He kept describing an amusing portrait of CJ, one hand on the wheel of the boat, the other holding a "blunt."

T


oday Matthew Hart intended to spend the day fishing and swimming with his old buddy CJ. CJ is the friendly middle-aged redneck who lives in a basement in Waynesboro and who provides a hangout for the adolescent youth of that city. This weekend, CJ was taking a mini-vacation out on Lake Moomaw, a fairly large artificial lake on the Jackson River in Western Virginia (a little south of Charlottesville's latitude). To make such vacations more interesting, CJ recently bought a big motorboat. The boat was made way back in 1964, leaks a little and suffers from engine trouble, but it does what it needs to.

Originally, Zachary and Rory had promised to show up bright and early this morning to accompany Matthew on the trip to visit CJ on the lake. But naturally, come 9:30 am, no one had showed up, and Matthew was disgusted. He proceded to talk me into coming with him. I hadn't originally planned to go, but he sold the trip pretty well. He kept describing an amusing portrait of CJ, one hand on the wheel of the boat, the other holding a "blunt." More on that later.

I also felt a need to in some way do what I could do to slacken accumulated tensions remnant from the New York trip.

The bottles weren't even twist offs, they were blast offs.

Before I was convinced into going, we went to pick up beer. This was on the pretense that if I wasn't coming, Matthew was going to need beer now; he lost his wallet recently and no longer has an ID that vouches for a legal beer-buying age. We drove to a nearby convenient store and, on a whim, I bought a six pack of "Apollo Ale," which comes in a gorgeous blue bottle with spare elegant graphics, looking as if lifted directly off of Planet Gregory. The bottles weren't even twist offs, they were blast offs. I didn't think the beer itself was especially good, though it was better than Killian's Red or Blond, of which we subsequently purchased a case at Farmer Jack.

But not so fast. First we picked up Shonan at his place nearby on Jefferson Park Avenue. He was the only other person we could find to go on this adventure.

S


o we young men headed west. Matthew was driving and the car was his Vomit Comet. By the way, the little problem with his ignition switch cost him $200 to have professionally repaired.

It's a long drive from Charlottesville to Lake Moomaw. There are many mountains to cross and many curves for which braking is necessary. We were also cursed by a minivan which crawled cautiously in front of us, hitting brakes at the mere suggestion of Newtonian physics.

I should note at this point that I've never been a fan of either minivans or their unremarkable drivers. People who buy minivans are primarily concerned about safety, especially for their well-scrubbed children. Such people are in all likelihood dull conversationalists, though I wouldn't really know. I can't think of any minivan owners whom I know personally and I certainly never was picked up by any during my many occasions of hitch hiking.
Matthew once heard a theory that in general it is possible to add 20 miles to the speed of the yellow cautionary signs when going around curves. We quickly found that to be just a bit of an exaggeration, at least when working with the suspension on the Vomit Comet.

We were drinking the Apollo Ales most of the way, saving the bottles as we finished them because they're just too beautiful to smash in the road.

Matthew proudly showed us some shorts he'd just bought for $6.50. Unfortunately, it turns out they had a hole in the pocket, and they ended up costing him an additional $20. He took that pretty well.

The ride lasted two and a half hours. That's half the time it takes to drive to Philadelphia. When we finally made it to the campground, we discovered that CJ was somewhere out on the water. Fortunately, though, he appeared soon enough. In his company were three people who were, for me, complete strangers.

• Firstly, there was John. He was a distinguished older man who'd fought in the Korean war. He spoke with a classy educated southern accent, the kind of voice you pay good money for when you need a narrator for a Civil War documentary. John was endowed with a certain intangible endearing quality, but he also had a strong nasty and combative streak, applied in a way that both irritated and entertained me. I wanted him to like me, but I didn't invest much effort into the cause.

  John mocked him viciously about it, and when David wasn't around, dismissed his chances saying things like "He's trying too hard," and "He's never gonna have any luck with a mouth like that, it looks like a maggot's asshole!"

• Then there was Little Debbie from North Carolina (there's a limerick in here, I just know it!). She was maybe my age, though she looked a bit older. For a redneck wench, she was in remarkably fine shape. CJ described her as a "sweet little tom-boy." Both John and CJ remarked on how cute her feet was. I was amazed that anyone her age could have such a thick Carolina accent this far into the television age.

