'Cause you're filthy.... And I'm gorgeous.

I snapped a few pictures today of different views from our little neighborhood.

At times, it can be achingly beautiful here.

The Bridger Range, North and East of town. Sacajawea Peak is the top of the double peak. I climbed Sacajawea in July, took some pictures and wrote about it. Click here for the entry.



The Madison Range, South and West.



The Gallatins, South.



Me and the Bridgers. Just to the right of my temple is Sacajawea Peak.



Don't take any wooden nickels.

Mother, do you think they'll drop the bomb? Mother, do you think they'll like this song?

Just a little snippet to give you some idea from whence I came...

Sometimes mothers clip little articles out of the hometown papers and send them to their kids. Maybe your friend got married. Maybe your old babysitter died.

But my mom?

Well, she is a different breed.

In college, she sent me a blurb from the local paper... No, it wasn't a wedding announcement. No, it wasn't a note that one of my friends made Dean's List.

It was a quaint little piece about a guy who was arrested for fucking a chicken in his front yard.

I swear to God.

Naturally, I laughed my ass off, and showed it to all my friends, who said, "Your mom sent you that?"

"Um yeah, she's one of a kind."

(Later, when my roommates would try the "he's at the library" excuse when she called, they would inevitably hear, "Yeah, right. Where is he really?" Eventually, my friend the Wave would take to saying things like, "There is a Roman Orgy happening... I think he is with the Emperor. Or maybe the vomitorium. Let me check." My mom loved the Wave.)

The best part about that lovely, little news story is that the guy was in his front yard. Maybe it was one of those, "I-love-this-damn-chicken-and-I-want-the-whole-world-to-know-it" moments. We all have those moments, right?*

---
*We here at The Dude Abides do not endorse chicken fucking. We simply understand the need to occasionally proclaim one's Love to the world. But more in an "I-love-my-dead-gay-son!" kind of way than in the chicken-fucking-in-the-yard way.

I had better stop now.

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Welcome to the Dude Abides, India, Australia, Israel, the Czech Republic and Tanzania(!)... what you get out of this, I will never know.

But a definite shout-out to Bristol, U.K. Things are blowing up over there.

If you call her on the telephone and she answers long and slow, grab the first thing smoking and you have to haul her home. That's evil.

I used to be somebody.

According to the infallible standards set forth by one Navin R. Johnson, I could wake up in the morning, walk downstairs and point to tangible evidence that "I am somebody!"

Yes, I was in the phone book. I really was somebody. In fact, I was really somebody. My name, my number and even my picture were in not one, not two, not three, but TEN phone books.

But quitting my job, moving and using voice over internet protocol (and not opting not to spend umpteen thousands of dollars on Yellow Pages advertising containing the picture above and "Dude For Hire"--- I just don't think it will pay off), I have simply ceased to be. *Sniff*

I look forward to the day when I can run into the house screaming, "THE NEW PHONE BOOKS ARE HERE!! THE NEW PHONE BOOKS ARE HERE!!!"

Then, and only then, will I feel like I have acheived something. Until then, I will curl up with my memories, and the old phone book. And this ashtray. That's all I need. And this paddle game, the ashtray and the paddle game and that's all I need. And this remote control. The ashtray, the paddle game, and the remote control, and that's all I need.