Tag Archives: awesome

Skipping Town


Now, where was I? On August twelfth, 2014, my life began to change (FOREVER, DUN DUN DUN) for real this time. Having cleared everything up with the landlord – and having vouched for a good room mate who could watch the house while I was gone – all there was left to do was wait for my girlfriend to get into town. Of course, there were still things to be done around the house – plumbing, electric, rodent extermination, and mattress burning – but that could all wait a couple of days.

She arrived that day, with a troupe of dirty, dog-toting, fiendishly smelly and good looking kids who did not hesitate to inhabit the house. Ten fucking lovely travelers and nine dogs later, we still hadn’t seen the end of the adventure. For a week, our house TRULY transformed into a punk house, despite several layers of paint saying otherwise. Every dirty kid and his mom showed up at least briefly to drink warm beer, smoke cheap cigarettes, experiment with psychedelics, and have a safe place to crash.

The smell in the house transformed from ‘fresh paint’ to ‘dirty underoos’ in about a day and a half, but no one was complaining. These dirty kids sure knew how to drink and they were a wonder to be seen pass-out drunk over a plate of burrito fixings in the kitchen at three in the morning. On top of the competitive drinking, they were actually helpful in fixing up the remainder of the house. With gasoline, hatchets, and matches as equipment, many of us gathered in the back yard to burn chairs, a dirty old mattress, and a couch. The neighbors borrowed us their hose to keep it under control. Flames reached shocking heights. The evidence was disposed of.

I mean…

Next was the beehive(s). Up on the roof, bees had infiltrated the ventilation system and needed to be dealt with. The tools for this job were

– One can of Ant Raid

– One large wrench

– Five gallons of water

– A video-camera

Climbing out onto the roof in a sports bra and a pair of dirty shorts, I was the second person to approach the bee situation. Lots of pointless wrench-banging, a few beers, and, surprisingly, NO bee-stings later, I had successfully outlawed the bees.

All while my drunk girlfriend laughed from the yard below. It was a good time in that final week of the house. Video games were played, work was done, songs were sung, signs were flown, tits were shown…it was all fine and well and dandy right up until the part where we were packing and leaving, which was more sad than anything else.

Diablo and I both got our bags fully packed on August 17th. The dirty kids that had assembled had begun dispersing, and we were down to the core group of friends and travelers. The ones we had to say goodbye to as we said hello to a new lifestyle with a bunch of tramps (oh, tramp is someone who travels all homeless-like without picking up work along the way. That’s the separation between tramp and hobo).

We had our final beers, did our final house painting, and left the house for good on the morning of August eighteenth. With my dog at my side, a backpack chilling on my shoulders, and four road dogs to kick it with, I was feeling pretty okay. It was, however, a long trip to the hop out, with way too many stops along the way, and by the time we got to where we were trying to go, we had one more road dog (and his puppy), no cigarettes, and not much beer.

There started my life of traveling. Migrating under a train bridge, we waited. We learned about trains and what rides were, well, ride able. We learned the names of the train units, the train companies, and rail safety. We learned what a ‘fire drill’ was and to ALWAYS keep your shit on hand when waiting for a train. It was train-riding 101, and we were drunkenly learning the ropes.

On August nineteenth, a train going our direction stopped, and my girlfriend and I ran alongside it for a few minutes before finding a ride. We had gotten my dog and both of our packs on the train when it started airing up (the brakes of a train work on a tension system where air is what pushes the brakes UP so that the train can start moving). We knew we didn’t have much time. Tiddly (the girlfriend at the time) hurried to lift her eighty plus pound dog on the train but to no avail. The harness slipped off of her body and she dropped to the ground as the train started moving too fast to hop off. We watched Girl (the dog) run alongside the train as it sped up and then we lost sight of her.

Cue horror movie sad music, lots of crying and puking, and two VERY sad people. We wondered what the hell was going to happen to Girl and what the hell would happen to us when our other road dogs found out. There is a code for hopping trains: Dog, Pack, You. That’s the order in which you get on the train. In the rush and excitement of taking her girlfriend on her first train, Tiddly had forgotten.

Luckily, the train slowed and came to a stop in Northeast Minneapolis. As we were rolling to a stop, my phone started ringing. It was one of the people we were planning on hopping out with and he was screaming that he found Girl and that she was torn up as fuck and that we needed to get our asses off of the train.

