I Know, I Know...

...the posts are few and far between. That doesn't make them any less meaningful, right? Or any less packed with useless, inane information that you probably could have done without on this given night. No matter...read at your own risk.

The thought of counting sheep has implanted itself firmly in my cranium as of late, and I can't help but wonder about a few things here.

First, who started the whole movement on counting sheep as opposed to say, anything else on this earth? Well, I got to thinking. What I came up with is certainly the most unoriginal idea since the time my immobile roommate said to me "Yo dude, check this out. I came up with this way to get from my bed to the fridge. If I put one foot in front of the other really, really slowly, I can get there in like, three minutes. Sick, right?" Eek. I have most obviously been on writing hiatus for some time.

Digression: unoriginal idea. Yes, yes. A sheepherder must have devised this counting scheme as a way for him to rest his eyes in between herd relocation. I don't know, man. Imagine you're that dude, and all you do all fucking day is do your best to lead your flock of sheep to a new pasture to graze. Your life is sheep. You have more wool clothing than LL Bean, you most certainly have an extremely comfortable place to sleep and you may or may not have a vocabulary the has progressed beyond "baaah". On the bright side, you'd do fine in Boston if you're looking for a drink. Ahh, there it is. I made myself laugh, so I must be back on track. Anyway, what other scenario is this sheepherder going to surmise outside of counting these very sheep as a means to fall asleep? I get it, sheepherder. I do, I get it. I get it and I dig it. Make use of your surroundings.

To circle the wagons here (which are being pulled by sheep), I'll get back to the thought I've been having about counting sheep to fall asleep. What if the sheep have been drinking? Let me tell you something, if you lay down and make any concerted effort to count a bunch of drunken, wobbly, borderline derelict sheep, you're fucked. No sleep, drunk sheep.

The first sheep takes a path akin to the number 4, as if he were starting from the base of the number. As he approaches the fence, there's no recognition of any obstacle to get over, so he plows right into it. He falls hard, after a series of hard steps to one side and a few to the other. He's laying there in the pasture, laughing his wool off, and all the other sheep are saying shit like "Holy sheep man, #1 is fucking trashed." Eventually #1 gets up and has no idea where he is. He's still laughing, but he's starting to feel a bit queasy. He makes another pathetic attempt to will his way through the fence but the result is the same. From on his back, he feebly waves a hoof, indicating he's out. At this point, the hopeful sleeper surely has to take inventory and rethink his objects of count. If not, then we must see what happens next.

#2 makes his way out of the flock as if he were shoved out there by several sheep...turns out he was. He didn't want to go at all, due to the fact that he just woke up out of his black out from too much booze. His wool is shaved bare and his buddies turned it into socks, which are now on his hooves, snout and phallus...none of which can he reach. But up he staggers to the fence, lifts a hoof towards the bottom plank, looks back to the flock, pukes, falls into the fence and blacks out again. The fence is fucked, the flock is now split evenly between those who are laughing and those who are also puking and the hopeful sleeper is just shaking his head.

No sleep, drunk sheep.

You know, sheep are actually on par with cattle in terms of intelligence. They can recognize faces, answer to a name after a bit of time and be taught to know certain words to mean certain things. Sounds like a dog to me, right? That leads me to my next question: if sheep can pretty much offer the same as a dog and also provide you with wool for your fleeces, jackets, etc, why not keep them as pets? I realize they can weigh up to 350lbs and most likely not be trained to move their bowels at certain times, so I guess it's not that practical.

Another little fact about sheep is that they can be referred in terms of a flock, herd or mob. Yeah well, maybe to us humans those terms are interchangeable. Not to sheep, man. Up in eastern central California, I came upon a sheep who was willing to take some questions to validate my research. Here's what he told me when I asked where his flock was.

"My flock? Nah, man. I'm part of the herd. See that big-ass mess of sheep back there by the glen? Yeah, that one's mine. See, we're all pretty similar in the herd. Average builds, average wool and we don't generally conspire against the mob or the flock. The flock is to the east of my herd. Take a closer look, bro. They're all really skinny, they have their wool styled just the right way and they don't allow their wool to be turned into anything that they don't consider to be 'exquisite'. They think the herd is lame and they're afraid of the mob. Finally, you've got your mob over to the west of my herd. These fuckers are all 350lbs plus and they're mean. They're small only in numbers and they have more clout than either flock or herd. They do bad shit to both groups, but especially the flock. Last week, one of the flock was found over there in that valley with one of the mob, just going at it. Needless to say, both were immediately shaved and designated as "flobs". I'll say this, man. If there's one thing you don't want to be as a sheep, it's a flob."

It's amazing how much I probably don't know about sheep. Or anything else, for that matter.

I'm supposed to report on Venice here. It's getting warmer. I went to the beach yesterday and tried out the ocean. It was cold, but not terrible. The waves were big and it was refreshing as hell. Recently my rental car was tagged by some dude in a gang...with a key...in two spots. I have insurance on it, but I wonder what the implications might be if I come upon a rival of this gang and they see my tattooed car. I'm attempting a beard for the next week or so and it's not going well. I've merely a moustache and heavy itching. That's really the long and short of French in Venice of recent times.

I can, and I wool.