Last Seen Blogs
ecofridgeuk
Eco Fridge UK
livingdeadbun
LiViNG DeaD BuN
randasar
Randasar
theobserver-laobservadora
Why not?
cozyautumnwanderlust
Cozy Autumn Wanderlust
Text
45-seconds of free-fall adrenaline with an IDF Paratrooper
The door slides open and furious winds blast inside. I’m tightly strapped to the instructor I just met — some former Israel Defense Forces Paratrooper named Steve or Zeve or Zev — who I’m expected to trust enough to pull the chute on time to prevent my body from becoming a splattered yolk on the far below land.
And I can’t get a grasp on his first name.
He instructs me to scoot over to the edge and let my feet dangle out. “Keep your eyes open,” he calls in his Israeli accent, over the hissing wind.
12,000 feet hight, my stomach twists. The world below is like an immense quilt of green and yellow patches, vaguely dotted with thousands of microscopic buildings and cars. No turning back now; those dots are about to get a whole lot bigger.
And here’s the thing…I’m scared shitless of heights...
My heartbeat accelerates. I tremble on the rattling edge. Steve, Zeve, or Zev points to a little sign on the side of the open door. It’s a little bathroom symbol man with what seems to be a puff shooting out of his ass and a big red circle ex over top. It’s clearly saying: “Don’t shit your pants!” I wonder if its mostly to add humour to a stressful situation. Must be. Valiant effort, fellas.
Wait...does that happen? Like, could I actually shit myself? Better not ask. Wouldn’t want to distract Steve, Zeve, or Zez when he’s busy doing his due-diligence in making sure the two of us don’t die and all. If I were him, the last thing I’d want to be thinking about before pulling a chute is whether or not the doofus who’s strapped to me is gonna blast digested shawarma up my mouth at 12,000 feet in the air. That’d be a shitty.
Before deciding whether or not I wanted to risk my life for the exhilarating experience of jumping out of a plane, I thought long and hard about what I’d actually get out of it. My dad, an opinonated personal injury lawyer, would not approve of such an “idiotic excursion!” So why do it? Why would anyone dive face first off the edge of danger and harness their life to the hands of a complete stranger?
Now, there’s the typical group of reasons. An adrenaline junkie life style. The far too literal excuse of jumping out of your comfort zone. Refusing to let fear control you. Seeing if you could fall with more style than Buzz Lightyear. You know, all that heroic shit.
But as I hold my breath and count down the seconds before everything that’s ever made my body secure is compromised, I consider a taunting philosophical theory (okay, I thought about it retrospectively — during that particular moment I was only thinking about not shitting myself): People jump out of planes because they know they’re going to die.
I’m not talking about bucket lists and adrenaline stunts.
In the Pulitzer Award winning novel, The Denial of Death, Ernest Becker explained that human psychology — whether consciously or subconsciously — is innately mortified by the thought of dying. We’re so terrified that, in desperate attempts to conquer the ticking clock of our lives, we feel a need to test our mortality. By throwing ourselves into danger for fun, we are able to alleviate the psychological fear hardwired into our brains.
In other words, when we look death in the eye and survive its wrath, we convince our psyche of suppressed horror that we are, to some degree, immortal.
What’s this mean? Skydiving is more than just an adrenaline rush. But maybe it’s more than death denial, too.
One tap on the chest: bend knees and tuck my chin.
“Three!” shouts Steve, Zeve, or Zev.
My legs dangle off the edge and the current of wind whips against my old sneakers.
“Two!”
You know that scene in movies when everything slows down and the protagonist looks forward with a gaze of determination while the orchestral crescendo rises to convey a moment of heroism and self-discovery? Yeah, well life’s not like that. I look back at that “Don’t shit your pants!” sign and consider the possibility of losing control of my bowels…
“One!”
Two taps. Arms out, legs wide. Down we go.
My breath jams in my throat. My cheeks ripple outward. And Steve, Zeve, Zev and I rocket back to earth.
My greatest fear has always been leaving this world misunderstood, of dying with all my thoughts and memories. That’s where writing comes in for me; the one reassurance I’ve always had is that words don’t die. Words are the only anchor I’ve got, securing my existence to the ground, preventing me from drifting away and becoming forgotten. It is my safetynet of immortality.
It’s the pursuit of our impending legacies and life experiences that make us feel grounded on our physical world. Sometimes these pursuits come in the form of scribbling your name on your cabin wall at summer camp, and sometimes it means jumping out a plane 12,000 feet in the air, or moving to Alaska and living in an abandoned bus as you slowly starve to death. (Into the Wild is a great fucking movie.) Take your pick.
As Becker explains, our entire lives can be seen as an endless sequence of “immortality projects.” Everything from climbing the corporate latter, to finding a spouse and raising a family, can fundamentally be driven by the psychological understanding that the clock is ticking. Immortality projects are our values. They determine how we want to live our lives, who we want to live our lives with, and what role we want to play in the turning gears of society. They determine just how much excitement we want to endure. And to what extreme.
Despite being well aware of our own mortality, humanity collectively spends our lives fighting to overcome it. But maybe there’s a sense of togetherness and beauty in our mortality as well. Maybe a unifying love for adventure unlocks an elevated, or high-as-fuck, understanding.
In those 45 seconds of free-fall, as I dart through the sky, strapped tightly to Steve, Zeve or Zev, quickly nearing the great quilt of green and yellow patches, it feels as if I'm flying. All terror ceases to exist and is replaced with absolute amazement. The earth below has never felt so spectacular. I feel on top of the world, and I am.
But it's not just that I'm flying. It was where I'm flying — over the coast of Dor Beach, just outside Haifa, Israel. A land constantly under political scrutiny. A region that has faced shit-storm after shit-storm and has grown stronger because of it. To say it's stunning is an understatement.
After the parachute deploys, immersed in the sudden silence of being several hundred feet above ground, Steve, Zeve, or Zev allows me to take hold of the handles that control the direction we glide downward, almost like saying: “You trusted me, so now I trust you.”
“What’s your name?” I call to him.
“Zadok,” he says.
Wow. I was way off.
Zadok teaches me how to do it. Pulling one handle slightly down would make us veer to the opposite side. Pulling hard and forward would cause an immediate sharp turn. It's simple enough.
With a jumping heart, I maneuver us over an immense body of blue water; it sparkles far below like billions of diamonds rolling for miles out. The beauty is overwhelming. It doesn't feel real.
As I turn left and right, sailing over the magnificent land below, breathing in the crisp Mediterranean air, I ask Zadok if he ever gets used to this place. I had heard so many different thoughts on what Israel means to different people.
“Not from up here,” he tells me. And this makes me laugh.
I realize it takes a change of perspective to appreciate beauty for what it really is. It’s easy to get lost in old views, to see life the way we always have, but a change of sight can allow us to see so much more. Especially sights like this.
There are countless social perspectives, political outlooks and conflicting ideologies that spiral through the Middle East like a destructive tornado. But up here, there was one view that everyone could agree on: the world is small, and we are smaller.
Perhaps a view from up high can fuel insight below.
What does this mean? We are all mortal, but we are not alone.
I’m not saying we should forget our problems and attain thoughts of drowning existential insignificance; I’m saying we should live our lives knowing that our problems are not the only problems, that the world we see is not the entire world worth knowing. That our fragility is not a curse because it’s simply what makes us all human. And that being human — in a world as drop-dead-gorgeous as this — is pretty fucking awesome.
Skydiving is about letting go of everything you know, everything that makes you feel secure, taking the risk and surrendering to the pull of gravity.
The only way to accomplish our greatest aspirations is to pursue that exact mentality: push beyond the bounds of your life and have faith you won’t end up a splatter yolk.
Surrender to gravity and let life take you wherever you need to be. Dive into new paradigms — without old perspectives intervening and blurring the view. Do it before it’s too late. Because here’s the bottom line: our time is limited.
Despite how much we build up the illusion of immortality, we will simply not last forever. The future is uncertain, so we must not devote our lives to it.
What’s important is simply now. This moment right here. This tick-tock of time where you are currently breathing and thinking and living. Nothing else is for certain except where you are as you read these words. No preconceptions. No assumptions. No facts.
My advice is as simple as it is cliché. Travel the world. Learn to play an instrument. Tackle a new language. Do something that scares you and look through the windows of new views. Live as if you’re falling and about to hit the ground. Because you are going to die, but today you are alive.
And if you ever decide to jump out of a plane, take the time to learn the name of the person you’re strapped to.
Oh...and while you’re at it, try not to shit yourself.
Sincerely,
Mr. Naked.
0 notes
Text
The goat shit chronicles: A college story you’ll never forget...
His name was George. He shat everywhere.
First, here’s a quick message from our main sponsor: “As these stories proceed, they should become less about college shenanigans and more about Mr. Naked’s quest to become a respectable and responsible young man. Preferably, with his pants on.”
Thanks for the encouraging words, Dad! But before we sail too abruptly into those grim, choppy waters, let me be so kind as to steer you back in time to one of the greatest college stories you will ever encounter. You think I’m bluffing? Well, a nudist never bluffs. Never.
You sitting down? You comfy? Door locked? Good. Listen up. This is the time I cleaned the goat shit…
During my last year living in my fraternity house, before I was officially released into the real world as a responsible and productive member of society (corny arm swing), my roommates and I took care of a baby goat. Yes, a baby goat. (More correctly called a “kid.”) His name was George. He was adorable. Just look at the grainy photo above and try not to melt.
