Paddle Your Own Canoe: One Man's Fundamentals for Delicious Living (31 page)

Now, let’s kick that shit up a notch. Get yourself a kayak or canoe. I don’t even care if you don’t craft it by hand out of wood. I don’t. You should at least make your own paddle, though; that’s not asking too much. Now get out on the water, and view all of the same exquisite scenery from a silently gliding watercraft. One mighty advantage to the small boat is your stealth factor. Whilst cruising downstream in small California rivers or cutting a swath across a Minnesota lake, I have happened upon critters quietly drinking at the banks with great frequency. If you think that a doe and a couple of fauns standing a few yards away watching you float by, or a beaver swimming along with a willow branch for its front porch, won’t chill you out and heal the hole that getting too many e-mails is eating in your brain’s ozone layer, then your thinking parts might be in need of repair.

Can’t lay hands on a boat? Get an inner tube. Use your noggin. String together some shipping pallets and float them on four five-gallon water-cooler bottles. Set a couple of lawn chairs on top (I might screw them down) and take a leisurely and restorative voyage upon the king’s barge! Besides the enjoyment in getting one’s britches both wet
and
dirty, such marine trips are incredibly inexpensive to produce. If you’re dealing with moving water and you’re not a complete ignoramus, you can have a rather perfect afternoon for the price of those Guinnesses in the cooler.

Finally, the most delicious combination I have found in life is created by bringing your romantic love into your rustic constitutionals. Experiencing all of the naturally exquisite features described above hand in hand with your beloved cannot be topped. Except
maybe
by encountering the same setting whilst sixty-nining each other. That might just be the most truly delicious living. Megan and I love to hike in all different terrains, sometimes with the dogs, sometimes with a bottle of wine, and yes, sometimes mouthing each other’s genitalia. We have a regular excursion in Northern California that culminates in a breathtaking stretch of coastline, where we powerfully savor the view, the elements, and the company. At the end of the tale, I can’t imagine you’d ever wonder why they call me the Lucky Bastard.

WATCH ME BURN

Photography by Matthew Micucci, original art by Rob Kimmel, airbrush replication and lettering by Martin McClendon

Paddle Your Own Canoe

Siddhartha said life is like a river,

The thought of watching it pass me by causes me to shiver.

So I grab life by the balls, I got some advice to deliver.

Get off your caboose. Paddle your own canoe.

Young Teddy Roosevelt was a weak little puss,

But he exercised and became quite an ornery cuss,

’Til he could whip two bears and also Cuba without a fuss.

By god, number 26 paddled his own canoe.

You like to smoke some reefer, and you like to dance.

The preacher tells you to keep yer pecker in your pants,

But the preacher’d be kissin’ your nephew given half the chance.

(He can go to hell.)

Then you can spend your Sundays paddlin’ your own canoe.

I mighta mentioned Jesus Christ himself got high in my van.

I told him I wouldn’t go to church, and he shook my hand.

He said, “My son, just lemme run inside and use the can

(number two)

Now let’s get some Doritos and paddle your sweet canoe.”

What would Jesus do? Paddle my goddamn canoe.

Take the road less traveled says Robert Frost,

Keep your stone rollin’ so it don’t accumulate no moss.

Leave the faint of heart suckin’ on your exhaust.

Live a little life and paddle your own canoe.

Don’t while it away masturbatin’ in the ditches.

Put yer tackle away and hitch up your britches.

Then provision your boat with several pulled-pork sandwiches.

Indulge in savory meatstuffs, paddle your own canoe.

To my editor, Jill Something, for gently navigating me through these heretofore unpaddled currents without ever once hurting my feelings. To Dana Borowitz, Monika Verma, and Daniel Greenberg for providing the map with which I was able to find my way to Jill Something and the fine folks at Dutton, particularly Jamie McDonald and LeeAnn Pemberton. To Catherine and Frederic Offerman, who made me. To Megan, my wife, who continues to tolerate me at an astonishing rate. To my teachers, without whom I would be exponentially more unfit for public consumption. To Mike Mitchell, and all those who delight us with their pencils. To Lee and the other elves of industry at Offerman Woodshop for cleaning up their areas. Finally, to all of the family and friends in my life who shared remembered details, sometimes in hilariously disparate versions from my own, for reminding me that I’m simple. You tend to keep me around anyway, and for that I am grateful.