Blogging A Punt, Part 2, Joe's Story, Part 3

Delicious dinner with Lee, then poker night with the boys. Ahhhh …

Makes up for the great pumpkin fiasco of yesterday. *shudder*

Ok, time to wrap up this saga. This time without blatant political digs:




When last we left our hero, Joe had been busted for bustin’ caps in some hairy moose ass. Three days later, he was out and married.

Apparently, when you’re a woman from Gap Tooth, Alaska, you have nothing better to do than sit in a jail and wait for a strapping young man to come along. Your mission: seduce and marry.

Joe was one of the chosen ones. He was thrown into the clink, where he met his beautiful wife. They were married right there in the jail cell, and Joe was set free.

The newlyweds bought a pick-up truck for $250 and headed … it’s just getting outrageous now … NORTH. According to the wife, Joe simply saw a spot he liked, ran the truck off the road, and said, “This looks like a good spot!”

He then proceeded to build them a cabin in three days’ time.

At this, I utterly scoffed. But Dr. Waite explained the details to me. A “cabin" by Alaskan standards is little more than a lean-to. You build one end higher than the other, so that the roof has a slant. Ta-da! Instant cabin. Just add occupants.

This particular cabin was about 4 ½ ft. high at one end, and a little over three ft. at the other. Joe could not even stand upright.

So, Joe spent most of his time out of the house. He found you can make a solid living trapping wolves for French fur companies. Somehow, Joe managed to acquire a team of sled dogs, and he would travel hundreds of miles setting and checking traps. These endeavors kept him away for six weeks at a time, but Joe and his wife had found a niche they were both comfortable with.




Meanwhile, Dr. Waite had earned his doctorate traveling all over Canada watching birds. He became a fairly well-known behaviorist, and was instrumental in one of the most famous studies done on wolves – a genetics study on an island that is rich in wolf and moose populations. The island is perfect for a standard predator-prey relationship study, as well as inbreeding research.

Eventually, Dr. Waite’s studies led him to Alaska (the bird studies, not the inbreeding studies). He ventured to the same small town year after year, still studying birds. Every year, Dr. Waite heard stories about Joe and his wife, and eventually, curiosity overwhelmed him. When he met Joe, he started asking all sorts of questions, and they formed a strange friendship.
Dr. Waite was fascinated by Joe – a man who had lived a life so radically different from his own. And yet, both men had arrived in the same place, at roughly the same age. In fact, they were both, in a broad sense, animal behaviorists.

Joe’s standard plan was to set his traps just outside wildlife preserves, where wolves – who don’t understand arbitrary human boundary markings – would sometimes wander too far. Dr. Waite realized he and Joe used very similar methods of studying animal movement along this trail. The only difference was the end result: Joe would shoot his animals, whereas Dr. Waite would diligently record their path in a little notebook.




Now, before going on the expedition, Joe insisted on waiting until the temperature was -35 Fahrenheit or lower.

One day the temperature actually hit -32 F, and an impatient Dr. Waite said, “Let’s just go out now.”

Joe scowled at the good doctor.

“You can’t run dogs in heat like this!” he barked.

So they waited, and to pass the time, Dr. Waite learned as much as he could about Joe. One evening, he noticed that Joe had a long, deep scar running down his leg.

Naturally, the story behind the scar is amazing. Joe was out on the trapping trail and cut his leg with a knife. He began losing blood a rapid rate, but couldn’t spare the clothes to make a tourniquet, which would have only been a temporary solution anyway. Joe was a weeks' travel from his home, and he had to act fast. He picked a twig off the ground, and used his knife to sharpen the end of the twig into a crude needle. Then he yanked out a fiber from the lining of his parka. He tied this around the end of the twig, and began methodically stitching his own leg shut.

No anesthetic, mind you.

The fibers from the parka are barely more than two inches in length – enough for a single stitch. Also, the sharpened twig would be dull after every stab through his flesh. So Joe would yank out another fiber, sharpen another stick and repeat the process, until he had given himself enough stitches to get back to his home.