• Finally, there was David. He was bald and skinny and drove the pickup truck that had towed CJ's boat. His principle distraction on this vacation was Little Debbie, upon whom he had an embarrassing crush. John mocked him viciously about it, and when David wasn't around, dismissed his chances saying things like "He's trying too hard," and "He's never gonna have any luck with a mouth like that, it looks like a maggot's asshole!" I thought that remark terribly funny if also mercilessly vicious. I hadn't even noticed David's bad teeth.

But I didn't get a chance to meet any of these new people right away. They stayed at the campground while Shonan, Matthew and I joined CJ on the boat and set out across the water. The boat traveled at unbelievable speed, maybe 30 or more miles per hour. It may surprise you to learn that I've never been in a motorboat before. I was fascinated by how the boat virtually goes airborne as it tilts up and skims along the surface, driven by a tiny little six-inch wide propeller attached to an engine no larger than a 14 inch multiscan computer monitor.

We went all the way down to the dam, which looked to be a concrete-reinforced earthen structure, the kind little Bobby fears will one day be his tomb. CJ's "fishfinder" sonar device calculated waters of 120 foot depths; the canyon which contains the reservoir has remarkably steep sides in most places.

We fished with artificial lures, spoons mostly, in the deep waters around the boat. But we couldn't even coax a bite. CJ, a fishing expert of sorts, blamed this on the warm weather. As we hauled ass towards the marina to pick up gas, the turbulent water sheered my lure right off my line.

I have too much respect for the feelings of living things to be a fisherman.

The marina was a floating stucture with a flexible connecting walkway designed to adjust for a variety of water levels. The water was low today, judging from the wide brown mud flats ringing the lake, so the marina was sat down on its knees, so to speak. Gas was $1.60/gallon. That's expensive, but not considering the difficulty of trucking it to that remote location.

The marina appeared to be run almost on the honour system. People were expected to pay for their camping fees by placing money in an envelope and shoving it through a slot. The minnows for sale at the tiny little convenience store sat unsupervised in big bubbling tanks. As for the gasoline, I had the feeling we could have just sped away without paying.

While I paid for the gas and bought Doritos, Matthew and CJ busied themselves shoplifting minnows from the unattended minnow tank. This was to be our bait for the next round of fishing.

CJ sailed to a little cove and dropped anchor (a concrete block on a rope). Using the minnows as bait, we fished for crappies and catfish. Crappies like to eat live minnows six feet below the surface while catfish will eat anything dead off the bottom. We had a number of dead minnows for the catfish, and it wasn't too disturbing to hook a dead minnow. It was the hooking of live minnows that I found unsettling. You run the hook through the little guy's lower jaw. He doesn't like it, but he has no say so in the matter. You are the alien being exploiting him until he dies in his own watery world. Sometimes as I cast my line, the minnow would tear off the hook and go hurdling into the shore. After we'd been fishing for awhile, I came across several minows floating on the surface with various parts of their faces torn off. I don't like this sort of brutality. I have too much respect for the feelings of living things to be a fisherman.

Not only that, but Shonan and I were using inferiour equipment that behaved unreliably. We couldn't complain, it was all borrowed. But we weren't too excited by the task at hand. Matthew and CJ, meanwhile, caught a number of fish as they kept up a constant banter of that language that fishermen speak.

When we'd had enough of fishing, we roared off again. The casual attitude we had towards destination reminded me of the crew of the Starship Enterprise. On a whim, we'd go off to a distant corner of the known Universe (as defined by the surface of the lake) and engage in some water-related activity in a manner as adult as possible.

Lawn-conscious rednecks, however, apparently see the weeds and assume that the Forest Service is slacking off on its duty to create conventional American lawns in all areas frequented by people.

At one point, Matthew convinced me to dive into the water as the boat trucked along at full speed. I wore a life preserver of course, since the water was 80 feet deep. But even with the security of the life preserver, I felt a potential for panic. And swimming any distance proved exhausting.

The engine on CJ's boat had problems related to its starter's connection to the flywheel. CJ had to repeadedly tweak the thing to get it to start. The condition grew worse and worse as we sat out on the water. Eventually we made it back to the marina to wait for David to load the boat up.

David, however, was so distracted by his seemingly unrequited love for Little Debbie that he forgot to bring the trailer. When he did finally bring the trailer, the process of loading proved to be a major ordeal. While we'd been watching others load their smaller late-model boats with alacrity, getting CJ's boat on the trailer required the effort of four men. Well, three and a half; I had a beer in one hand. We found ourselves pushing, shoving, prying and lifting. David was running the truck the whole time, and he sat so low in the water that his tailpipe was submerged. Eventually his engine overheated and boiled over from the difficulty of pushing out exhaust. We'd spilled gasoline earlier and now we were spilling anti-feeze. Earth-friendly we were not.

