large pointy beak that did not look all that different from the draconian lizard from Transylvania who had given my finger a "what for" many years ago.



<<== THIS WAS WHAT I SAW THE MOMENT BEFORE I DROPPED MY PHONE AND MY SANDWICH AND GOT MY WINDOWS ROLLED UP!!!





Hours later, back home, I went into the bathroom and my dogs followed me in there - for some reason they're always fascinated by ANYTHING I have to do, so I have no privacy of any kind with these two K9s around. But suddenly I realized that the dogs weren't interested in ME at all - but rather fascinated with the heater vent in the middle of the bathroom floor. I don't mean just mildly interested, either. I mean NOSES GLUED TO THE VENT - snuffling and snorting and tails a-wagging.
I'm watching the dogs' interest in the heater vent with some curiosity, and suddenly I heard it: a soft plaintive mewing - then more mewing - and OH NO - someone's cat decided to go UNDER MY HOUSE AND DELIVER A LITTER OF KITTENS! I could hear their little kitten noises coming through the floor, courtesy of the heater vent.
My dogs now want to get into the hall bathroom all the time now. I finally had to shut the door to keep them out of there. They just think I'm being mean. They even told me so.

I'm putting out a call to Marlon Perkins first thing in the morning - I'm hoping maybe Mutual of Omaha will give me a guest spot on Wild Kingdom. I hear the show is being resurrected just for me.

by K.M. Samet

The summer of 1972 was hot. The sun shone overhead mercilessly as I boarded the train to take the scenic ride through the Sierra Madres down to Copper Canyon.
It was a long trip, over ten hours, and the train seats became uncomfortable after awhile - even the spectacular scenery was overshadowed by the need to move about, stretch my legs and be released from my little confined space inside the passenger car.
I decided to take a walk to the dining car and get a cup of coffee. I was surprised when I got there to find that the coffee was served in fancy cups with saucers - I had been expecting something much less glamorous, as this was Mexico - and the touristas had not yet discovered its then unspoiled wonders. Most things were simple there, unpretentious and understated. But here, even the tables had linen table cloths, and the dining car stewards wore tux shirts and cummerbunds.
Sadly, two cups of caffeine was all I could take, and I was not looking forward to returning to my cramped seat. Still a little stiff, I got up to return to my seat and give others my table.
On my way back to the passenger car, I had to pass in between the train cars - which for some would have caused a great deal of anxiety as there was not a lot between me and the ground save a small safety gate - it looked as if one good bump could send me flying right off the train, and it was moving along at a good clip.
I was hanging on to the hand rails and thought I'd stop and have a smoke before I went back to sit down.
Leaning up against the back of the train, I lit up and leaned back to relax and watch the clouds race by. Standing there, the wind whipped around me - it was over 90 degrees, and the coolness of the air rushing over my body was soothing. I begin to lean into the rhythm of the train as it went along the tracks, a predictable movement only interrupted by some occasional swaying as the tracks curled around the tall mountains down into the canyon. Relaxing, I realized I now had "the best seat in the house" - no longer impeded by a roof over my head, I could see everything in the entire valley rushing by me - the majestic mountains spread out before me as far as the eye could see.
The sky was a brilliant blue, white clouds floated by - it was like riding in a convertible car. Most people going from one car to the other raced by rather quickly, no doubt feeling the same initial nervousness I had felt at first, had they but only stopped for a minute and given it a chance, perhaps they would have found this place I had found. I was thankful for the solitude, though.
There was a feeling of adventure in my bones as I stood between the cars, hair flying in the wind, sun shining down on my face - a private adventure as I looked out at the expanse of mountain range before me - thinking about the men who had lain the tracks, what life was like there before the railroad was built, and feeling somewhat like the desperadoes of days gone by, secretly riding the rails, perhaps only one step away from being thrown right off by an angry bump, or an even more angry porter catching me hitching a ride.
Most experienced the ride that day within the confines of a steel cage - I experienced most of the rest of the trip outside in the fresh air, feeling wonderful and free.
Taking just a little risk enabled me to see so much more of everything - I felt as if I had been let loose onto a movie set where John Wayne would come walking out any minute, or perhaps if I looked carefully below me, I might catch a quick glimpse of The Sundance Kid hiding beneath the cars.
A trip through the Sierra Madres, a journey of epic proportions, and one lone woman standing in between trains having the time of her life.