Thinking the worst, Tiddly panicked. I started making phone calls. Twenty minutes later, my dear friend Morgan was picking us up and driving us to where all of the other kids were. Talk about friends having your back in an emergency. We approached a seemingly dire situation. Girl was laid out on the ground and everyone was sitting around her. Approaching, we found that she had been clipped by a part of the train – probably a ladder – and she had a huge gash on her side.

We did all we could. Poured hydrogen peroxide on it and then bandaged it up – it was too late at night to head to a vet. We could only hope she would be fine.

We moved to a different hop-out spot that night, went to sleep, and woke up early in the morning. After refilling our water, making sure Girl was okay, and collecting our wits, we started waiting on trains again. The day was August Twentieth, and it was about two pm when our train finally rolled in.

A big, hulking, mass of steel and energy, the Inter-modal Train that rolled to a stop right in front of us was a beauty. Carted by Burlington Northern Santa Fe (BNSF), this massive cargo hold was our land-ship, and we did not hesitate to take our chances with her.

We found a ride where all of us fit and could stay hidden and then the train took off, only to slow down and roll to a stop directly in the middle of the train yard. For two hours, we waited. Voices hushed, fingers quietly rolling cigarettes that we couldn’t smoke, we all sat in tension, hoping that we wouldn’t get pulled off of our ride. Voices approached and footsteps sounded against ballast rocks, but no one came, and finally – FINALLY – we were on our way.

We were heading west, into a metaphorical sunset. Embarking on a journey that could result in our doom. In train riding culture, ‘catching the westbound’ is a term for dying, and I do not deny the fact that there, on my first freight train, parts of me were heading west for good.

Pulling Everything Together


So there I was. With a week to impress a very disappointed landlord. I had almost no resources and I reached out to my group of friends who had experienced the HoG on the same level I had. Immediately, I had responses. An overflow of them, actually. Paint, tools, cleaning parties, I had everything I needed. Diablo spent the last of his budget on some paint that would cover stains (particularly sharpie) and I got to work. We cleared out the living room and started cleaning up the beer cans.

My dear friend Liza came over with her camera and photographed a few things before we totally started fixing it up. Liza is a photographer, videographer, model, poet, and a whole bunch of other things, too. She is one of the most lovely human beings that I know and I’m sure there will be a blog post dedicated to her at some point.

Four hours of cleaning and scrubbing later, all of the furniture was either in the kitchen or on the lawn and I had begun painting over the words and images that had helped define all of us over the course of two months.It was arduous – and heartbreaking. It was the first real symbol of us having to move on from the house. Of course, part of me had been waiting for this for weeks, and the other part of me was scared and never wanted it to end.

We managed to get enough paint to re-vamp the entire house, and I started, well, re-vamping. I planned a cleaning party and had a decent turn-out. With the help of twenty people, we got the first coat of actual white paint on the living room walls. We got the lawn mowed and the beehives on the roof taken care of and the old mattress and couches burned.

The next day, Docken (the other room mate) and our mutual friend Khiara did some hardcore cleaning. I turned the trash room into a porch. The lawn was fixed, the trash room was gone, and I had painted some nice color on the living room, effectively finishing that project. In a week, we took down the entire downstairs and outside.

Weeds trimmed, flowerbeds weeded, trash hauled away, and a fresh coat of paint on all of the walls except for the bathroom, which would get taken care of later. The gutters were spotless, and so I guess we weren’t quite ‘gutter punks’ anymore, unless you count the person who actually climbed around on the roof like a drunken monkey getting all of the punk out of the gutter.

We even scouted the neighborhood and discovered a beautiful sofa, recliner, and desk that were in almost perfect condition to move into the freshly painted house. We carried these items a few blocks and successfully moved them in that night. The living room looked like something out of a country living magazine – as long as you disregarded the still-tarnished floor.

The landlord arrived the next Tuesday. Despite the fact that there was still large amounts of work to do on the house, we got the reaction we were looking for. Her eyes lit up the second she stepped out of her car. Of course, it wasn’t perfect. It will take a couple of years for the lawn to totally regrow and the integrity of the roof after supporting so many bodies will never be quite the same.

She entered the living room and almost gasped. Her joy at the changes showed clearly on her face as she toured the lower half of the house. No more trash room. No more stink of beer and adolescence. A well thought-out color scheme. Semi-gloss paint instead of matte in the kitchen for easier cleaning and less gruesome grease stains. Turning the corner to head upstairs, I had to stop her. I informed her that a week is a very small amount of time to get anything done, and the only fixing that had been done on the upstairs was a quick cleanup job. The walls leading up the stairs had a fresh coat of light green paint and we were busy getting the right parts to re-install the banisters (definitely a story to tell later).

