Articles tagged with weirdness:
Zip it Good
Of everything I did in Branson, the thing that may possibly stick with me the longest -not least of all because it made me question my decision-making process – was ride the Vigilante Extreme ZipRider. Like a zipline but waaaaay more intense, the Vigilante begins 200 feet in the air, and runs a half mile, during which the rider reaches speeds of 50 miles per hours. And it made me scream like a three-year old after a bad bout of peek-a-boo…
Pink Boots' Top Three What the @*%$ Am I Doing Nicaraguan Moments
While there were many moments during the almost three weeks I spent tooling around Nicaragua that shook, rattled and rolled me to the soul with their beauty or grace or humor, there were also a few – not surprisingly, perhaps, to this website’s regular visitors – that left me wondering, What The @*%$ Am I Doing?
In The Cards
Ok, so look. I’m not at all sure how I feel about unexplained mysteries-kinda stuff. There is a small, not very vocal part of me that is totally entranced by the whole concept, all of it: Bigfoot, UFOs, ghosts, mind-reading, the Bermuda Triangle, astrology, Ouija boards, Area 51, Mothmen, the Philadelphia Experiment – I mean I want, really want to believe and not just because I’ve had the long-time hots for David Duchovny.
Go Pink Boots' Top Five Reasons Why I Wept When I Left Wyoming
Ok, so I’m still on my annual swing out west and thus do not currently have the time to pen a beautifully eloquent, deeply moving ode to Wyoming. That will come later, after I’ve made it home and slept for four days straight. In the meantime, here’s are the durn reasons why I cried like a little girl as my plane lifted off from Jackson Hole…
Radio Ga Ga
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, I was a radio disc jockey. An air personality, if you will. And I adored it. But as is sometimes the case with love affairs that burn brightest, in time it flamed out. I still have a fond spot in my heart for radio though, So when my lovely, long-time friend Piper Phynnie, morning show jock and program direction of Idaho Fall’s most excellent rock station KBEAR 101 asked me to co-host her show with her, how could I refuse?
The Nordic Spa Isn't For Sissies
Ok, so even though I have landed in Boulder and thus begun my now-annual swing out west and will consequently be indulging in over a month’s worth of no doubt extreme and possibly unwise adventures, I need to take a small step back and relive that time – since I have yet to for this here blog – I lost my damn mind and dunked myself in a frozen Canadian river in February.
Soothing the Savage
Someone said to me recently, “Do you always run so hot?” Or, was it “Do you always go full throttle?” Or maybe it was, “Girl, don’t you ever slow down?” I don’t know. It was something like that.
Honky Tonk Woman
Just how rowdy are Nashville’s bars? Enough so that I actually wondered aloud to one of my hosts: “I’m not sure I’m ready for those honky tonks.” To which she replied, grinning, “Jill, I’m not sure those honky tonks are ready for you.” Read on to find out who bested who…
I'm A Lumberjill and I'm Ok
I know you’ve been waiting for it, in the way when you’re inching forward in backed-up traffic you find yourself glancing toward the crunched metal alongside the road even though you really don’t want to see it. Me. Pink Boots. A really big saw. Watch for yourself how it goes down. There’s not even any blood spilled.
Not All Who Are Wander Are Lost
In which I visit Berkeley Springs and meet a traveling piano man and his piano dog and make some music and have the best first day of spring EVER.
Carnival of Awesomeness, Part III
It’s impossible to call this final installment of our three-part look at the pagentry and splendor that is Carnaval de Quebec the most divine or fabu or even simply the best, what with the groovy ice castles and death-defying snow rafting and sexy snowman mascots that filled the previous reports. That said, Part III contains booze. Lots and lots of booze. And this booze is called…
Carnival of Awesomeness, Part II
And thus, having worked up a head of steam that’s so unstoppable it’s unstoppable like Denzel-Washington-slumming-it-in-a-thriller-that’s-actually-fairly-decent-despite-being-set-in-Pennsylvania-and-not-using-any-real-town-names-in-Pennsylvania, we continue on with our rundown of all the bestest moments from this year’s fabulously festive Carnaval de Quebec.
Carnival of Awesomeness, Part I
Carnaval de Quebec is the world’s largest winter carnival. It’s also awesome enough that I hereby nominate it for inclusion on every Bucket List made by anybody anywhere from here on out. As a matter of fact, it is SO AWESOME that just one Go Pink Boots post cannot possibly describe all of its awesomeness.
Dutchland Derby Daze
Red Ruckus. Blaise A’ Glory. Bruisin B. Anthony. Jillin’ The Killin’ Machine. All names suggested by friends for my roller derby debut, whenever it happens after I actually do something to make it happen, like, oh TRY OUT. But in the meantime, I’m like the shrimpy kid behind the chain link fence staring wistfully at the Pop Warner kids, wishing he could run with the big dogs. ‘Cept catching the Derby Dolls and the Dutchland Rollers was a LOT more fun.
Halloweenie
Yep, that’s me mauling Where’s Waldo while my buddy Mac looks on in fear and dismay as a giant penis dances behind him. A typical Halloween on Pittsburgh’s South Side? You make the call.
Ve-NICE Beach
His name was Henry Wallace Hampton, and he was perched front of me, his eyes squeezed tight shut, talking very fast. So fast I could barely understand, much less process his words. But I felt an odd connection to this middle-aged African-American man with the lame arm he kept tucked up against his body like how a nested bird holds its wings on a cold winter night. There were a few moments, strange and a little eerie, when he seemed to reach into me and pluck out images as if they were marbles, rolling them around in his head before he shot them back out.
To Live And Dive In LA
Reputedly owned by the former madam of a Bangkok brothel, renowned for bartenders who terrify and abuse the ill-fated club rats who occasionally drift in, clueless, from West Hollywood, Smog Cutter was also once the hangout of LA’s most notorious writerly drunkard. How is it that I’ve lived my entire life up until now without ever setting pink-booted feet inside its glorious doors?
Go Pink Boots in the Land of Blue Suede Shoes
A blend of country, gospel and blues, rock-a-billy, says Henry Harrison, was born in Jackson, Tenneesee. Henry’s museum there aims to preserve and promote this uniquely American sound. AND it’s got the defibrillator used on Elvis to boot.
Messin' With Sasquatch
Hunter S. Thompson once wrote, “It never got weird enough for me.” But very occasionally it does indeed get happily weird enough – especially if you mix an antique store, Bigfoot, a professional wrestler, Mothman and a graveyard into one bizarre, potent stew of unabashed freaki-deakiness.
