My answers

-1-
“If Your Car Is Old Enough, Driving Is An Adventure Too”

”Alright. Stay calm …stop the car…we can handle this. Okay. We’re going to need some flashlights...where did we pack those….ah yes, they, along with everything else, were in the trunk attached to the roof, which just moments ago was splattered across the highway by an 18-wheeler. Relax…look, there’s the beer. Mmmm.”

Those were basically my thoughts at 1:54 this morning.

The crew had been awoken by the jarring sound of our rear axle breaking free of the 1977 Station Wagon and my screams of confused profanity. We were faced with the immediate task of foraging the 2AM highway for the vast majority of our gear.

Shoes, rope, clothes, Pabsts, everything; smashed and strewn across the highway. We’re all guessing that Dave, who takes great pride in the quality of our equipment, will be having nightmares about our little ground zero for weeks.

We armed ourselves with beers and our 2 remaining headlamps and went foraging.
I caught one funny disapproving glance from a driver who apparently thought I was so trashed that I believed I was spelunking the ditch next to the highway.

We found everything but a few Pabsts and a shoe, and despite our belief in the “never leave a man behind” mantra, turned our attention to the injured Wagon.

After a few minutes of head-scratching and cursing we concluded that the best solution would be to proceed with our plan of donning bandanas and “hijacking” the Toltec Train in Alamosa, and assume that some car-fairies would fix the wagon while we were away being bandits. So we raised our thumbs and were quickly picked up by a truck-load of errant Eskimos speeding towards the border. But that’s a different story altogether.











-2-
Yes, I grudgingly admit a cell-phone in the backcountry is a good idea. In my experience, Sprint does well with Rocky Mountain reception.

I’d love to say no, because fuck cell-phones. We’re out here for adventure and escape and the cell-phone violates both of these.

But yeah, there’s just too many things that can happen that would require a 9-1-1 call. Especially considering that a fearless-pursuit-of-adventure mentality is multiplied when surrounded by people with a similar approach.

Plus, 9-1-1 operators are now mandated by the FCC to be able to trace all wireless calls.

Climbing with a rope does take away a bit of the danger-thrill, but you do it anyway. There are lives at stake.

Anyway, that damn writer is going to need regular internet access to post his manic writings to the forum, so it’s not like we’re really cutting the strings to society.

However, I would not, under even the most extreme circumstances, condone the use of one of those little head-sets. Or, for that matter, the text-message.

























-3-
If you’ve lost your ability to laugh at poop-jokes, you’re taking life too seriously.

Despite my unwavering fondness for this type of humor, as a passenger in this putrid station wagon of doom, I’d see it as more of a problem than a joke. We’d have to pull-over, the seat would likely be stained, and there’s a possibility of vomitus. That’s at least a ten minute delay.

But it is funny. Especially if they were someone else’s shorts. Or if we went back to the store where they were purchased and attempted to return them unwashed.

In the name of Gonzo Journalism it seems only fair to cover it in depth, take pictures, refuse him my extra pants, and blast it all over the internet with his name and address attached. Especially if it was me. If it occurred to someone more concerned with obtaining an upstanding, feces-free reputation, I could write the post with an anonymous assailant. The community would then be asked to guess which team member committed the foul deed.

Here’s the beginning of my article:

“The Funkiest Thing to Happen to Shorts Since James Brown Recorded “Hot Pants”

Combine 1 part questionable Mexican Food, 8 parts Pabst Blue Ribbon, marinate for 7 hours, add 2 parts Cowboy Coffee, shake vigorously. Whatever it is you’re left with, we were all struggling to contain it this morning.

It was a battle, like trying to keep a greased pig away from a pile of Big Macs. One crew member, who prefers to remain anonymous for some reason, got outmaneuvered and combusted into his Patagonia Rhythm shorts. At first I thought, we’re going to be okay here, Patagonia’s website guarantees that the crotch of the shorts “is gusseted for multidirectional use.” But I was quickly hit with the smell of…