I love this thing:

My House

Link to my house“>Link to my house

My parents house – you can see the pool in the backyard if you look carefully“>My parents house – you can see the pool in the backyard if you look carefully

Where the world trade center used to be“>Where the world trade center used to be

Apparently rumour must have gotten around the office that I was in the market for an additional mode of transportation; a SCOOTER! Well, they must have thought I would get beat up on a scooter so they gave this hot new whip to patrol in:

YAW! I seriously couldn’t ask for more. Now I can drive all by myself…

On a side note. The little kid me, the slightly gay one; he still wants a SCOOTER!

That’s right, MATT was here for the past week. We drank, drove to Boston, drank, went out, drank….uh….I feel exhausted. Good thing he brought his girlfriend who actually has other ideas on things that don’t involve drinking, or else I don’t think I’d be breathing right now. Here are some photos from the fun as hell trip:

***We stocked the essentials; beer and bacon***

***We took care of business on the ocean; beer and fishing***

***Dem rocks is STEEP***

***Rob catches one, gets a cover shot with this bad boy***

***I caught one…minor sugery to get the lure back (he lived)***

***We went to Boston. Matt’s “fear of everything” took over up this high on top of the Prudential building. I didn’t think he was gonna make it.***

***We saw an ass made outta brass…a BRASSASS.***

***Matt and Andrea at Cheers (the original Cheers)***

***Wendi and I at Cheers***

***Matt and I toasting a frothy at the oldest tavern in America***

***Matt finds an interesting advert in the paper***

Matt and Andrea, thanks for coming by! Come over anytime and we can continue to destroy the feable brain cells…MATTERS!

I received a call at 10:00 last night from my mother; Rambo had died. She said she was out with him a few hours ago and he was jumping around, drinking from the hose as she watered the flowers, and in good spirits. A couple of hours later she went to the back and saw him sleeping on the patio. She yelled his name to give him a treat, but there was no answer. She knew immediately.

A flood of memories swept through my mind and in a instant I was brought back to the day I got my best friend. I was 11. I brought him back from the farm in a shoebox after hours of crying and childhood manipulation antics on my parents. You know how those go – “I promise I’ll pick up the poo”, “I promise I’ll walk him EVERYDAY”…Man, I’d have said anything so they would let me take him home. At 11 you don’t really understand much about responsibility or what it takes to make an animal a great friend. I read the books and listened to every word out of my father’s mouth, determined that my dog would be a great hunting dog and an even better friend.

In the end, he was a great hunting dog. But that was such a small part of what he meant to me. He watched me enter middle school and go through my akward years of nappy hair, baggy clothes, and skateboards. In high school, while the seasons were on, he went with me every weekend to the farm to go pheasant hunting or fishing. He loved the fields and would get so nervous when the brom grass or cattails reached over his field of view, he’d hop like a bunny so he could keep his eye on me. He was in my senior pictures, a proud and loyal friend. In college, I’d see him every weekend. We still went hunting, but he was older and I was hungover most of the time. Our time together became more friend-like, less work and activity. He was a steady through the most important years of my life. I had it in my head that he would always be there. I know that sounds stupid, but whenever I looked at him, I was eleven again, and at eleven – anything is possible.