Dr. Waite looked stunned. Then Joe’s wife spoke up:

“That’s nothing. Show him your elbow, dear.”

Joe rolled back his sleeve, and indeed, there was an even more grotesque scar across his elbow. Nearly two inches of scar tissue had built up around the original wound.

Dr. Waite HAD to hear this story.

Joe shrugged and said he had been outside their home and cut his arm on a piece of sheet metal.

“Well … yeah …” Dr. Waite stuttered. “But, it’s so BAD. I mean, I can understand the leg – it was a matter of saving your own life. But why doesn’t your elbow look better? Didn’t you go to a doctor?”

Joe shook his head. He’d entered the cabin and shown his bleeding arm to his wife. Mrs. Joe took one look at the cut, got out her sewing kit, and lined up 10 shots of whisky in front of her.

Now, 10 shots of whisky might sound like a lot, but to an Alaskan, you may as well be drinking melted snow.

But the story isn’t that simple. What Dr. Waite eventually pieced together is that Joe’s wife had already BEEN drinking – heavily – when Joe entered with his injury. She was fairly drunk before she even started.

Needless to say, 10 shots of whisky and about as many stitches later, Joe’s arm was probably worse off than it had started.

Now, many of the finer details in these stories came from Joe’s wife. Joe, as you might imagine, is a man of few words. Which is why Dr. Waite was surprised when he spoke up at this point in the tale.

“You know,” Joe said, gruffly, “All these years, and it just occurred to me that I should have been the one taking shots of whisky.”

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Joe sat there, completely sober, while his drunk wife gouged at his arm with a needle and some sewing thread.

Makes The Rock look like a kitten, don’t he?




Every summer after that, when Dr. Waite would return to Alaska, he would visit Joe and his wife. When Dr. Waite was back in school for the winter, they would keep in touch via letters. Dr. Waite described a typical letter from the family as “a long, chatty note from Mrs. Joe, followed by a scribble at the bottom reading, ‘See you next summer – Joe.’”

One day, Dr. Waite received one of their letters, and was shocked – although by this point you’d think he’d be over this sort of surprise – to learn that Joe had been in a Disney movie.

Ok, when he told me this story, I was shocked, too.

Apparently, the good folks at Disney were gearing up to film White Fang (which, for time reference, was released in 1991). Obviously, they were in a great need for many sled dogs, so they began calling teams of people who regularly won the Iditarod, Alaska’s annual dog-sled race (http://www.iditarod.com/). One man had won two-years in a row, and Disney showed a keen interest in using his dogs in the film.

But when the set designers saw the dogs (or, more likely, photos of the dogs) they were a bit disappointed. Every dog was a fit, lean husky. You might think this makes sense; in the words of Dr. Waite, “You won’t find a 300-pound track star.”

But the Disney people wanted White Fang to feel authentic, and in Jack London’s days, that meant dogs of just about every imaginable shape and size tied to a rickety wooden sled. When they explained their predicament to the Iditarod champ, he simply smiled and said, “I know exactly who you need.”

So Disney went to Joe, who shrugged and said he would be happy to lend his dogs to their movie. They paid him as an animal trainer (uncredited, of course) and invited him and his dogs to the set. Once in awhile, the script would call for more people in the background, so Joe stepped in.

Dr. Waite went to see White Fang, and sure enough, there was his ol’ buddy Joe, right there on the big screen.



Eventually, Dr. Waite was unable to make his yearly trips to Alaska, as his scientific efforts leaned away from behaviorism toward his current position as a conservation biologist. But he still keeps in touch with his old friends. The last he heard, Joe and his wife had started their own eco tourism business.

And he showed me the website to prove it.



That's the story. And every word of it is true.

As Dr. Waite finished his tale, I sat back, trying to soak up every last detail, every last absurd mental image, from enormous Joe skin-diving for lobsters to his appearance on the silver screen. But Dr. Waite, being a master of storytelling, seized the moment.