I know what you’re thinking. How did a helpless goat end up in the domestic care of a bunch of drunken frat brothers who could barely take care of a clogged toilet? I mean, if you were to just look at the mountains of red-solo cups and puke stains riddled throughout our kitchen, you’d know any PEETA representative would just about have an aneurism if informed. This isn’t Blue Mountain State, for shit’s sake. Here’s how it happened.
It all started with one of my beloved fraternity brothers, who, for the purpose of this story, we’ll call Swiper. Swiper is your typical Call of Duty, late-night-pizza, Saturdays-are-for-the-boys-kind-of-dude. He loves partying, watching Dragon Ball-Z, and has an epic collection of Pokémon cards — just to paint an accurate picture of who we’re dealing with.
One day in early October, Swiper matched with some girl on tinder who was part of some animal rights activism club. We’ll call this gal Mother Teresa. The university is surrounded by farmland, and with an inside scoop that one of the local barns was being ripped down, and after eventually discovering that some of the newborn goats of this barn would, quite unfortunately, need to be sent off to goat heaven, Mother Teresa decided to adopt one. She named him George — because that’s a pretty cool name for a goat! But shortly after adopting this new, beloved pet, Mother Teresa realized that she would need to have her house made “goat-friendly.” I think she was working on rebuilding some sort of shed or insulated cabin in her backyard before winter came, but, in the meantime, she needed someone else to look after George for a couple nights. And, promptly, she turned to the most responsible, trustworthy caretaker she could find: her latest tinder match, Swiper.
I’m still not entirely sure why, but Swiper volunteered the frat house. He didn’t even live in it. But he figured we’d have more than enough space in the basement — which was true. He also figured the brothers would be psyched to house a goat. Which was also true. All of us were bouncing off the walls with excitement. How many university students get to live with a living goat? Sign us the hell up.
We designated a room in the basement — which came to be known as “The Barn” — and laid out some extra hay we had leftover from the last pledge event. (Don’t ask.) George made himself right at home. He frolicked around, taking in his new environment with as much excitement as a young goat could muster.
Fleets of brothers rushed to visit our new honorary brother in The Barn, feeding him things whenever they felt it necessary. Some carrot pieces here, some pizza crust there, the occasional weed brownie there (just kidding), and pretty much anything this group of righteous morons deemed appropriate for animal consumption. George was a beloved member of our fraternal family. I’m tearing up just thinking about the way his eyes used to widen whenever one of us would go downstairs to check on him late at night…
After the two nights were up, Mother Teresa came to retrieve George. That’s when we first noticed what had occurred the night prior.
Swiper didn’t exactly translate any of the diligent instructions Mother Teresa had given him before handing over the leash. He failed to mention anything regarding outside time, or dietary restrictions, or what pressure from too many people visiting at once could lead to. The result: mounds, and mounds, and mounds of goat crap splattered all over the floors and walls.
Shit. Was. Everywhere.
We took on the not-my-goat-not-my-problem mentality with Mother Teresa, and she did her due-diligence in scooping up all the poo pebbles with a doggy bag and shoving them in an extra-large garbage bag. It took her about ten minutes. We thanked her for our time with George and said our teary-eyed farewells. “Goodbye George! We’ll never forget you!” (Voice of kid from Free Willy.)
And then Mother Teresa and our furry little friend were gone in a hurry. Leaving one small problem... Mother Teresa forgot to expose of the massive bag of goat shit.
And so did we...
We were having a party that night, and whenever that happens we order our army of pledges to party-prep the place. That means setting up the speakers, clearing furniture, tapping kegs, and cleaning up any intrusive garbage. The procedure is often a rush because the pledges normally don’t arrive until ten minutes before the party starts. The speed of the moment leads to frantic organization, and sometimes the misplacing of items. Sometimes it leads to messes being moved elsewhere, out of reach, out of mind. Like some stinky hockey equipment being shoved in a closet — or, a mysterious garbage bag, left on the washing machine outside The Barn, being placed behind a random wall panel, soon to be forgotten…
Now, I don’t know exactly how much time had passed from that day until we first noticed traces of the initial smell. It’s might’ve been three months; it might’ve been four. But I’ll say this: there were at least six parties since the garbage bag of shit disappeared. Of those six parties, at least four of them resulted in our basement flooding from ruptured pipes. (It was a regular occurrence given girls’ wasteful approach to toilet paper whenever they need to tinkle. Seriously, ladies, figure it the fuck out.)
One day, months later, my roommate called me as I was walking back from class.
“Dude, you gotta come home! Quick! The house smells like…like something died!”
Now, this wasn’t a new manifestation. The house normally smells bad. But something about the urgency in my roommate’s voice caused me to quicken my stride. The moment I walked through the front door, I was hit with a sudden blast of undistinguishable, sulphuric potency wafting through the humid air. Something was up, and none of us could figure out where it was coming from.
“Maybe it’s from under the backyard deck?”
“Maybe the garage?”
“Did you check the attic?”
“Maybe the sewage pipes burst again!”
“Boys, it’s definitely coming from downstairs!”
With some half-assed investigation through the basement, shirt collars concealing our nostrils, we failed to pinpoint the culprit. And so, we tried to ignore it. We assumed it was just a phase, an odour that will eventually dissolve with the right passage of time.
Days passed and the rotten potency only grew stronger, circulating through the air and causing us to choke on our own breaths. Focussed on classes, we tried to forget about it. But it’s hard to ignore a smell when your eyes start to burn.
And so we turned to desperate measures: We called our Landlord.
After explaining the severity of the eye-burning circumstance, our Landlord sent over two contractors to snoop around. We’ll call them Tim and Jim: two broad-shouldered, barrel-gutted Russian guys who had made a living in student housing maintenance — well-seasoned in the wide range of decorative messes that typically arrive with student occupancy. Our saviours had come. Tim and Jim followed their veteran noses in the basement as we hung in the living room with windows wide open.
I’ll never forget the moment. As my five roommates and I were sitting there on those couches with fans blowing full-blast and a light breeze rolling through the open windows, we suddenly heard the barreling thunder-stomps of Tim and Jim cannoning upstairs. Gagging and coughing, they sprinted past us, charged through the door, and stumbled onto the front lawn.
Watching curiously through the open window, we saw Tim and Jim — these two Russian handymen vets who had supposedly seen it all — heaving and retching until both of them projectile vomited onto the patchy grass. We watched this with eyes wide and jaws dropped to the floor. A tingle climbed up my spine.
When Tim and Jim were finally done their puke-festival, they threw up their hands and called to us through the open windows. “You’re on your own boys!”
Walking down the creaking staircase to the basement to scout the scene was awfully similar to the climax of a horror movie. We half-expected some demonic monster to ascend from the basement floor and drag us into the fiery pits of hell. We were entering the Upside-Down of Stranger Things. What could be so bad that Tim and Jim would just abandon mission and blow chunks all over our front lawn?
As the lights flickered on, the pieces of what happened came together. Our looming mystery was finally solved...
Our basement had become a landfill of wet, aged goat shit, leaking out of the deteriorated plastic of an old, shrivelled garbage bag. Tim and Jim must’ve found the bag hidden behind a wall panel, and shortly after digging up the buried monster, the bag disintegrated in their grip and the soggy goat shit — which had endured all the basement floods — splattered all over the floor, releasing the full wrath of eye-burning, mind-fading, excretion-rotten-revulsion.
The smell was enough to kill someone. We sprinted back upstairs and tried not to vomit like Tim and Jim. Some of us couldn’t help it.
Our little conflict had spiraled out of control. At first it was a bad smell, now it was recognized animal feces that had been circulating through our air and was probably an extreme health-hazard. What did we do to solve this problem? What steps were taken to mitigate this deadly threat as quickly as possible before it got any worse?
We did what most 20-year-old frat brothers would do when shit hits the fan: we all refused to clean it up.
“You do it fucker!”
“Not happening! You do it!
“No fucking way! I’d rather drop out of school than go back down there!”
“Man...I think I’d honestly rather die!”
“Swiper should do it!”
“We all know Swiper isn’t cleaning it! He doesn’t live here!”
“Let’s send the pledges!”
“They just graduated as brothers, dumb-ass! We can’t slave them around anymore!”
“Well fuck! I’m not touching it!”
“Me neither!”
“No fucking way!”
“No fucking way!”
“No fucking way!”
Like gentlemen of class, each of us opted out of manning up. And so, we left the basement as it was. For two weeks.
In a desperate attempt to stay breathing, we perpetually left all doors and windows open. Personally, I slept with my head poking out of an open window, pillow on the ledge. Fans were blasting 24/7. Bed sheets were hung over the basement entrance as a desperate barrier. AC became a lifeline, not a luxury. And certain areas near the basement were explicitly off-limits. But our circumstances could only be ignored for so long. Eventually someone had to step up to the plate or we were all going to die before forty from contaminated oxygen inhalation. We needed a hero.
Mr. Naked was the only man for the job. (Superhero trumpets.)
Before I got to work, I walked downstairs and took a quick glance to assess any changes in the situation — mostly to see if anything mutated into a new species. That’s when I noticed the cherry on top of our shit-swirled Sunday…
As I mentioned, all of our doors and windows were left open to air out the house as much as possible. At some point in the two weeks of open access into our humble home, three or four or five raccoons must’ve sniffed out the delightful aroma that drifted through our basement like a bakery of fresh dough. The scent, which might as well have been pheromone incense to these mischievous dumpster rats, signaled a call of duty. A duty for them to follow suit and leave a mark of their own.
