June 2010

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I’m in a mastermind group that meets over the phone once a week to talk business, set goals and kick each others’ butts, and this week, due to a case of unimpressive non goal-reaching, we decided to do something rather major. I’m kind of fired up about it so I wanted to share it with y’all in case you’d like to join us in our extreme majorlyness.

Have you ever had this problem – you decide you’re going to DO it already, you’re all guns ablazin’, swinging your goals around your head like a pair of rusty nunchucks, ready to tear it up and crank it out and then a day or two later you find your energy slowly seeping out of you like the air in my frikken brand new air mattress that apparently got poked by a cactus and suddenly had me waking up on the cold hard desert floor when I last took it camping?

Why oh why does the seepage happen? How do you, with all your good intentions and constant studying of the law of attraction and the power of positive thinking, find yourself constantly misplacing your goal lists beneath a pile of dopey minutia?

Why do you succumb to distraction and procrastination so easily? Why do you keep yourself from living the gigantic life that is just right there you just need to stretch a little further and you’re almost there and….ooh, well doesn’t that look comfy?! Think I’ll lie on down and have me a nap.

I will tell you why.

Because you haven’t made an absolute decision to do it to the point where you’ve burned all your boats. There is a book that I would like to now beat you over the head with called “Think and Grow Rich” by Napolean Hill.

I think it should be called “Think and Grow a Pair” instead because it will get you off yer butt to create anything in life, money included, and it is the most boiled down, easy to follow powder keg of make-it-happen-fer-feck’s-sake-already advice I’ve ever read.

It’s required reading for all my private coaching clients and I read it everyday because it is truly a superhero pill.

In this book, one of the many staggeringly obvious truths he speaks about is that in order to massively alter your life and leap up to a whole new level, you must burn all your ships.

In the book he tells the story of an army that landed on enemy territory by boat and the dude in charge burned all the boats after his men got off in order to wipe out all thoughts of anything but victory. There was literally no way out but to win now and guess what? They won.

I hiked straight up this rock wall with a 60 pound backpack on because guess what? It was either that or get eaten by birds.

If you are even the tiniest bit comfy, if you can feed yourself and house yourself and stumble lamely through life, it’s pretty common to hang around and complain rather than actually do something about it because you don’t really have to.

It’s very possible that you’ll cross the finish line to your own death having lived a small, always-worried-about-money-and-kinda-hatin’-your-job life and lazily fade out in a quiet, mediocre, barely satisfied blip.

OR

You can join me and my merry masterminds in our new ship burning, ass whipping program of One Totally Terrifying Task Per Day.

Pick a serious goal and do something every single day that’s totally outside your comfort zone that will get you closer to reaching it. Something you absolutely do not want to do because you’re scared you’ll get rejected or look stupid or turn someone off or be not-so-politely asked to leave or whatever.

Here’s the thing: Doing things that you’re used to doing is precisely what got you where you are now. So unless you want to stay where you are, you’re gonna have to shake it up a little.

I heard a great quote from someone somewhere that said something along the lines of:

The difference between successful people and unsuccessful people is that successful people are willing to do what unsuccessful people aren’t.

And not only that, they make a habit of it. They get used to stepping out of their comfort zones and pushing themselves all the frikken time. Unsuccessful people make a habit out of being a weenie every time it gets too intense.

So, just for this week, push yourself over the edge every single day (or a couple times a day, what the hell?) and see where you wind up. And I mean really push it, no faking it – if you don’t feel like you’re going to puke, you’re doing something wrong.

Because the only way to change your life is to change your life.

So do this, and then write and tell me all about it. Hopefully not from prison.

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Okay, where the hell was I?  Malaysia, heading towards our last stop on the dear old island of Borneo, a place called Kota Kinabalu, famous for its staggering sunsets:

There are a bunch of islands right of the coast of Kota Kinabalu that you can take a 20 minute boat ride to and spend your days swilling beer, snorkeling amongst yet another ridiculous display of coral and getting hideously sunburned because you forgot you’re on the equator and have been drinking beer since noon.

Sunscreen is for, hic, woosies.

They sell bread crumbs to the tourists to attract the fish, which is great because it’s literally like snorkeling in a fish tank, but sucks because if you don’t feed them, which we didn’t, they nip at you while you swim, which they did.