“Of course,” he said, interrupting my thoughts with a sly look, “Joe is considered tame by Alaska standards. Let me tell you about Trapper Rick …”

Blogging A Punt

SO I got off work very late, and very hungry. On the drive home, I remembered I had an excellent Brie-like cheese and a box of Triscuits waiting for me at home. Ah …

But what to complete the delicious snack? A bottle of red wine, of course!

I stopped at Giant Eagle, and on the way into the store, I remembered I’d been meaning to purchase a pumpkin to carve a sweet jack-o-lantern for all the kiddies coming this Thursday.

Alas! All the good pumpkins were gone, and I was left with the dregs. But wait! There, among the deformed and otherwise “special” pumpkins, was a hearty, meaty pumpkin, ripe for the picking.

Happily, I strutted into the store to get my bottle of wine. I grabbed an Australian wine I thought I’d try but LOOK! A good California wine with a coupon! Upon closer examination, the coupon was for … $1 off one pumpkin!

YES! The world is a righteous place.

When I reached the cash register – a triumphant smile on my face – the clerk shook his head.

“It’s after one. I can’t sell you alcohol.”

Lousy Ohio law.

“Can I still have my pumpkin coupon?” I asked, sadly.

“NO!” he screamed, in a petty exercise of CLERK POWER.

My heart shattered into a million pieces.


Anyway, nobody cares. Back to Joe’s story, as so many of you have demanded …


SO, where were we?

Oh yes, Alaska.

Joe moved to Alaska and found himself a nice job … logging the rainforest.

Yes, folks, there IS a rainforest in Alaska (the northernmost rainforest in the world, it just so happens) and yes, you can log it.

Not only can you log this rainforest, but the activity is subsidized by our federal government. A shining example of America’s perfectly crooked priorities.

Every year, this town logs the rainforest, and every year, the town makes less money than it spends doing the actual logging. Rather than helping people find a more sustainable way to make a living, the government simply gives the town enough money to stay afloat. This happens because Republicans are the spawn of Satan. Satan would rather destroy the rainforest than help people, which is why Republicans insist on using our tax money for gas subsidies instead of education; Republicans, like the dregs of the pumpkin barrel, are twisted, rotten, slimy, dented in the most important places, and sag dangerously to the right.

Ok, I made up that last line myself. But the rainforest thing really is true.

Anyway, sorry for that rambling, preachy bit. Keep in mind, the story was told to me by a conservation biologist.

Back to Joe. Joe enjoyed his work, and spent a good part of the money he made on booze. Life seemed grand until winter came, when Joe was once again laid off.

He took what little savings he had and hopped on a ferry boat headed – you’re not gonna believe this -- NORTH. Joe was on the boat for a few days, and discovered there was gambling on the boat. So, fairly soon, Joe had both a drinking AND a gambling problem. After a few days' travel, Joe managed to snag a tourist map, and read that the next stop “the most northern town in Alaska that you’re likely to see a moose.”

Hot damn!

Joe got off the ferry and set straight off into the wilderness. Within three hours, he’d shot himself a big ol’ moose. He built himself a lean-to and camped out for two weeks, just eating moose and generally enjoying his life. Now, it’s cold in Alaska, and winter was rapidly approaching, but even at those low temperatures, Joe should probably not have been eating the same piece of meat for two weeks straight.

Nevertheless, he survived, and when the moose was gone, he went back to the town and spent the last of his savings on a kerosene heater and some canned food. He climbed into the mountains and found himself an abandoned cabin for the winter. Periodically, he’d walk outside, shoot a moose, and skin it. If the moose had a radio collar, he’d simply toss it into the river below.

There was only one problem with Joe’s plan. Radio collars in Alaska are designed to be quite weather-resistant. The collars would hit the water, sink straight to the bottom of the river, and continue to send out their signal.