Not believing my eyes, our basement full of flooded goat shit now also had mounds of mouldy raccoon shit decorated all around like a carefully organized moat of shit surrounding shit!
I was standing in a clogged toilet bowl. And I couldn’t ‘waste’ any more time.
After running upstairs, I made a hazmat suit out of garbage bags. I wrapped some old t-shirts tightly around my face, covering every inch of skin. I gloved my hands with old oven mitts and walked sombrely down the creaking steps with steady breaths into the cotton of the old t-shirts, a mop aimed forward like an M-16 assault rifle. I was ready for fucking war.
First, I pushed all raccoon shit into a fresh garbage bag; it was the least of my problem because it was more dry and solid, and hadn’t been fermenting for months like the goat poo.
Then I whipped open another bag and used a pizza box to scoop up the first layer of excrement goo; the layers beneath had cemented to the floor. The smell violated my nostrils and I had to run back upstairs a few times for a gulp of fresh air like I was holding my breath in the deep-end of a swimming pool. I tried mopping up the cemented shit but it just wouldn’t budge.
Eventually, I returned with a final solution: a full bottle of Mrs. Meyers liquid dish soap.
I blasted that bottle like I was firing a tank in the trenches of nuclear warfare. The green soap covered the shit-doused floor like a power-hose extinguishing a raging house fire.
I dumped a bucket of water and began spreading the foam around with the flimsy mop; the soap bubbled everywhere — which was undeniably satisfying. Then I just about emptied three canisters of Lysol disinfection spray, one and a half bottles of Febreeze air freshener, and plugged in three industrial fans on full-swivel.
There wasn’t enough air, so I took a hockey stick and smashed open the basement window over the washing machine. Glass shards showered the soapy floor.
Learning from previous mistakes, I made the conscious effort of exposing the shit-filled-garbage-bags at the dumpster across the street. When I returned back home, as the floors dried downstairs, I breathed in a hesitant whiff. The pungent stench had finally alleviated.
Miraculously, the enemy had been defeated. Sound the sirens! Light the fireworks! Bake me a fucking cake! (Vanilla, not chocolate!)
My lesson was simple yet profound: part of growing up is succumbing to the need to clean shit up.
We all need to do it. Shit surrounds us all the time.
Sometimes this shit is way too literal. Sometimes it’s synonymous with the problems in our life that many people neglect taking accountability for.
But if you want to conquer your demons, it’s better to do it before they get too strong.
I guess goats pooping in frat houses can serve as a poetic lesson on the road to what my father calls becoming “a respectable and responsible young man!”
Hope you’re proud of my virtuous accomplishment, Dad!
Oh…and thanks for the lesson, George! I’ll never forget you…
Sincerely,
Mr. Naked.
0 notes
Text
An illegal hike in Patagonia, Southern Chile
A few weeks ago I wrote my last exam and completed my undergraduate degree. Now I’m trekking through the star-spangled night in the Patagonian mountains of Torres del Paine, Southern Chile — with nothing but a few fake camping permits forged on PhotoShop, a dying cell phone for light, three buddies popping Robax pills like candy, and furious winds slamming against our throbbing muscles.
It’s a long way to go for a sunrise. Especially one we may not get to see.
How did I get here?
The W-Trek in Torres del Paine, Patagonia is typically a five-day-hike through abruptly fluctuating weather conditions, rocky wilderness trails, and some picturesque scenery that’ll make you rub your eyes and drop your jaw.
The landscape ranges from vibrant greenery to rushing rivers and looming glacier mountains. It’s full of the types of views that make the entire world stop — the views that make you feel both lost and found in the blink of an eye. It’s a pinch-me-I’m-dreaming kind of place that pulls you in and captures your imagination, and it makes any distance, no matter how dangerous — and no matter the preventative legal sanctions — entirely worth the trip.
youtube
But thanks to some divided ownership throughout the region of the natural reserve, and as a result of terrible tourist accessibility on registration sites, it’s become just about impossible to acquire required permits for designated camping zones. Without these permits, it’s illegal to spend the night on these trails. Trespassing without permits is a criminal offence and any travellers caught without proper documentation are immediately slammed with severe fines — or, quite possibly, South American jail time. An army of park rangers are stationed throughout the region to check papers, and they’re obliged to press the consequences if you’re caught empty-handed.
This ain’t no walk in the park.
But after a few buddies and I finished up our finals to complete our degrees, not yet ready to succumb to the adult restrained world of cubicles and productivity, we decided to hop of a 14-hour flight to South America to give the W-trek a shot. Without any permits.
After a few days in Buenos Aires, Argentina, we flew to Punta Arenas in Chile. Through talking to some fellow backpackers who managed to complete the trek, we discovered that despite the declared “unavailability” of camping spots which is flaunted on registration sites, there’s almost always more than enough space. This was important because at least now we knew that if we showed up, it wouldn’t be too crammed to set up camp.
One of my buddies, an Aussie who we’ll call Mr. Kangaroo Jack (an experienced world traveller), had actually managed to book some camping spots for the trek a year prior, before traction restrictions made obtaining permits so impossible. He never ended up going to Chile to complete the hike, but having the templates of the official documentation was the first step in the right (and very illegal) direction.
We called a friend back in Toronto with some PhotoShop expertise, and he became our “Man in the Chair,” carefully changing some digits and remanufacturing the permits to fit our incoming arrival dates.
Now, this might’ve been a little overkill. There have been hikers without permits who have managed to complete the trek with nothing but the right dosage of stealthy ambition. But if we were coming all this way, we sure as hell wanted a contingency lined up. Especially since the four of us had as much stealth as a litter of golden retriever puppies.
After a night in Peurto Natales to gather gear and food supplies, we ate our final supper of frozen pizzas that we cooked in the hostel’s oven, packed until 3 AM, went to bed, and mentally prepared for whatever we were about to walk into. I laid restless through the night, considering our limited food supply, our forged documents, our budgeted gear. I’ve tripped before. But never like this.
Typically, the W-Trek starts from the East end to the West of Torres del Paine. We decided to increase our chances of staying inside by entering from the West end — by taking the daily ferry meant to pick up those leaving the park. We figured it would be more difficult for them to send us back if we were already deep enough inside. What were they going to do otherwise? Helicopter us out? Feed us to the pumas?
Once the boat hit the shore, the four of us scrambled for our packs and exited the ferry, finally entering park grounds. Mountains. Rivers. Glaciers. Valleys. Welcome to Jurassic Park. Or Mordor.
We knew that if we turned up early at the first site without permits, rangers would be able to send us back on the ferry, so we booked it deep into the nearest valley as the permitted arrivals headed to the registration office.
Winds screamed against us as we moved deeper in, suddenly immersed in complete isolation. After a while of exploring, we finally hit our first water source: a glacier river. Immediately, we filled our bottles.
Quick aside: There’s something undeniably satisfying about drinking from a glacier that you know is tens of thousands of years old. The stream is pristine and untouched by any of the chaos of the outside world. It’s like you’ve untapped a time capsule that flows with historical isolation. It’s the first experience that really makes you feel that you’ve entered a territory of unbeaten paths.
When our watches struck 7:30 we headed back to the first camp zone. We wanted to wait until the last ferry returned to the access point to guarantee our chances of not being sent back.
We headed back and set our tent, thankful that no rangers intervened. But we knew such luck wouldn’t last long.
Hungry for adventure, and ecstatic that we made it this far, we spent the next day exploring. Mr. Kangaroo Jack brought a drone, which was even more illegal to fly than camping without permits. But with everything we’ve already done, there was no way in hell we would be moronic enough to break any more rules.
Watch the drone video above.
Our first big encounter with authorities didn’t occur until the morning we decided to continue our route.
As we made our way, we passed a cabin of rangers — who refused to let us pass without reviewing our permits for the next site.
We had no idea how compatible the PhotoShopped documents were with the actual required permits (the templates we were working off of was from the year prior). The slightest blemish in the logo, a misspelled Spanish word, a bolded number, or any suspiciously unusual detail would’ve thrown us in big, big, South American mierda.
“Permits, por favor,” one of the two rangers sitting on the cabin porch said. We assessed who we were dealing with: Two Chileans with faulty english and an apparent pride in professional authority. An immediate red flag.
We dropped our packs.
“Un minito,” we said, as Mr. Kangaroo Jack started fishing for the documents deep in his bag.
Both rangers looked at us with narrowed eyes.
After about a minute of digging, Kangaroo Jack found the papers and handed them over.
“How’s the matee?” asked one of my buddies, Donny, pointing to the metal cup in one of the rangers hands. It’s a traditional South American caffeine-infused drink, similar to tea but more bitter and potent. The question was a simple attempt to avert their attention anywhere besides the papers they were so dutifully scanning.
(Meanwhile I took out my phone and snapped a quick photo, pretending to check the time. This would make a killer SMN story, I thought.)
At first the matee drinker didn’t respond to Donny’s simple question. He continued whispering in Spanish to the other ranger as they pointed out different sections of the documents. My heart was rattling out of my chest. Then he said: “Es fuerte.” Spanish for “It’s strong.”
We then all promptly dove into a discussion about the South American drink as if it were the most fascinating beverage to ever grace planet Earth.
“I hear there’s all these customs with the way you’re supposed to angle the straw,” I said, fanning the conversational flame.