The Tallest Woman In Malaysia

One night we were standing outside a supermarket looking at this bizarre mechanical bowing Asian doll thingy and I, once again, was the main attraction: The Godzillan White Lady of Infinite Tallness, but this time, according to Justin, I was wearing a dress that made me look about a foot taller than I actually am, which explains why earlier that day I got followed by a gang of hysterical women through a flower market.

People stared at Justin in wide-eyed envy because apparently, marrying a woman taller than you is good luck in Malaysia, making Justin, in their eyes, The Luckiest Man in The Entire World, regardless of the fact that he had a boyfriend waiting for him back home.

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Last year while hiking in a slot canyon, Elaine slipped and broke her femur.  Her FEMUR ladies and gentlemen, the strongest and biggest bone in the human body, a bone of King Kongian proportions, snapped like a twig, shooting her straight to the moon screaming in pain.

I’d already headed back to LA that morning and couldn’t offer my services to run for help, get lost and be eaten by birds, so Pete had to hike out and leave her lying there, alone, very possibly until the next morning when he could get a rescue team in.

:-/

Luckily, seven hours later, she was being lifted out via helicopter to a hospital in St. George where they stuck 3 huge pins in her hip joint and dubiously wished her luck.

So here we are, one year later, standing in another slot canyon, staring at a giant boulder in the middle of our path, wondering if it’s possible to climb over it.

As we’re discussing this with Elaine’s hip, a guy comes up behind us and waits for us to move.  We start explaining about her surgery and how we’re usually really quite badass and if it weren’t for her hip blah blah blah and the guy smiles and says, “I only have one leg,” then he and his fake leg shimmy over the boulder and out of sight.

Doop.  Dee doo.

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Candyland!  Car accident!  Not really!

We camped at the bottom of this thing.

Then we did a 3 day backpack through Waterpocket Fold, or what would be more aptly named, God’s Vagina:

We backpacked down and through this thing.

We skipped merrily through these things.

We have an unfortunate obsession with rocks.  And Lower Muley Twist, where we did our 3 day backpack, is deadly for the likes of us.

They’re all over the place, in the most unacceptable colors imaginable, lying on the ground, winking at us as we stumble around beneath the crushing weight of our backpacks, drunk with choice, crouching down on sore knees to greedily snatch them up like drunken sailors in a whore house.

Rock Truth #1:  The more rocks you put in your backpack, the heavier it gets.

When we can’t bear it anymore, we take off our packs, empty out the rocks and have an emergency art show in high hopes that our fellow obsessives can talk us into leaving some behind.

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Lower Muley Twist, where rock lives

Lower Muley Twist

We didn’t see another person for the entire 3 days, but apparently they were there at some point because Pete stumbled upon this mask washed up against a cottonwood tree.

Please note that it says TEASE in the center of the heart.  Nearly pissed my pants I did.

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I’ve always been hesitant to do a travel blog or anything that would alert the entire world (yes, the entire world does read this blog thank you very much) to the whereabouts of my favorite places.

Because most of my favorite places are my favorite places because they’re not crawling with people.

This next place, in particular, is especially important to me, so if you see this and think holy crap, I have got to go there, you should know:

1.) It’s very challenging navigating your way in.  There are no trails and still very few people and you can easily get lost and die of thirst, rattlesnake bites or from me throwing a pointy rock at your head because I found it first and it’s mine!  Mine!  MINE!

2.) It’s very fragile.  All the little taffy-like lines are sandstone and can break if you step on them, so please tip toe gently through the tulips.

3.) You need a permit to go, and in order to get one, there is now a lottery system because ding dongs like me started telling everyone how cool it was.

During the peak season, over 500 people per day enter the lottery for a pass, which I won this year oh thank you thank you great grand poobah, so I’m somewhat less bitter about the whole situation.

The cat was let out of the bag due to the staggeringly unbelievable no frikken wayness of the following location:

Here, allow me to walk you through it….

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The rest of this wilderness area, that I’m still debating telling you the name of, is equally as staggering, but the good thing is most people head towards this one, highly publicized spot and head back out again.

I don’t know if it’s because they’re lazy or scared of getting lost, but because I have my trusty Peter and Elaine navigational system, we go all over the place.

Here are some scenes from the other side of the looking glass:

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I realize, yes I do, that there are people out there who do not really care about rocks.  Sort of.  But for my kindred spirits, if you haven’t been able to google your way into discovering where this is (even though I just realized I say the name of it in a previous post, doh!), please write an essay on why you think you’re a good person, submit it to the comment section of this post, and if I agree, I’ll not only send you all the details on where it is and how to get there, but I’ll send you a picture of my rock collection.

