A Pirate's Life For Me

I regret to inform you that I have been living a lie. Correction – I haven been living many lies. Throughout my life, I’ve had a proclivity for meeting people, assessing their values and transmogrifying into what I believe to be most digestible to THAT person. The sad part of this is that it has not allowed me to express who I truly am……A Pirate. I’ve known for many moons that there was a pirate within – unfortunately I’ve only ever felt comfortable showing my inner swashbuckler to a select few individuals with whom I felt safe.

Something happened recently that verified that, from henceforth, the leather wearing, sea faring, booty plundering, rapscallion that aches to be free..shall no longer be suppressed. The stifling of my bona fide Marauder at Sea has been a tactic to avoid unpleasantries with whom The Pirate’s life may not coalesce. And I understand this – A Pirate’s life can be a tough pill to swallow (like the magnesium pills you take to calm your restless legs at night. The bottle calls for 3 tablets and each tablet is thick and dense…like a compressed clam chowder without the savory flavor profile and little clam bits). But far be it from me to jettison a life of sailing the high seas, pursuing adventure and novelty, simply because “I should be thinking about marriage,” or “shouldn’t be making tik toks of me ripping up medical bills because you already paid the copay and the blood suckers are trying to deceive you into believing you owe more gold doubloons.” Nay. I will marry when I am besotted and incapable of a life without her. I will pay my medical bills….we’ll see about that.

So, Captain Kyle, what has prompted this unimportant, fantastical paradigm shift in your life…you may be wondering. Let me regale you by providing a succinct summary of the past two months.

In March I was invited to an impromptu trip to Lake Tahoe to do some riding. I spent my time with a dear friend, Eric Pearson, who reminds me of watermelon on a scorching hot day. Eric is the ultimate hype man and has a keen ability to tear down self imposed walls with his remarkably relaxing aurora. When we weren’t shredding in

the trees, we were cackling like diseased hyenas…an inevitability of spending time with this titan of a human. Through a series of spontaneous “yes words” I also bumped into high school friends and former coworkers who I haven’t seen in close to a decade. The initial fear of “small talk” or “will they still like me” LIES, were confronted by YES YES YES and the byproduct was pure magic. The theme of the trip was something to the effect of, “Leave your room, say yes to uncertainty and put yourself in uncomfortable situations.” The only danger is that the Hard Rock Hotel bed you sleep in may be riddled with suspicious stains….a price well worth the experience.

From there it was off to Breckenridge to see more old friends who would relentlessly refer to themselves as the Brecky Boys. It was there that the Brecky Boys would, unknowingly, be psychologically tested by what appeared to have been an episode of Black mirror. You see one night (morning let’s be honest) amid the palpable mystery that inhabited that colosseum of a mountain house, we were visited by pure darkness. A graphic note was discovered, covered in bizarre hieroglyphics with a stick figure, seemingly dead. Plastered across the note were bold letters spelling, “HELP.” The note was left in one of the rooms on someone’s pillow. This incited chaos and panic….feelings that are unwelcome at 4am or any time for that matter. Two camps emerged within the house. There was the pragmatic camp - “We need to drop everything and figure out who, in the house, is responsible for the note.” And there was the “Shrug it off, we have strength in numbers camp and I’m a little too silly in the head to tackle a project of this magnitude….camp” I’ll give you half a guess which camp myself and the B-Boys landed in. The trip was not all for naught. We watched seven or eight Disney movies the following day to cleanse our souls of the putrid stench left lingering from the seemingly demonic presence….also Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs hits differently in a multi million dollar mansion. Did not snowboard once during the trip. Other noteworthy experiences -- Andrew G (Right) basically invented a language of his own that week which had 20 people simultaneously rolling on the floor laughing. Evan H (left) has electric energy and is not shy about lifting his shirt and slapping his belly to lighten the mood (honestly wondering why he didn't do just that to remedy the whole "demon in the house debacle").

Finally, Nick K (Not depicted) orchestrated the entire trip and managed to bring 20 people together for one of the most memorable weekends of my life....Who wrote the note?

Fast forward to Red Rocks Amphitheater – this was my first time at the venue. If you ever have the opportunity to experience it, I highly recommend making friends with strangers and stating two things recurrently: “Check out that big rock” and “I’m going to make love to the moon tonight.” The idiocy and simplicity of these two statements appeared to have a disarming effect with fellow reprobates….got many IG’s and telly numbers as a result. One of which belonged to a Russian Goddess - I texted her. She answered. Nice …Big Rocks…..embrace stupidity. It’s good.

Hard cut to West Palm Beach. I’m back to the sanctuary. One night, I go to dinner with my dear friend Anthony D’Amato and his sister Adrian, who was referred to as Aaron the entire evening. We’re at an Italian spot (See Anthony’s last name for obvious explanation of restaurant selection) where I eat the best chicken breast of my entire life. We say our goodbyes, I hop in the truck and begin my way home. In somewhat of a dissociative magnetism, I end up at the beach at 10pm. I roll up my painted on jeans, walk past a young couple who I believe to have been rounding second base (big rocks) and I usher myself into the water. With the waves slapping my body, toes digging into the sand and body stretched toward the moon, I exhale a mighty “Argh….Thank you God.”

I choose a Pirate’s life. Have fun with your goldendoodle.

Sincerely,

Captain Jack Harlow…I mean Sparrow.

P.S. Amber Heard looks like an old sponge when she cries.

P.P.S Everyone knows you’re a liar, Amber.