“Yeah, yeah, there’s a ton of different customs,” said Allan. “It’s been around for centuries! But this guy got a serious mixer. It’s metal!”
“Yeah all the ones we saw were made of cheap wood,” said Mr. Kangaroo Jack.
“Like the one I bought at that market. Still have no idea how to use that thing,” said Donny.
“I bet we could get some intense flavours,” said Allan.
“Yeah, I wonder how much caffeine is in an average cup of those...”
Then, before we could carry out our meaningless matee-mixer-conversation any further, one of them handed the permits back to Mr. Kangaroo Jack — as if a desperate attempt to shut us up.
“Bien, esta bien,” he said.
We were good to go.
We assumed the rest of our adventure would be a breeze. And, for the most part, it was.
After five days of hiking, when we finally made it to the east end of Torres del Paine, there was one view that needed to be caught: The Torres del Paine Peak.
Known for being one of the most stunning spots in the national reserve to catch a sunrise, the peak is an 8-hour climb up one of the tallest mountains in the region. Since we were there illegally and had to avoid rangers, and after considering our track-record for finishing hikes several hours past the marked time duration on the map, we decided to leave at 8:00 PM the night before — hoping to arrive on time for the 5:30 sunrise.
With the right dosage of Robax, caffeine pills, and a final blaze of motivation, we worked our way up the mountain.
After the final glow of orange slipped away, we resorted to our cellphone lights and walked in a tight, single-file line. The path twisted and turned up the mountainous landscape. The route became an endless staircase of rocky terrain that made our legs throb with agony.
There’s a campsite called “Chileno” at the halfway point, with rangers ready to check permits upon any hikers’ arrival, so we sneaked into the Banio to warm up a little and get some rest. By this point it was face-stabbing cold, so we all huddled for warmth, seeing our breaths cloud the narrow bathroom.
Around 3:00 AM, once we were sure the coast was clear, we ate some final cliff bars (that we had been diligently rationing throughout the hike because we didn’t bring enough food), swallowed more Robax and caffeine pills, and continued up.
“Stop poking me with your bitch sticks!” called Allan, as we moved on in the darkness of the wilderness.
“Maybe if you used your own hiking sticks you wouldn’t be complaining about your legs so much,” called Donny.
“You guys hear that?” called Mr. Kangaroo Jack, shining his cellphone light around.
“It was probably just a puma,” said Donny. “Don’t worry, my bitch sticks will protect us.”
“Guys, look up,” I said, as we walked into a clearing of forestry.
The velvety sky was explosive with billions of glowing dots. The Milky Way was stretched over us like a thin blanket of light. I’ve never seen stars like I did that night. (No shitty cellphone pic would do it justice.)
When I was a canoe tripper at a summer camp, there was always a poem I would recite to my campers when we sat around the fire and looked up at the stars. I decided to tell it to the boys right there and then. It’s by an American poet named Wendell Berry.
“When despair for the world grows in me, and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things, who do not tax their lives with the forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water, and I feel above me the day-blind stars, waiting with their light. For a time, I rest in the grace of the world. And I’m free.”
-Wendell Berry
Eventually we came across a ranger cabin. We had no idea if these guys would be more persistent with permit assessment than the last guys, so we decided not to risk it. We went the long way around, adding more distance to the strenuously long hike.
The higher we went, the less distinctive the path became. Eventually we began to think we lost our way. We thought we were gonna freeze to death, and then get eaten by pumas, and nobody would give a shit about us because we didn’t even have the fucking permits to be here in the first place.
But eventually our lights illuminated a wooden sign saying: “Mirado.” Spanish for “peak.”
We sat in an expanse of boulders at the top of the jagged mountain.
When we were moving it wasn’t so bad, but as we waited for the sun to emerge from the east, we shivered our nuts off.
The four of us squeezed one another tightly, desperate for the slightest trace of warmth. It’s strictly illegal to build fires in Patagonia because of a previous accident where some hiker burnt down 30% of Torres del Paine as a result of the dangerously strong and unpredictable wind gusts, and we decided this was one rule we should probably abide by.
So we remained shivering helplessly, passing around some liquor and drinking it between chattering teeth and blue lips. All we could hope was that all this unbearable cold would be worth it. And as it turns out, it wasn’t.
Despite everything we’ve done, the pain we’ve endured, the rangers we manipulated, the rules we broke, and the distances we conquered, the cloudy sky would block the sun this dark, grey morning.
There would be no climatic sunrise. No epic conclusion. No cherry on top.
We sat there and shivered in increasing disappointment, passing around the last of our liquor to pump some warmth into our icy veins. As the sky transitioned from a light shade of purple to a little grey, we accepted that there was no point in shivering any longer.
We turned back around and headed back to camp. We discussed finding a bus at the access point to finally take us out of the park. For most of the return, the disappointment was unshakable. We were soured by the fact that we didn’t get the fairytale ending we were hoping for. But as we took in the last moments of picturesque serenity, a comforting thought emerged: we got many more sunrises to come.
I think disappointment has a way of distorting people’s memories. If a situation fails to meet expectations entirely, it becomes too easy for everything else to be seen differently from how it was. So maybe the solution is simple: minimize your expectations.
The best moments in life seem to be the ones that aren’t planned. The spontaneous, off-the-grid adventures that take place after minimal preparation — if any at all. The moments where you jump on a 13-hour flight to complete an illegal hike in South America, the moments where you look up and are blown away by a sky full of stars that make every problem seem small, the moments where life seems to work. Where it’s not leading up to some epic conclusion, but simply giving you what you need when you need it.
The beautiful thing about being so young and fresh out of university is that we get to spend the next few years taking the necessary risks to living a good life. The reality of the matter is that we’re not going to succeed in everything. Some sunrises will just never be seen. But as long as we take chances and enjoy the process, as long as we look up at the stars and enjoy the company of good friends, and as long as we don’t end up in a Chilean prison for trespassing in a national park and flying a drone, life will be a pretty exceptional thing.
But as important as it is to take chances, it’s just as important to take the necessary steps of preparation. I think we live in a world of opposing extremes. People believe in absolute control or absolute freedom. Some will go everywhere and anywhere with no precautionary contingencies. And some will never leave the safety of their own nests.
But to see sights like this, you need to find a harmony. You need to find a balance between freedom and control, spontaneity and calculation, safety and danger. Humans require order just as much as we require chaos. Too much of either will lead us down an unfulfilling path.
Now I’m finally out of university. I’m 22-year-olds. I’m scared as fuck. But I’ve seen beauty that some people will never get the chance to see. So no matter what the gamble, the cards are already in my hands. Because even if I lose, I already won.
For now, I’ll just keep on adventuring for the next big story.
Sincerely,
Mr. Naked
0 notes
Text
Deep talks with a Las Vegas stripper: I think I’m in love...
“How bout you sit there.” I point to the seat next to me. She looks at me with a flash of confusion — a look that wonders if I’m happily married, gay, or both. Why else wouldn’t I let her bare ass sit on my lap?
“Um…okay, that’s a little different.”
“Yeah, to be honest, I don’t want to waste your time. I’m not planning on spending anything tonight.”
“So why you here?” She leans in close. I really like her schoolgirl plaid skirt. Her legs are long and glowing, and her foot is rubbing against my ankle.
I gesture to my boys sitting in the booth. Derek is getting a dance from a brunette with a pink skirt. Matt is talking to a blonde in black fishnets. Calvin is kissing a redhead’s hand. Pete is leaning into a Latina girl’s ear and making her roar with laughter; I wonder if she’s laughing for real. Probably not — he’s really not that funny.
“My friends insisted. And where else would you end the night in Las Vegas?”
“I guess that’s true. But you’re just going to sit there?”
“It beats losing all my money on roulette.”
I’ve already lost thirty dollars on red. I know that’s not a lot, but I don’t really have much money to lose, being a writer and all.
“Is it? At least with roulette you’ve got the chance to walk out richer than you came in. Can’t say the same about here.”
“Can’t say the same about roulette, either.”
I’ve discovered the hard way that losing is inevitable. Even when you win.
When we first got out of the cab, there was a big sign: “Sapphire: The World’s Largest Gentlemen’s Club.” I heard this is the biggest in Las Vegas but is it really the “largest in the world”? Or is that just one of the many sale strategies that litter the strip? Just another flash of dishonesty?
I had gotten into a little argument with boys back in the hotel room. “Why would anyone pay to see boobs?” I shouted.
“Dude, are you serious? That’s literally how Las Vegas was built!” shouted Calvin. “The mob, gambling, and boobs!”
“People pay for boobs all the time,” reasoned Pete. “But paying for a dance is less expensive than paying for dates, hotel rooms, diamond rings, and weddings.”
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Francesca,” she says, folding one leg over the other; the other foot is still rubbing against my ankle.
Great stripper name. Completely original! I wonder if you have to register those to avoid too many Francesca’s from clogging the strip.
“Well, Francesca, do you mind if I ask you something?” I lean in and move my leg away from her game of footsie. I try to signal that I just want to talk.
She straightens up, serious. “Yeah…what’s up?”
“Do you like it here?”
“In Vegas, or,” she points to the floor, “here?”
“Um…both…”
That’s the moment she snaps out of her sexy school-girl act. She stops pursing her lips and batting her eyelashes and looks at me like just another girl lost in a confusing world.
“It can be a little much sometimes.”
“How long have you’ve been here?”
“Three weeks.”
“Have you lost your soul yet?”