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There are few things I love more than long road trips with the top down, stereo blasting, wind in my hair, burger in my lap, ketchup all over my shirt.

Especially when I’m driving across the moon.

Anyone. Got. Any. Chapstick?

The only problem is that after nine hours in a convertible, you emerge looking like you’ve been sucked through a vacuum cleaner, face first.  Can’t hear so good neither.  Crispier’na baked potato in a barn fire.

I was headed to Utah where I met my pals Peter and Elaine for our annual camping trip through the canyon country.  They drive out from Albuquerque every year and usually have me meet them at some ranger station, or a picnic table in the middle of nowhere that’s impossible to find, or at the top of some dirt road that heads up a sheer cliff face and isn’t really even a road but more like a bunch of boulders that someone took some dynamite to.

By the time I meet up with them, I’m usually ready to kill them.

This year we met at the easily accessible Hell’s Backbone Grill, a restaurant owned by a pair of Buddhists nestled in the Mormon bosom of Boulder, Utah.  It’s at the end of The Most Beautiful Stretch of Road Through Any Desert Anywhere, Highway 12 between Escalante and Boulder, and the food is insane – organic, spicy, creative, gourmet – all from their own farm.  It’s fully beyondo, especially when you know you’ll be eating out of a cooler for the next 10 days.

We hiked through the beautiful Zebra slot canyon the next day:

Still life of Zebra with Peter

Still life of Zebra without Peter

Then we piled into their truck and headed towards the Vermillion Cliffs.  I think.  I never know where the hell we are half the time.  Those guys totally take charge, plan the whole thing out months in advance, down to the last can of tuna fish, and I just stumble merrily along behind them.  Far be it from me to pass up the rare opportunity to not pay any attention at all.

Rocks, speak thy name!

I'm sitting on a seat belt.

Plus, once we go deep out in it, there are no trails, no signs, no other people.  Peter and Elaine get us through endlessly confusing expanses of rock and canyon systems using topo maps which, no matter how many times they try and explain them to me, are nothing but a bunch of squiggly lines.

Their theory is that 3 is the perfect number to backpack with – if someone gets hurt, one can stay behind and be the nurse while the other goes and gets help.  Due to the fact that I’m the youngest in the trio, I’ve been dubbed the getter of help which is ridiculous because my only contribution to the cause would be getting instantly lost and eventually eaten by birds.

Anyway, we drove sorta southish and I know I tend to exaggerate but believe me when I say that we were gearing up for our hike through ONE OF THE TOP 3 COOLEST PLACES ON AMERICAN SOIL AND I JUST DARE YOU TO TRY AND PROVE ME WRONG.

Behold:

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Is it possible for a really strong wind to blow over an RV?  Because I think that’s what happened.  There were flashing lights and fire trucks and ambulances, and from my spot in the traffic jam through the wind and the dust and the dark, it looked like a giant whale with bikes strapped to its ass was lying on its side.

I was trying to get to the Red Canyon campground outside Las Vegas for a little mid-drive snooze en route to my annual camping trip in Utah, but there was such a mighty, mighty wind that things got all crazy.

Traffic lights were out, trees were cracked in half and the line of cars on the road to the canyon was ridiculous.  Within seconds I realized, what the hell am I doing?  I can’t camp in this wind, I’ll have to sleep with one hand slammed in my car door to keep myself from blowing away.

So I got a room instead and had a lovely chat with night manager at the Best Western – Jeet, from Punjab, India, who, upon learning I was a writer, told me, for about an hour, of his hidden longing to be one too.

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He demanded to know what I’d written and I managed to get away with just telling him about my one book, the novel, leaving him to google it and find out about my girl on girl sex book on his own.

Which I’m assuming he did due to the fully icy welcome his wife gave me when I checked out the next morning.  He was all excited for me to meet her because I’d been to India and loved it and she was having none of that filthy place and could I please talk to her a bit and tell her it wasn’t so bad?

But I couldn’t get her to even look at me, and when I told her that her husband wanted me to meet her, she shuddered, waved to a table full of cereal and muffins, muttered something about free breakfast and hurried into the back room.

It’s hard out there for a pimp.

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