It was coming along, but there’s only so much you can do. She nodded and expressed her approval of what had been done, giving us more time to keep fixing the house. The end of July was coming up, though, and I had received news from my girlfriend that she and her faithful troupe of road dogs were heading north from Iowa. Soon, it would be time for me to leave.

Funny how, in theory, packing a bag and walking out a door is easier than fixing an entire house.

The Bell Tower


As we make the leap over the cusp of June and into the insanity of July, I would like to rescind a statement I made in my previous posting.The last night I got drunk in the HoG was mentioned in ‘The First Stroke of Luck’, detailing a night on a day of independence in America that I got pretty wasted. Whether it was fueled by the Wild Turkey or my disdain for an entirely dependent country celebrating Independence all of these years after a now almost pointless event, my body was intent on getting trashed.

We sailed through July with very few choppy waters. A man who’s name sounded like the word ‘Sin’ took us over to the church and showed us how to get up to the bell tower, where we were told we were always welcome. It was a series of shaky ladders and bird feces-covered rails to end up in a small room with a ceiling that you pushed up to climb one last, short ladder, and emerge into the light (or dark, depending on the time of night we went) of St Paul.

The church was old and tall, and from its highest height, we could see for at least a mile on each side as we stood on semi-stable antique floor-boards and sat in an old exercise chair that was perched in the bell tower for no discernible reason at all.

The bell tower became a place for romance, mid-acid trip meditations, and a sense of peace. Diablo and I would take special guests, two at a time, to view St Paul from an angle they hadn’t yet experienced. Hands were held, breaths were caught carefully in the backs of throats, and chaste kisses were shared under the near-starless metropolitan sky.

It became a symbol of hope for lost party-goers, a sign that they had gotten off at the right light rail stop or that they hadn’t driven too far. The church itself was open all hours of the night, and became a sort of quieter refuge from the lights, sounds, and people of the sometimes too outrageous parties.

A grand piano was stationed at the back of the church, along with a drum kit and a ceiling built for acoustics. We would often spend time in the bell tower before retreating below to the relative safety of the kindest-feeling church pews I have ever rested on. For the first time in my life, and in the lives of several others, a church was a safe spot, a true refuge from all of our worries.

As a pretty liberal queer individual with a social circle that had various reasons for avoiding churches, it was a really strange, beautiful thing to have a home away from home in the sort of building that had shaped so many of our lives in a negative fashion. What was this church that offered true acceptance for all and praised those who helped people truly in need?

Insane that my first brush with real Christianity didn’t occur until I was almost twenty years old, running a punk party house in a terrible part of town. Throughout my childhood, I had been shown many times that Christianity was corrupt and demanding. My parents, Agnostic to the bone, allowed myself and all of my siblings make our own choices but, at five years old when your best friend says she can’t be friends with you because if you’re not Christian, you worship the devil, I had made up my mind.

As I grew and learned about religions and cultures from all over the world, my closed mind on the subject of Christianity ever so slowly began to melt away. Regardless, I was still stunned at the kindness and acceptance of the people at Church. With almost nothing in their pockets, they still gave everything they had. With almost no family in the area, they built a family. While I remain unaligned with any religion, I am proud to say that I became a part of that family.

The bell tower was a symbol of hope for lost people, the church a place of peace for overwhelmed souls, and the people of the church a gleaming light in a sky of black, giving faith to many people that had grown to believe that the entire religion of Christianity had become corrupt and close-minded.

Every day, more and more, I was finding myself confident and at peace with myself. I had a good place to live, good friends, a good community, and damn good parties. My life was straight out of a movie. I was the slightly overweight, slightly outdated girl that ended up a small celebrity. I was the charming underdog who pulled incredible romances from hats like a talented magician. I had everything I could have ever wanted and…

I was still not satisfied.

December the Second, Mental Health Days, and Original Dixieland


Welcome to December, my dears. Oh wow, it’s funny to think about this being the last month of 2012 (and, if the Mayans have it right, the last month of the entire history of the world). It feels like just yesterday that I was giving Lover her New Year’s kiss and promising myself that this year would be better than the last one.

I guess in some ways, that happened. I did a lot of things I had never done before, met a lot of new people, loved a lot of things. But as my die-hard followers know, there were also a lot of downfalls. I think we can talk about the regrets and stuff of the year as we get closer to the end of it, though.

Let’s talk about where I was yesterday, as I’m sure some of you are wondering. I think it’s important for me to explain the importance of December 1st to you, first.