She laughs, but not flirtatiously. I think she actually found the cliché funny. She doesn’t seem like she’s selling herself anymore; it’s the first I’ve felt that from anyone since I got here. Who knew it’d come from a stripper?
“All of it can be a little…extra sometimes.”
I nod my head in agreement. When I first got here I immediately asked myself why I came. This place seems to represent everything I hate. It’s a city of immediacy, high-rolling external validation, a desert of chaos — though in a charming way, a destructive way just the same. It can throw a smile of amazement on your face the same moment it sucks the life out of you and keeps you penniless and confused.
Vegas is the mugger that entices you, arouses you, and fucks you without buying you dinner. It seduces you with its flashing lights and big watches and rooftop pool parties; it buckles you aboard an endless rollercoaster of exhilaration that’s always looking for the next drop and always on the verge of flying off the rails. It’s a system that strives for people’ instability excused as versatility. It’s a world that capitalizes on the raw urges of human psychology.
“And here?” I point to the floor.
“It’s good and bad. Depends on the night. Some guys could be really big assholes. Some just blow money they don’t have. But the coolest part of this job is when I get to understand people.”
This interests me. “What do you mean by that?”
“I get exposed to people for who they really are. As the night progresses, I get to see a shift in personalities.”
“Douchebags become sweethearts? Other way around?”
“More than that. Confident guys end the night crying into my shoulder. They open up to me.”
“Wow! You’re a psychiatrist, too.”
“Exactly!”
“Guess that’s not what you signed up for.”
“Nope,” she says. “But it gives me good content. I’m a writer.”
I look at her with a dropped jaw.
“What?”
“Are you really?”
“What, strippers can’t be writers? You think we’re all illiterate or something? Only know how to shake our asses?”
“No, no!” I throw my hands up in defence. “It’s not that at all — I’m just…surprised because I’m a writer, too!”
“Really? What do you write about?”
“Mostly my experiences. I’m a storyteller... What about you?”
“I was a stripper in New York for six months. I’m writing a book about it. This here is just another chapter.”
“That sounds incredible!“
“Thanks.”
“Reminds me of my favourite Ernest Hemingway quote.”
She raises a brow.
“In order to write about life, first you must live it.”
“Love it.”
“You know, I love getting naked, too.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I haven’t done it for money yet. But I guess that’s always an option. Maybe I’ll write a book about it also.”
“I’ll buy yours if you buy mine.”
“I think the best literature in the world comes from real experiences. I’m starting a blog all about that. Thinking of using a pen name.”
“Thought of one yet?”
“Nope, but it’ll be way more creative than Francesca.”
“Fuck you.” She laughs and punches my shoulder like I’m her big brother.
“I think people become the best version of themselves when their reputation isn’t on the line. When they get to hide behind another identity.”
“Best, or most real?” she asks.
I think about it. “Real.”
“Yeah, well that’s not always their best.” She rubs her thigh, and I notice a small bruise.
“I bet you see a lot of performances,” I say.
“Besides Chris Angel?”
“Yeah, like lower-middle-class sales associates becoming leading surgeons or lawyers. Surgeons and lawyers becoming professional athletes.”
“Oh definitely. But my bullshit radar has definitely given me an advantage. You get to really understand how people hold themselves here. You can normally see who’s playing a role. Which guys will hide behind their money, which are hiding from their wives and families. Mid-life crises are my specialty.”
“Really?” I find this hilarious.
“Yeah. I can point out a good mid-life crisis the second someone walks through those doors. I can smell that shit from a mile away! It fucking reeks the whole club. I can tell if a confident smile is masking insecurity. I can tell if someone’s uncomfortable in an expensive suit, no matter how tailored and fitted it may be. I know when someone’s not used to throwing a hundred-dollar bill, even as they do it quickly enough to wipe their ass with it.”
“You really are a writer, aren’t you?”
“I try.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know. Anyone who hasn’t been to Vegas knows this is nothing more than a commercialized desert of slot machines and loose morals.”
“It’s also an escape. People come here to start over. They believe this is a new beginning.“
"Seems like a pretty unhealthy beginning if you ask me.”
“Look, the strip can get a little crazy. But that’s just the strip. It’s called an adult Disney world for a reason. Why do you think there’s a roller coaster running through the ceiling of New York New York? That’s the kind of freedom you don’t get in the adult world.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the Vegas strip is more than casinos and strippers and endless entertainment. Maybe it’s the only escape adults feel they could turn to.
Sure, at first thought that can be excused as blunt immaturity. But maybe people’s desire to separate themselves from responsibility is the real engine that drives this city forward. The strip is where you could start over, be someone else, play a new role, take on a new identity, and feel the thrill of moral isolation. But it’s also a place where you could forget the demons of your average life confining you. You could be anyone and do anything.
But maybe the lack of restriction doesn’t inspire a greater self. Maybe it blurs the understanding of what your self even is. It blinds you from accepting the cards you were dealt and the chips on the table.
Francesca stands up and extends her arm; I assume she wants me to kiss her hand so I do. “Thank you for the talk,” she says. “You’ve given me a little burst of estrogen.”
I laugh uncomfortably. “So why are you still here? In Vegas?”
“Because it’s better than where I came from. This is where I’ll find happiness.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Fuck no,” she says with a smirk. “Happiness isn’t found here. It’s bet on. And even when you win, satisfaction never comes. Only a higher-stake gamble. And a bigger one after that.”
“Keep writing your book,“ I say.
She smiles and walks away. And as she does, with her hips swinging and ass rising, she transforms back into her role.
Help me. I think I’m in love.
Sincerely,
Mr. Naked.
0 notes
Text
Be’ers and Do’ers: A Psychedelic canoe trip with a few city boys
After we drink the Magic Mushroom tea, I become offended by time.
Malvin keeps reminding us how much time has passed, speculating when it’ll kick in. One hour. Forty minutes. Thirty minutes. Maybe twenty. Thirty minutes again.
“Shut the fuck up man!”
Among a surge of nausea, the forestry brightens with a vibrant green glow. The sun beams between clouds and golden light engulfs me. The lake glimmers like billions of diamonds under the early summer sky.
(Photo by Denis Lipman)
Malvin grabs his machete almost instantly from his tent. I wonder why he feels a need for that. Is it so he feels safe? Tough? Why does he feel a need to bushwhack through trees when all I want to do is hug the sap out of every tree in my path? Something about him hanging on tightly to the machete means something. I feel it. But I don’t know what it is yet.
Collin and I sit on a rock covered in emerald moss. He seems increasingly uncomfortable.
“Just look at that lake now,” I tell him. I can’t peel my eyes off the ripples of water in the distance, bouncing off colours of sunlight; my mind soothes into expansive serenity. “It’s like…” For a second I lose my ability to articulate myself: “Colourful plates of softness.” What the fuck am I talking about?
After another wave of nausea, I find myself completely immersed in the comfort of the rock. It’s as if my body is melting into it. My body is becoming the rock. My body is the rock. I no longer have a body. I simply am here. And there is nowhere else I can possibly want to go.
“Let’s get ‘er going boys!” Malvin calls, raising his machete over his head. “Time for a hike!
“I’m down,” says Collin. “This algae is tripping me out!” His eyes are glossy as he gazes at the water before the shore.
Ned agrees also — he’s been submissive and quiet.
This confuses me. Here I am, on the most perfect rock I have ever encountered in my entire existence, and these boys want to go somewhere else? Why would anyone want to find something else when they already have everything they could ever want? Are they not enjoying this rock as completely and wholeheartedly as I am? Do they think there is a better rock out there?
“Boys, let’s just chill. Why go anywhere else?”
“Because we want to do stuff today and not just sit on our asses you blem fuck.”
Oh right. They’re right. I guess they want to experience this in more places. I also don’t want to be alone when the more powerful waves hit. I stand up to join them. We walk deeper into the forest.
Malvin whacks through trees as we rise up the trail.
Nausea slows me down. “Hold up boys,” I call, putting my hands on my knees.
I continue on in utter fascination. The colours seem to vibrate. Shining lime surrounds us like the woods of Pandora. The freshly blossomed leaves pulsate with the breeze, like a current of secret energy suddenly untapped and available. But as I stop to admire, Malvin wants to keep moving. Collin and Ned follow. Do they not see what I see? Why are they rushing through this? Are they not as mesmerized as I am?
(Photo by Denis Lipman)
They stop to take a selfie. Yup, a fucking selfie! I’m on a trip with a bunch of city boys completely out of their element. As they get together, I hug a tree instead. Selfies don’t make sense to me now. They are constantly justified as solidifications of memories, but the one consistency that every memory has is that your own face is never in it. Selfies therefore obstruct your initial perception of the moment. They don’t restore memory. They change it and make it something different from what it really was. Selfies are for others to view your self. They are not for your self — except to show yourself that you were there. Except to remind yourself what you looked like in a certain day and age. But how you looked is not the same as whatever it was you were looking at. Also, the bark of this tree feels fucking fantastic.
As we trek through branches, Collin suggests that we get into canoes and drift on the water. Though I want to enjoy the trees, and the rock before that, and the “colourful plates of softness” before that, the notion of stillness excites me. Finally, these boys might stop like me and be on my level of appreciation. I’m game.
“We should bring the fishing rod!”
“WHAT? WHY?” I don’t understand. I’m angry. Infuriated. In this case, fishing rods are for entertainment. Entertainment is for the bored. Are they bored? Do they feel a need for their time to be occupied by something more than the blast of vibrancy radiating around us? More than the ecstasy inflating within us?