Now, forest rangers, unlike your average Republican, generally aren’t stupid. When they see five or six moosesesus congregated in one spot for several months, it’s fairly obvious they have been killed and their collars disposed of. Because Joe was simply throwing the collars in front of the cabin, the rangers knew exactly where Joe was camping out.

Only, it was the middle of winter by then, and they couldn’t get to him.

So time rolls on, and one Spring morning, Joe wakes up, stretches, scratches himself, and wanders outside …

Where he is promptly arrested and throw in jail.

Three days later, he’s out of jail and married.

Ok … I know I told you I’d finish the story this time, but I’m terribly exhausted and this is getting quite lengthy – this man has led a long and illustrious life.

SO I’ll leave you in suspense for now, and we’ll wrap this up some other time.

With love,

Nas-T

P.S. Anonymous posts are for pussies.

Blog In Your Throat

Joe’s Story:

So after a fun and inspiring day with Lee and Sara, I’ve decided to reward everyone with the continuation of the story. For those of you who began demanding this hours after it was up, your patience finally pays off.

So,

Joe.

Joe grew up in a Midwestern town (I want to say somewhere in Minnesota, but I can’t quite remember for sure).

Like most small-town Midwestern high-school teens, Joe made up for a lack of intelligence with an overabundance of brute strength. Like many other men of his stature, Joe played high school football.

Joe’s position was linebacker, which for those of you who are even more sports illiterate than I am, means “one who kills people.” Joe’s job was to run at an offensive player, and smite him upon the turf.

Joe did his job so extraordinarily well, he was asked to leave the team. Seriously. The coach said he was “too violent for football” because Joe caused “too many injuries” in one season.

Shortly thereafter, Joe was kicked out of high school for punching the principal in the face.

Oops.

Not knowing what else to do, Joe got in his car and left that small Minnesotan town in search of something to do with his life.

He drove to Florida, hoping to end that search quickly. But it is difficult for a high-school dropout with no real skills to find steady work. Yet he found a job – a seasonal job working with the state road crew.

It might seem as if Joe had it made – Florida weather, decent job, decent pay …

But Joe had no place to live, and in the middle of winter, even Florida gets cold at night.

Joe would finish his day’s work with the road crew, then drive to a beach and skin-dive for lobsters to make a few extra bucks. When it was late, Joe would drive his car long enough to heat the engine, then get out and sleep on the hood, which would keep him warm until he fell asleep.

Eventually, the seasonal job ran out, and Joe had to move on. He decided his life calling was to be a semi-truck driver. He drove to Texas, where he could get certified as a truck driver for passing a simple driving test.

On the way, he stopped at a U-haul center, rented a truck and practiced driving on it. When he reached the test center, he passed with flying colors. A week later, Joe had his first job: a thousand-mile haul from Texas to Los Angeles.

Joe picked up his shipment and headed for the highway. He made it about a block when, in the words of Dr. Waite, “Joe realized why all trucks have those stickers that say, ‘Makes wide right turn.’”

Joe cut his very first corner too sharp, and took down a post box, a trash can, a telephone pole and whatever else happened to be in the way. Joe couldn’t figure out what to do, so he just kept on driving. By the time he reached L.A., Joe was fired.

Now somehow (Dr. Waite was a little fuzzy on the details here), Joe made his way from L.A. to Canada, where he made his home with a tribe of Native Americans. These particular Native Americans chose to hunt for food as their ancestors did: with bows and arrows.

Joe, however, opted for a more traditional American approach. He simply grabbed a big-ass rifle and shot himself a moose. The Native Americans were thrilled by this stroke of good luck. They hacked off large chunks of the moose and carried it back to their village. Joe was a little confused about the Indian way (remember, Joe IS American). He couldn’t understand why they thought they should SHARE the moose that he killed. He assumed they were just helping him carry the whole beast back to his place.