Three years ago, I got fatally sick with H1N1, more commonly known as the Swine Flu. I spent a month in Children’s Hospital in St. Paul, Minnesota with what the Doctors called: H1N1 with Strep A Pneumonia Complications. I was fifteen years old.

Apparently, one complication of Strep A Pneumonia occurs as a large sack of pus that forms on the side of your lung. This sack is referred to as an ‘Empyema’, and it is pretty bad news. Basically, what will happen is that this sack of puss will form around an infected spot on your lung. It will then begin growing and hardening.

If left to it’s own devices, the sack will slow in growth, but continue to harden. The firmer it gets, the more deadly it is. Why? Because every day that it is inside of you, not only is it infecting the area around it and causing your body to shut down, but also consistently working its way to the consistency of cement, which becomes almost impossible to remove.

Don’t worry too much, dears, Empyemas are a really rare occurrence. However, people who develop them, without any other symptoms present, have about a one in a million survival rate if they are left undiscovered for a bit. Not only did we catch mine super late (as in, they guess it started developing in late September and was finally removed mid-November), but I also had all the other sickness going around.

So, pretty much, when I asked the doctor to give it to me straight, he told me there was pretty much a zero chance I was going to live. Welp, that’s a kick in the Empyema, right?

So, now follows the long story of how I spent a month in the hospital, took control of my life, had major surgery, suffered a lot, lost almost all of the blood in my body, had my heart completely stop beating twice, and then survived and went home. You’re welcome for being a fighter.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because December 1st, 2009 was the day I was finally released from the hospital and allowed to go home after 29 days in what I can only describe as a sterile hell.

Yesterday, instead of posting a blog, I decided not to get any work done. Instead, I attended a dance competition as a ‘Dance Team Manager’ and then Lover came over to sleep over. We did cute ‘Old People’ couple things, like listening to Original Dixieland and Classic Jazz, drinking tea, discussing books and quotes, and patching my quilt.

We’re the cutest, I swear. So, onto the very last topic. Original Dixieland. This is like that music you hear in old-timey movies, or The Notebook. It’s the music you imagine playing in a black and white movie scene of a small but bustling 50’s town where everyone is enjoying themselves.

It’s generally strong in light saxophone, cheery piano, and old-time classic voices. It’s darling, and I love it. I think the best part is that the sound quality is designed to sound like it’s coming from an old radio, so everything is just perfect.

I can’t stop listening to it, and I don’t think I even want to. It makes everything better. So, if you’re so inclined, you should check it out. Sorry for the long post today, but it just felt necessary.

My question of the day is: What is a hardship you have faced that you or someone else didn’t expect you to overcome?

Love ya!

My Last Day, Feeling the Pressure, and ‘My Thing’


Today, fellow Satanists, I am sitting in my bed and not wearing pants. Furthermore, there is a puppy snuggled up next to me and I am playing smooth Jazz on my Pandora. I ate Ravioli with a divine Marinara sauce on top of it, and I have absolutely no regrets.

Can this become ‘my thing’? It’s so smooth, suave, sexy. The jazz, I mean. The puppy is just cute. But the whole situation I’m in right this second…it is absolute and utter perfection. It’s like if you could poop rainbows and fly on the wings of a giant butterfly. Oh my Asgard, I’m just so content right now.

Which is kind of a bad thing. I’m so calm and fulfilled that I could just lay back and fall asleep listening to this Jazz music and snuggling this puppy. I could forget about my Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, Youtube, Gmail, NaNoWriMo, MeetMe, and SceneKids (don’t ask). 

I could quit writing my 50,000 words (which I’m almost 3,000 words away from completing) and just lay back, floating on the clouds of happiness and contentment. I know that I can’t, which is why I’m here posting this blog instead of doing what I said I wish I could do. 

This is my last day of NaNoWriMo. If I don’t reach 50,000 words today, I will have lost the challenge. It is also the last day of No Shave November. If I shower today, I might cave and lose that challenge, too. I must stay strong.

I resent myself and I resent you for making me so attached to your devilish charms. You guys are truly excellent, and you have pulled me through for over a year. It’s so cool to be able to say that, too. But still, resentment as big as a loaf of giant bread. Though with this puppy licking my hands while I type, I don’t know that I can actually feel resentment.

There seems to be no power behind my words, as she gives me her puppy eyes and her warm puppy breath tickles the back of my hand and I just can’t be mad at you anymore. See? There’s a puppy in my bed, advocating for you.