I end up in a canoe with Malvin. He keeps paddling. And he doesn’t stop talking. Once.
“Look at us! Men! On a trip! In the wilderness! Strong men!” He dips his hands into the water and looks at them with wide eyes. “Woah! Look at these hands! Strong hands! Man hands!”
It seems he’s trying to convince himself that he’s strong more than he actually believes it. He seems in a rush. He seems like he’s trying to go somewhere. That he’s looking for something. He keeps paddling. What’s he looking for?
He comments about maps, and time again, and the science of psychedelics, and all the knowledge he has acquired about the topic. And I don’t give a flying shit about any of it. I just know that I’ve never seen such a sublime sky in my entire life.
He lathers repellent cream on. He checks his phone for time again. He contemplates the direction we came from. It seems like he’s trying to remain in control — that he’s trying to operate the inoperable. He is staying tightly within his own body, as tightly as he held his machete now between his legs; he is refusing to free his mind.
As we connect to the other boat with Ned and Collin, and as the two canoes drift in the middle of Algonquin Park’s Burnt Island lake, I melt into the floor more completely than the previous rock. I feel sedated as we float on the clear water. We drift gently on the reflective calmness. The horizon is ignited with golden rays. Lights flash past my peripherals. Tranquility grows inside me, and thankfulness for this current moment is more powerful than any thought or any word that could escape my lips. Why talk when nothing needs to be said?
The boys keep chattering.
“You guys want a jay?” Malvin asks.
“Light it up!” calls Collin; he was mumbling to himself moments before.
Why do they constantly want more? I can tell just by looking at them that the shrooms are kicking in full-throttle, yet they still feel a need for something more. Another drug. Another activity. They can’t be still or silent for one second.
“I feel confined here, we need to keep moving,” says Malvin, after the joint is killed.
Confined? I feel more unrestricted than ever. I can float in this boat all day.
A persistent black fly circles my head. It reminds me of Malvin.
“Collin!” I call, sitting up to look at him as he giggles in the golden light. “If you were to get in a boat with me, would you be able to drift here all day?” In this moment it’s more than a question; I’m convinced that this simple inquiry will expose the complexity of my best friend’s psychology, his compatibility with my mind.
He looks down to the lake to think about it. “That’s hard to say man… I keep getting distracted by other thoughts…”
Malvin starts paddling back to shore and I lie back down on the canoe.
I remember reading something in a book once. It suggested that heaven or hell isn’t only a place you go after you die but also a continuous state of existence when you’re alive. I feel like I’m in heaven. I think when John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote the words “Let it be,” they were in heaven, too. I remember reading in that same book that hell is a state where people never find what they are looking for. A domain where they will keep searching but are never satisfied. Always hungry and never fed. Incapable of seeing the heaven around them.
I guess some people will spend their entire lives looking for something that will never be found. Some people will just continue paddling, and never enjoy the stillness of drifting in absolute contentment.
Most people aspire towards immediacy. As is commonly pointed out, people strive for excess. Excess wealth. Excess belongings. Excess power of status. Excess intoxication. But they want it all right away. Each goal is only a conquest that leads to another. These people will never find what they are looking for. And they will never be as satisfied as I am right now. Because of this, I feel that these people are trapped in a mindset like hell.
When we get back to our campsite’s shore, Malvin starts talking about how he’s going to gather wood to build a fire, and how he’ll cook food, and that he wants to charge his phone with the portable charger, and that he wants to keep moving. The black fly buzzes.
I sit up to look at him. “What are you looking for?” I ask, after the boat hits the shore. It’s the first thing I’ve said aloud in a while.
He looks at me, confused.
“You’re looking for something,” I say. “What’re you looking for?”
“I…uh…I don’t know. Just get out and straddle for me. I want to find my lighter.”
After I get up, I regain control of my body — though I almost fall as I get out of the boat. It’s as if I’m resettling within a physical manifestation. My body and mind are old friends that have been inseparable since birth, but on that canoe ride they just drifted in different directions.
When everyone is back on the campsite the boys begin gathering wood to build a fire. I don’t know why they need one. The weather is perfectly warm. We have plenty of food left in the barrel that doesn’t need to be cooked. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good fire. But they seem frantic about it. Desperate.
“Hey boys, I’m going for a walk. There’s no need to look for me.”
I get some thumbs up.
That’s when I walk away from the city boys and find a spot to sit in the wilderness alone. I finally feel safe, and I feel like I can control my jarring thoughts more clearly. Among the spellbinding greenery, a revelation surfaces. And it’s one that’s really quite simple. There are “Do’ers” and “Be’ers.”
Do’ers feel the need to make sense of the world. They feel an unwavering need to apply logic to every experience they encounter. They need numbers, and navigation, and categories, and promise of stability. Of strength. They need speed, and progress, and control. They need constant entertainment. Status and affirmation. Do’ers have the upper hand in society because they make up the vast majority. And they are important because they are how we develop. They build cities. They cure disease. They are essential.
Be’ers can be Do’ers, too. (After all, if I was only a Be’er, I wouldn’t be writing this down.) But they are the rare souls that can find satisfaction among the acceleration of stimuli. They can be content when others are shaking in their seats looking for more. Sure, they still have ambitions and desires — they don’t believe in inaction at all times. Be’ers like myself can still wake at the crack of dawn, go to the gym, stress about productivity and what their role is among the complexity of their lives. They can search for greater understandings, but they can also realize that their own understandings are limited. They recognize that that’s okay.
Be’ers “do” in order to bring themselves back to their satisfied state of simply being. If they are happy, there is no need to keep moving. They know there is nowhere else they need to be. They find the most meaning when meaning is not being sought.
(Photo by Denis Lipman)
I’m not talking about physical inaction, but psychological stillness.
I’m not praising the stoner, pizza-box-buried-couch-potatoes with no greater contribution to their existence. I’m talking about every day people who are capable of stopping in their tracks and being genuinely happy with where they are.
Do’ers will claim to be happy by listing off all the things they’re happy about. But it will be more to convince themselves and other people that they’re happy instead of them ever actually entering a state of tranquility. They’ll smile in a photo, review a selfie, and reiterate their happiness like an endless, empty mantra. They’ll write about it in a caption...
But Be’ers understand that the length of the list does not determine the quality or quantity of their appreciations. Lists of experiences, like selfies, are most often for other minds. They’re resumes. And Do’ers are constantly looking for the next job, even when they’re already “happily” employed.
They won’t ever be able to lie on a rock and feel that there is no where else they need to be. Not when they need to sell to themselves and others that they are adequate and special.
Do’ers respond. Be’ers feel no need to fill a void; they are content with silence.
The Do’ers in my life — my parents — and the Do’ers in myself — my expectations — are preventing me from surrendering to the Be’er way. I need to do things. I need to complete courses. I have opportunities available for me this summer that can’t be ignored. I need to accomplish today what I won’t be able to tomorrow.
I believe my ultimate goal is to keep doing until I can eventually be. But I also know that throughout the process, I can be in each moment. There is nothing definite leading up. There is only this moment now. This feeling of pure satisfaction I only wish my own friends could feel too. But they’re too busy building an unneeded fire.
I want to be a writer so I can inspire Do’ers to be and Be’ers to continue being. But to be a writer and to inspire, I need to do. That is the paradox of progress, the compromise of piecing two psychologies together.
Life works best when Do’ers and Be’ers mesh together. Ideas and images would never be revealed without Be’ers and Do’ers assembling like a jigsaw. If a Be’er and and a Do’er weren’t in a canoe together today, this revelation would not be grasped so clearly. These words would not be written. Also, if it weren’t for Do’ers, I would have just lied on a rock all day like a blem fuck.
Do’ers allow Be’ers to be in different places.
I believe Be’ers want to be around other Be’ers and Do’ers need Be’ers to bring them back to stillness. This stillness is the key to being content. Contentment is stigmatized in modern day; it’s become a bad word. But being content doesn’t need to abolish ambitions and hopes for something greater. Rather, it will keep you happier throughout the uncertainty of your journey.
I don’t need drugs to thrust me into this state of wholehearted appreciation. I feel this way even as I begin to sober up. I’ve felt this way every time I’m back in the park, even through clear eyes and an abstemious mind.
I want every moment to feel the same closure as a perfectly crafted sentence that explains to myself exactly what I’m feeling. But I also want to find closure and satisfaction with even what is beyond my control, what is beyond my articulation. What is beyond my pencil.
How long have I been sitting here? It’s almost dark. The sun has set.
I’m back in the world of association, categorization, and structure. But I will not let this world confine me like Malvin felt confined in the canoe those hours ago. My open-mindedness will in this and every moment look beyond the re-established walls, knowing I know nothing.
As sobriety takes hold, I want to stop thinking about what I will be and instead focus on who I am.
I realized today that so many people, even in the enhanced picturesque tranquility of Algonquin Park, are looking for something that they’ll never find.
When anxiety and hunger for more always keeps you moving, you’ll never be able to enjoy what is purely satisfactory. Some people will just keep on paddling for the perfect site, and some will accept they’re already there.
Sincerely,
Mr. Naked.
0 notes
Text
Danger Room: Toronto’s most hostile comedy show for hecklers
“GET OFF THE STAGE MAN BOOBS!”
“DON’T EAT THE MIC YOU FAT FUCK!”
“GET DOWN BEFORE ONE OF YOUR BUTTONS HITS SOMEONE IN THE EYE!”
