Why we ride, part #1 This is one of my favorite motorcycle experiences. Craig, Zach and I were heading back up to base camp along the Million Dollar Highway in Colorado when this Navajo girl jumped out in front of our motorcycles. It turns out that she and three of her friends were on their way home from a Rob Zombie concert when their car gave up the ghost atop Red Mountain Pass. This is…

The Casa del Whackos is truly going to the birds. As a result, Mom can no longer trusted to go unsupervised to the Flea Market, in addition to the Farmer's Coop. After running around with Alex and Oba all morning, she shows up back at the Casa with a bribe in her hand; a big sack of crawfish. It seems that there was a guy at the flea market hawking his wares, and there is…

Dad here; another Sunday morning at the Casa. The rest of the inmates are wandering around doing whatever the inmates do when they're not annoying me, and Charlie's feeling a little more "licky" than normal. This makes it difficult to poke digits into a smartphone, as Charlie licks are measured on the Lichter scale, as they can be downright seismic. I'm sure that many of followers of this page have reached the point, maybe more…

Dad here; most guys bring home flowers, candy, or some other frou frou nonsense for Mother's Day; I bring home hay and donkey treats from the Farmer's Coop. Wait, wait, wait, before you start dragging out your pitchforks and sparking up your torches, you have to understand Mom. A Hispanic family has bought the property at the end of our road, and installed a few head of cattle, some goats, and three donkeys. About this…

Yo; I'm Titus Pullo. You, know, THAT Titus. Dad named me after the good natured but deadly centurion, one of only two soldiers mentioned by Julius Caesar in his memoirs. But Dad missed it on this one; he's usually pretty ace on naming the inmates, but there's not a martial bone in my body, Roman or otherwise. If he had looked past my appearance and into the foggy recesses of my brain, he would have…

A little hope, even hopeless hope, never hurt anybody.-John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent Most followers of this page know the Message of the Crate; how Charlie was found starving in hers and was released, only to return to it when she was shown no better option. Well, at the time I found her, I was in confinement as well, but instead of plastic and steel, mine was constructed of a 401k, four weeks…

Dad here; even though it's officially Charlie Bravo Day, I feel the overwhelming need to present a very sensitive and serious topic: face licking at the Casa. I know, I know, this is supposed to be a day for celebration, but the situation has became anathema and must be addressed. But if the truth be told, I really just wanted to find a reason to use the word "anathema"; we all have our vices. I…