Let me introduce the little bugger. Her name is Gemesi, but we call her Gem for short. She’s smiley, snuggly, and puppyish. She is a few months old. She’s wonderful!!

There, now you’ve been introduced to a main source of my day’s happiness? Content now?

Question of the day: If you could have three things right now that would make you content and peaceful, what would they be?

Love ya!

My Day Off and Other Anti-Accomplishments


Welp, yesterday I didn’t post a damn thing, and do you know why that is? No, neither do I. Actually, I do, and here’s the story of what really happened.

Telea, awesome, explosions, fighting, guns, fast and the furious-like racing scene, riding an elephant, tiny hippos, more explosions, met a hot guy, romantic montage with said guy set to ‘Baby Got Back’, really large explosions, real life ass muffins, Drugs, airplanes, coconuts, rum, and explosions in the bedroom (wink-wink).

So, to sum it all up, all I told the truth about in that last statement was Telea, awesome and drugs. I apologize for leading you astray, and now here’s the real synopsis of what went down on Wednesday.

I took three sleeping pills instead of one and I slept from 3 in the morning on Wednesday all the way to 1 am on Thursday, when I begrudgingly booted up the old internet and did nothing but scroll through my Tumblr feed all the way up to the moment that I decided to stop being lazy and actually post a blog.

And so goes the life of one Telea Dodge, who obviously lacks a life, friends, a job, and any sort of respect for normal sleeping hours. Goddamn her, we can’t decide if she is foolish or brilliant, so we will settle on Fooliant and Brillish. Yes, yes, those are actual words. No, no, don’t look them up.

I would like to state, in my defense, that this was long-awaited sleep and that well, fuck you for assuming I’m going to post a blog every day. That has only been my tried and true standard for the past couple of weeks (Though you’re proud of me, aren’t you?). I’m afraid that I have slipped even deeper into the chasm of doom that is the internet.

I may not make it out of this alive, but if it’s wrong, I don’t want to be right [and other crap cliches that are actually about love].

On the bright side (as if sleeping for 22 hours wasn’t enough of a bright side for my fellow Satanists) I may get to go on an adventure today and possibly receive snuggles or kisses on this adventure. Even without the snuggles and kisses, it will be good to leave the general area of my pantry-that-was-converted-into-a-room-over-a-decade-ago and actually use my legs for the first time since ‘Nam.

So, there’s my sorry excuse for a blog, and my question of the day (since I apparently do that now) is…

What do you do on your day off?

Love ya!

Proving Myself and Avoiding Harsh Topics


I don’t recommend throwing your day-life away for a night one. I don’t enjoy discussing the nuances of love as the smoky or bold or timid or all-powerful sun rises in the east. I don’t want to encourage you feeling 3 am the way I have. No, I don’t.

I also don’t want you to never experience a true sunset, or to miss out on watching the sunrise and feel both exhausted and fresh and ready for the new day. I want you to feel that, and a lot of people I talk to assume that, since I don’t want them to have a lifestyle like mine, I push them away from such experiences. No, I don’t.

I guess all of this rambling is to say that you should do what you want to do, guys. I mean, unless it’s assassinating the president or dropping a bomb on Tiberia or something equally awful. In that case, just do what society indicates that you should do. Or, you know, join an anger management class?

Of course, you’re talking to no sleep for over 36 hours Telea, and she is now more amused with her fresh-brewed cup of coffee and cinnamon oatmeal, and has forgotten what this blog post was even supposed to be about.

I don’t even know what hit me. The coffee as black as the dream I had about coal-mining. The oatmeal as well seasoned as a four year Olympic Gold Medalist. The mood and timing just right. The flavors exploding in my mouth, and now, because I can’t seem to talk about anything real today, a picture of something I do when I’m procrastinating/bored.

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This is the costume I wear. I call it: Ojesus Bin LadChrist. No offense, it’s just really what it looks like to me. Now, for how I put it into action.

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This is how I get strapping young lads to hit on me. Look at that winky-face he’s giving me. He totally wanted my balls.

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And this is how women react to my charm. So there you go, that’s the story of my dating life. Those are my two most fruitful relationships.

Just kidding. Maybe. Like, maybe half-kidding. Or thirdsies. Anyway, this has been another exciting episode of ‘Telea Blathers on While Trying to Seem Interesting’. We’re thinking of changing the title to ‘Telea Sucks Wookies’, and we don’t know why.

And, of course, Sweet Mother of Asgard, now I have a meeting to be off to regarding my scholarly duties, which I may or may not be but probably am not keeping up with.

Love ya!