“SAY A JOKE YOU SAGGING ASSHOLE!”
We walk into the bar known as The Corner Comedy Club, a grimy comedy club with a fitting slogan: “It’s so small it’s funny,” on the corner of John Street in Downtown Toronto. A fat comedian in a red plaid shirt and ripped jeans is sitting on a stool on the stage with a mic in a sweaty hand, getting chewed alive by a crowd of the most ruthless hecklers I’ve ever witnessed.
“YOU’RE AS COMICAL AS YOU ARE SKINNY!”
“Yeah, that’s what your mom said when I was sitting on her face last night!” Fat Comedian calls.
“BOOOOOO!”
“GOOD MOM JOKE YOU FUCKING AMATURE!”
“I PAID TEN BUCKS FOR THIS SHIT!”
The poor guy can’t get two sentences in without being ripped to shreds. Chirps fly through the bar like rapid gunfire, the heavy-duty artillery leaving the brave comedian wounded and humiliated on the grimy stage. He’s struggling to stay upright, pushing weak incest and dead baby jokes, desperate for the slightest trace of laughter that he’s actually responsible for, trying to make a joke and not be the joke. He has no such luck.
But this wasn’t your usual comedy night. This was Danger Room — a night were most comedians don’t last more than one minute before the shark tank of hecklers swallow them whole.
And one of my best friends was soon to perform.
Let’s back up to six hours prior.
I was at the gym near the free-weights when I bumped into one of my old buddies from High School. He’s a writer too and whenever we see each other we often dive into discussions about the pressure to engage readers. He told me he’s been writing a new short story every day, but that he’s also been doing some stand-up comedy to test material in front of a live crowd.
“Really? Stand up?”
“Yeah man. There’s this open mic place I go on Sunday nights on Danforth and Broadview.”
“How’s the crowd?”
“Depends on the night. Sometimes there’s silence, but it’s a good crowd to go to for your first time. Everyone’s pretty open and positive.”
“I’ve got a friend who I’ve been wanting to get on stage for a while. He’s a born comedian! I would love to get him on.”
“You guys should definitely come by!”
My friend Phil is the funniest guy I know. Not only can he spit out any accent with cunning precision, he can also spiral into rants of improvised comedy as if he wrote the stuff down and rehearsed it for weeks. He can play any role. Become any character. He’s quick. Spontaneous. And damn right hysterical. But here’s the problem: he’s nervous about getting up on stage.
Here’s why.
Phil and I are fraternity brothers, and a couple years ago I convinced him to do some stand up for a sorority’s philanthropy event. I had helped him prepare his set, making sure to throw in some of his signature stuff. His Frat Bro PC character he not-so-loosely based off of South Park was one of his best rants, and we decided it would be fitting for a Greek life gathering.
But were we ever wrong.
The audience of sorority sisters, children, parents, and distinguished philanthropists were not prepared for a set screaming about how “PC DOESN’T STAND FOR PUSSY CRUSHING!”
Though his material was comedic gold to my buddies and I, it wasn’t the right time or place, and it left a sea of mothers and daughters staring at him with lowered jaws and wide eyes — all in deafening silence.
Phil’s been rightfully nervous to get back up on stage ever since. I figured tonight would be the perfect opportunity to get him back on that horse.
I shot him a quick message: “We’re going out tonight.”
After meeting up with Phil and some buddies for a quick pre-game, we all hit the road in my buddy’s soccer mom van and drove twenty-five minutes to Danforth and Broadview. This was the night of Thanksgiving Sunday and most of us had dinners with our families that delayed our departure time, so we were running a little late. Actually we were running very late. By the time we arrived at the bar, the show was over and everyone was gone.
Giving up, we considered the alternatives of going to another bar, racking in some shots, and maybe getting Phil a mic anyway. But then my buddy Bernie came up with a final idea.
“There’s another comedy club not too far,” says Bernie, scrolling through his phone. “It’s just on the corner of John Street. Ten-minute drive from here. Some show called ‘Danger Room.’”
“Is it open mic?” Phil asks.
“I think it’s for actual comedians. And I think there’s cover.”
We agree to check it out. Nothing else was happening anyway.
When we get to the bar, we ask the guy running the door — a bearded man in a leather jacket, sporting a red bandana around his head — if our buddy can get up on stage. “You done this before?” he asks Phil.
“This is my first time,” Phil replies, not counting the sorority event.
“First time? And you’re fucking stupid enough to come here!”
In that second, as if on cue, we hear from inside: “GET OFF THE STAGE MAN BOOBS!”
We shuffle through the crowd and find seats near the front of the tiny bar. The place reeks of beer and tobacco smothered clothing, with faint lighting illuminating a small wooden plank constituting a stage. Drunken chirps are firing from a group of guys scattered all around the grubby place; the poor comedian currently up is being publicly decimated. He struggles to squeeze in some of his prepared jokes until one of the drunkest hecklers literally rips him off the stage.
“YOU ARE FUCKING AWFUL!”
“PLEASE! NEVER COME BACK HERE!”
More comedians step on, and nobody does any better. The drunker the hecklers get, the more shameless they are with their heckling. This results in comedic desperation: comedians resort to new levels of vulgarity in hopes of cheaper laughs. Jokes about sex become jokes about overdosing on drugs, which becomes jokes about being fucked by dads, which spirals into jokes about being a child predator. The laughs never come. Well, besides the laughter deriving from shameless heckling. The cycle continues.
One guy is heckled so badly, he tries to avert the attention to the Muslim sitting in front of him, hoping to use pathetic racism to weasel out of the ambush. (Yup, a real stand-up piece of shit.) He’s proven weak and unfit, and this only amps-up the insults.
“YOU LOOK LIKE A GERMAN SKATEBOARDER THAT ALSO DJ’S!” one guy screams at a comedian in a bomber jacket with a big man-bun dangling from a backward cap.
“AND YOUR CAP LOOKS LIKE IT’S TAKING A SHIT OUT OF YOUR HEAD!” another heckler adds. (Not all of them were so clever.)
“I THOUGHT THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE COMEDY, NOT A SPECIAL-ED ASSEMBLY!”
Why would anybody stand up before such a merciless crowd? Simple. To battle the most vicious monster there is, and survive to tell the tale. Most of the guys who go up are actual comedians, who come to Danger Room to test their skills against the worst crowd you could possibly encounter. After a Danger Room attack, silence would feel like a compliment.
But even these guys were used to getting up on stage. Phil was up next.
He sits on the stool and raises the mic to his mouth.
“WHAT’S THIS PUSSY GOING TO DO? SING HIGHSCHOOL MUSICAL?”
“GET OFF THE STAGE PEDRO!”
“YOU LOOK LIKE YOU WATCH CHILD PORN AND JERK OFF IN PUBLIC SWIMMING POOLS!”
Despite these initial heckles, Phil starts off strong by faking weak. He begins with a quaky, loud and high-pitched voice, playing the character of someone terrified to perform — like a voice-cracking thirteen-year-old about to read the Torah for his Bar Mitzvah.
“H-high g-guys, my n-name is Ph-Phillip and I’m s-super n-nervous t-to perform t-tonight in front o-of all o-of y-y-you…”
Before the next heckle can fire, he jumps up, snaps into a booming southern accent — blaring with confidence and authority — and ascends into an incredible rant about the astonishing diversity of the crowd which he “ain’t used to in ma neighborhood back in Virginia!”
Everyone erupts into laughter.
A heckler screams a dumb Jew joke.
He switches from his southern accent to his Gay-Nazi-German-accent. “Vhat nobody veally knows is zhat vee vere all gay!”
His set is completely improvised. He rolls with the punches and starts introducing all his classic characters that were once confined to the frat house living room: Puerto Rican drug dealer, Australian pervert, Chinese businessman — those that were previously only available to the boys at the end of a drunk night with pizza boxes scattered on the floor. For the first time, Phil’s contagious humour is completely unleashed. And nobody could get enough of him.
When the heavy chirps start flying, unlike the other guys, he doesn’t revert to desperate comedy by raising the vulgarity or trying to deflect the cruelty towards people sitting in the crowd. He’s genuinely funny, and not desperate to make the crowd think so. He simply is.
And if you think I’m just being biased, even the drunkest hecklers gave him a big round of applause. It was the first and only applause of the night.
None of the boys could believe it. But I’m gonna be a huge cheeseball and say I knew he had it in him all along.
As we walked out, the owner told Phil he could come back anytime. Two comedians gave him their business cards as they hacked darts outside the bar. People who were in the audience asked him where his next gig is. He was the newly-emerged celebrity of the night.
People often feel like they need to ease into challenges. They prefer slowly moving forward, gradual development, and keeping their dignity intact throughout the process. But sometimes your dignity has to be compromised. Sometimes you need to dive headfirst into the trenches of difficulty in order to come out stronger. Sometimes you need to go all in.
Failure has a way of holding people back — the silence of the sorority is something that may’ve stopped Phil from further performances, but the bravery to move on was the key that popped open the door to the night’s success.
Now, allow me to be sincerely-naked-honest for a second: There’s a lot of assholes in the world.
There’s a lot of people who are going to give you every reason possible to stay safely buckled to your seat. They’ll take pride in ripping you down, in laughing or shaming you for even trying. But that’s all part of the system of growth. When you make yourself vulnerable and try to pursue something scary, chances are you’re going to eat shit sometimes. And most times, people will shit on you.