After that first incident, Joe began shooting moose on his own, away from the tribe. Unfortunately for him, Canadian park rangers don’t appreciate Americans blasting the shit out of a threatened local species. They politely asked Joe to leave.

Joe, now used to being evicted, left Canada. He loved the cold and rough lifestyle of Canada, but longed for the “mind-your-own-business” attitude of America.

Thus, he decided his next home should be a happy compromise: Alaska.

To be continued …

Writer's Blog

Hello, all!

Once again, I apologize for the posting problems. I'm 99.9% sure I've gotten them straightened out. I appreciate all of the kind verbal response to my blog! Y'all rule. I'm constantly surprised at how much everyone enjoys the blog (and the titles). I'm also suprised at how fun it has been for me. Quite cathartic.

Anyway, I'm going to start a three-part blog, and we'll see how it goes. This is probably the most amazing story I've ever heard in my life, and it's all true. I thought I'd share with those of you who haven't heard it yet. It's quite long, which is the only reason I'm dividing it up.

How long should I wait to post the next part? A week? Five days? Whenever the fuck I get around to it? Let me know ...

Enjoy!

It was in the final weeks of my undergrad studies. I was sitting in the dark, meeting with my professor. The power wasn’t off or anything – Dr. Waite is a hardcore environmentalist and refuses to waste electricity for silly things like meetings. Or so he said. I noticed an attractive blonde leaving just as I arrived …

Anyway, we were meeting to discuss my future career. That part of the meeting, as you might guess, went nowhere. But we talked for hours, because Dr. Waite is
a) eager to learn about other people, like all true scientists and journalists and
b) a fascinating storyteller

If anyone has the notion that scientists spend their days sitting around in silly white lab coats making silly discoveries and spouting silly slang phrases like, “Eureka!” – you’re full of shit.

Stop by Dr. Waite’s office. Ask him to tell you about the time he got shot at while studying birds on a river in Thailand. Or the time his neighbors called the police because he turned his backyard into a wildlife habitat. Or how the most hardcore environmentalist I know (sorry Carney) ended up trapping wolves on an Alaskan trail, right next to a wildlife preserve.

He told us all of these fascinating tales in class, and it was this last one that piqued my journalist interest the most.

“So …” I said. “I have to know. How did you end up trapping wolves in Alaska?”

Dr. Waite allowed the perfect dramatic pause.

“I was with my friend Joe,” he said.

He leaned back in his chair, as if debating how best to tell the story.

“Tell you what. I’ll tell you Joe’s story, and maybe you’ll understand how I ended up trapping wolves with him.”

And then Dr. Waite promptly proceeded to tell me the greatest story I have ever heard.

To be continued …

Do It Bloggie Style

Why Women Amaze Me

So I'm at the wildlife center the other day, and one of the other volunteers approaches me. She's a few years older than me (that's being gracious), a vet student, and married.

In other words, even though she's cute, I've never really been attracted to her.

So I'm working on some medical charts, and I turn around, and the girl is standing there holding a squirrel.

With the biggest, blinkiest eyes and the sweetest voice I've heard in a long time, she said, "Would you mind cleaning out this squirrel's cage for me while I have it out?"

And all of the psychology and physiology lessons I've ever had were instantly flushed down the toilet. Even though I was right in the middle of things, even though we BOTH knew she was manipulating me, at that very moment I wanted NOTHING MORE than to drop everything I was doing and dig through squirrel shit. I tried so hard to say no, so I gathered all my strength and said, "sure" and turned mechanically toward the cage.

It wasn't a conscious decision. Just a sheer reaction. I STILL wasn't all that attracted to her, but the will of men bends so easily to a flirty woman. Suddenly I saw how lives and empires have been ruined all thanks to a suggestive woman.

Or maybe it's just because I haven't gotten any in awhile.

Regardless, I've seen other men buckle to the same approach. I'm curious -- do men have a way to fight back? Or are we forever doomed to be infected by a sly grin?

Let me know what you think.

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