Around the marina, the Forest Service has allowed long grass and weeds to flourish in an attempt to discourage the resident Canadian Geese from walking around and shitting everywhere. The theory is that the geese are afraid of the foxes that might be hiding in the weeds. Lawn-conscious rednecks, however, apparently see the weeds and assume that the Forest Service is slacking off on its duty to create conventional American lawns in all areas frequented by people. So the FS has seen it necessary to post lots of signs informing visitors exactly why the grass is as long as it is. Long grass is terribly difficult for the average suburban American to tolerate.

B


ack at the campsite, we packed up and prepared to head home. Matthew Hart went to a neighboring campsite and gave away spare minnows and endeared himself as usual. Meanwhile the distinguished old man John was teasing me. Someone had said I was a "whiz" in some context, and John extended it to "wizard," and then sought evidence for why I was not in fact a wizard at all. I was acting kind of frisky, and attempted to turn the top off of a metal pillar. It wouldn't budge, so John suggested I try to bend a thick metal rod with my bare hands. It looked impossibly tough, but I pulled it up with all my might and could feel it bending. Finally it snapped right off. Whoah, I was impressed with my strength. But John saw it as more evidence that I really wasn't a wizard at all, other wise I would have known the heat from the fire had ruined the temper on the the steel. To me it just looked like I'd broken a shoddy weld.

After David and Debbie Heartbreaker had left, the rest of us sat around shooting the shit and drinking cheap overly sweet boxed vino (take it from me, never get "Chillable Red").

CJ ended up riding back to Waynesboro in our car. I slept most of the way, except for the especially mountainous parts, which Matthew Hart roared through at occasionally frightening speed. We stopped at Taco Bells both in Staunton and Waynesboro. Shonan had to buy our tacos and burritos in Staunton because Matthew and I were both barefoot. Matthew expressed concern at the possiblity that Shonan could be charged with "contributing to the delinquincy of a barefoot person."

After looking in several stores and gas stations, Matthew managed to buy a single Phillies Blunt cigar. He had no intention of smoking it yet.

If one throws out the internal tobacco and replaces it with marijuana, a Phillies Blunt makes for a respectable (and, most importantly, large) joint.

A


t CJ's house, we visited briefly with CJ's whithered old mother. She lives upstairs and looks to be very infirm, but she still smokes her share of cigarettes. She seemed to have a special fondness for Matthew, not surprisingly. He told her he was about to smoke a "blunt" after a tiring day on the lake, and the old lady smiled and said that was wonderful. She had no idea that we were about to smoke a large amount of marijuana.

On the ride home, Matthew had asked CJ if he had any pot with which to "get blunted" and CJ said that what he had was at home. Looking at what he had, it wasn't great (it was mostly leaf), but it was a fair amount. Matthew proceded to prepare a "blunt."

It's important to understand that Phillies Blunts are cheap cigars packed with inferior tobacco. But they have a reputation for the quality and flexibility of their outside leaves. If one throws out the internal tobacco and replaces it with marijuana, a Phillies Blunt makes for a respectable (and, most importantly, large) joint.

Matthew has a fair amount of experience preparing Phillies Blunts. AC/DC was on the stereo (Matthew's request) as the big brown and increasingly soggy thing made its rounds. It had a subtle tobbacco flavour which mellowed the harshness of the burning marijuana leaves. Before long, we were all blunted. That's a term I feel it unnecessary to define.

I'm sure that down in his freshly-made grave, Mr. Burroughs was smiling in approval.

There was some pot left over and Matthew had, as you recall, only bought one Phillies Blunt. Looking around for rolling papers, he wasn't having much luck finding any. It's not as though CJ had any tampon wrappers like we used that one time at Leah's house. So Matthew picked up a copy of William S. Burrough's book Junky, and carefully ripped out a part of one of the blank front pages. I'm sure that down in his freshly-made grave, Mr. Burroughs was smiling in approval. The paper wasn't the best rolling paper in the world, but the resultant spleef worked okay.

We bid adieu to CJ and headed back to Charlottesville. I slept for almost the entire ride.

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Anita, another online journal keeper and former James Madison University student, points out that "Moomaw" is a very Shenandoah Valley name. It lends itself perfectly to pronunciation with the Shenadoah Valley accent. All you have to do is say "Mewmawahh" and let the vowels ring relentlessly in the top rear of your throat.

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