It’s one of the biggest risks of starting a blog — hell, about writing in general. Not everyone is going to agree with the things you’re writing about, and a whole lot of people will make the effort to make their disagreements heard loud and clear. They’ll so much as bombard you with novella-long comments about how you don’t have the right to say the things you’re saying. They’ll send you hate emails. They’ll even straight up say that you don’t have what it takes and that you should just give up — the equivalence of a heckling reaction to a punchline.
When I was the opinion editor for my university paper, it was a hard pill to swallow: the acceptance that not everyone will like or agree with my stuff. But I eventually began to see flack as a necessary part of my development, similar to the way comedians who come to Danger Room see ruthless heckles. It’s part of the process, and the more accustomed you get to the horrors of people protesting against your stance, the taller you eventually stand.
In summary, there’s two ways of approaching assholes who love to shit on you like it’s their day job. 1) You could play victim and cry about being verbally assaulted, complain about feeling unsafe, or blame all lack of success on the pricks that walk the earth. 2) You could suck it up and use those same assholes to make you stronger.
We may bomb it. We may kill it. But until we try, we’re letting the hecklers win.
We all live in a Danger Room. So let’s use those pricks to our advantage.
Let’s raise our red solo cups (or cheap glasses of wine if you think you’re classy or something) to the assholes that make silence feel like a compliment — and who make our worst fears a fucking joke.
Sincerely,
Mr. Naked.
0 notes
Text
Prologue: Let’s Get Naked.
As I stand on the roof with a sea of students below me, I throw off my shirt and unbuckle my pants — dropping them to my ankles. I spread my arms like Jesus. Look up, fellas. Your saviour dangles above.
“LOOK! LOOK! UP THERE!”
“HOLY SHIT!”
“THAT GUY’S NAKED!”
Applause ripples through the crowd. Cellphone lights twinkle like hundreds of shining stars. Cheers erupt. And my dick hangs there without a trace of shame in the shrivelling October winds.
Those were the days I loved getting publicly naked.
Allow me to explain.
Once upon a time, I was the guy that would slam a bottle of Captain Morgan, chase with high-fives, and throw my clothes off like a horny teenager about to lose his virginity. Cold or hot, shrivelled or not, my sword was unsheathed for the world to see. Don’t believe me? Take a look at the photo above.
That’s me on a roof overlooking a backyard homecoming kegger in my first year of university. (To those few hundred students who have pictures of me from the other side, please send them over.)
But don’t think that night was anything out of the usual; I got naked at a party every other night. I was the nudist on campus. The streaker of university streets. The untamed party animal who loved exposing his birthday suit like it’s the only outfit he’s ever owned.
Like Batman, I had two alternating identities. I was a diligent student by day, and a raging clothe-remover by night — both unneeded and underserved on college turf. (Okay, I was absolutely nothing like Batman.)
Why did I do this so frequently? Was it an attempt to perpetually establish myself as the life of the party? Was it merely a result of unhinged, drunken debauchery? Did I have some deep-rooted psychological tendencies to become an actual nudist — to be stripped from standards of public decency and throw my middle fingers to the sky with a booming call of “FUCK SOCIETY!”?
Not really.
I think I was just drunk and young and a little too proud of my pal downstairs. It’s also possible that I was just an attention-hungry ass-wipe. But for purpose of philosophical exploration, let’s dig deeper.
Something I realized during those early nudist days in university is that people often came to parties and felt the need to succumb to a rigid system of social interaction. To be more specific, some girls couldn’t be talked to because boyfriends were watching them like hawks a few red solo cups away. Some guys would punch you in the throat if you so much as looked at them funny. Some students worried about how they were dressed — if their shirt had spilled beer on it, if their jeans had too many holes, if bomber jackets were still cool or if it was time to convert to denim. They wondered if their opening question should be “what’s your program?” or if that’s too lame, if their ex-boyfriend would get jealous by the guy whose cheek they’re kissing in their snap story, or if those frat assholes overcharged them for expired beer excused as “apple cider.” (Okay, that last one is a whole other story, and really irrelevant to where I’m going.)
Maybe…just maybe…showing off my penis was my absurd way of saying: Fuck all of that.
No, really. Stop laughing at me. I’m serious.
Maybe it was a signal to everyone around me that some fucks aren’t worth giving. That social situations shouldn’t be so calculated. That sometimes you just need to let go of your bullshit, despite the tension boiling inside you during the one time you’re supposed to be set free.
I’m not trying to sound like a hero (okay, maybe I am), but when I got naked, social anxieties were dismantled. People danced a little harder to the thumping speakers. Guys and girls laughed a little more freely. More people got naked! The caliber of entertainment was raised. And it was all thanks to Mr. Dangle and his two bouncing sidekicks. (Send over potential superhero catchphrases.)
But here’s the thing. The free-spirited nudist within me was eventually tamed and leashed, restrained by the expectations of…dare I say it…maturity.
Eventually, I started realizing that initiating a party vibe by exposing myself was just no longer the mature thing to do. It was time I grew up, threw on a sweater vest, and stayed up late studying in a hipster café with a pumpkin spice late. Ha-ha just kidding! Fuck those guys!
But it was time I acted my age and kept my clothes on.
In third year I gained a position as an editor for my university newspaper. I’ve always had a passion for writing, and the paper was an outlet that allowed me to proficiently hone my skills. Weekly editorials, op-eds, and content management collectively buckled me down and satisfied a yearning to engage readers. I was an editor for two years, and I wouldn’t trade those days for anything. Somehow I became civilized — though among the transformation, I’d never admit it.
Within that time, I stopped going out as much as I once did. And when I did go out, I didn’t drink half of what I used to. I didn’t care that much about cutting loose — which is normal for most students after two years of keg stands and morning hangovers. But somewhere along the line, after I stopped streaking, I started caring a little more about how people viewed me.
For a while, my most dreaded question was: So…what’s next for you?
My favourite response was: Well, I’m an English Major, so probably unemployment.
But beneath the well-timed laughter, I was quietly scared shitless. I’d come a long way since the raging nudist I once was, but maybe that wasn’t such a good thing. Where I once was able to act like an idiot in front of everyone, I now found myself deeply concerned with where I stood. All the fucks I once tried to dismantle were returning in a whole new way. But these fucks were way bigger than party interactions.
When you hit 22, you’re automatically expected to level-up. You require hard and soft skills, a repertoire of professional experience, a clear-cut career path, and over 500 connections on LinkedIn. You’re supposed to have a calendar of job interviews, a booming resume, or an incoming salary that makes momma serve you a few extra servings of turkey during Thanksgiving dinner. You’re supposed to be in control — and if you’re not, you’re supposed to pretend you are. And that’s a whole new world of anxieties that needed to be overcome.
But my dick couldn’t help me this time.
A few months ago I was sitting in an interview when the employer shot me a request I didn’t expect: “Tell me about your days in college. Outside of the classroom.”
“Well, let’s see. I was a degenerate frat boy that drank too much, made too many stupid decisions, and got completely naked far too often,” I thought about replying.
My actual response: “I definitely knew how to have a good time.”
“Well, that’s good to know. It’s important that you don’t work too hard. Have any crazy stories?”
I hesitate, searching the files of my mind for a story that doesn’t jump overboard on the rocking ship of vulgarity.
I land on the coconut story — a tale where I chucked a coconut out the window of my fraternity brothers’ apartment and accidentally hit a cab driver’s bumper. (Yes, you read that correctly.) When my drunk buddies and I tried to flee the scene, it just so happened that the door was jammed and we were locked in the room of the crime. The cops came but they couldn’t come inside because of the jammed door. We ended up drinking and smoking more, as if we’d never get caught, until a security guard, the cab driver, and the two police officers finally broke into a living room reeking of booze, marijuana, and a bunch of sweating dudes in their boxers. (At some point within our intoxicated problem solving, we concluded that it would look less suspicious if we looked like we were all settled for the night in our underwear. Made zero sense.) They interrogated us one by one, and eventually said we’d be called in to meet with the Dean. But none of us were ever called.
The dude was rolling on the floor laughing. No, obviously I didn’t get the job, idiot. But that’s not the point.
If there’s one thing I’ve come to realize it’s that honesty is the most attractive attribute among humanity. When somebody is real with you, you know it. You feel it. There’s something about honesty that connects people together, establishes relationships, and even fosters success. Honesty is as daring as dropping your pants on a roof. It’s showing that you’re not afraid to reveal who you really are, that you’re proud of where you stand, and that you feel no need to hide or hold back.
Maybe we all need to get naked a little more often.
I’m just another 22-year-old kid entering a world of suits and ties. I’m just as scared as anyone else. I want to be a writer. I want to be a published novelist. I want a lot of things. And there’s a lot I haven’t figured out. I’m afraid of being alone. I’m afraid of not being loved. I’m afraid of not becoming great, as so many others are. There’s a lot I don’t know.
But somewhere among the catapult of expectations, I need to find absolute acceptance with who I am. If I want to be a great writer, I need to be willing to expose my greatest fears. I need to be willing to uncover my perceptions and experiences, without holding back, allowing my words to reveal what’s really there. And that’s what this online novel is all about.
Through these stories, I’ll rise naked before you with the honesty of each sentence. Here I’ll streak freely along the page.
To live lives of acceptance, to dismantle the anxieties that surround us, we must be vulnerable, honest, and uncovered. We must stop clothing ourselves with expectations.
Because fuck your pants anyway.
Sincerely,
Mr. Naked.
0 notes