The Real Jeff Orr: Is a Beer Pirate

On the Fourth of July, Erin and I tubed down the Sacramento River dressed as pirates. Pirates equipped with a shovel. We landed at Beer Can Beach and, in the midst of a crowd of drunken revelers, dug up a treasure chest full of beer. Here is the story of how this came about.

Last year I took a tubing trip with Jon, Katie and Ali. On the trip, Katie told a story about some people who had buried beer at Beer Can Beach and had dug it up the next day while dressed as pirates. I thought that this sounded like a really fun idea and started thinking about trying it on my own. A few months ago, Erin and I were coming up with a list of things to do this summer. I mentioned the pirate adventure and she thought that it sounded like an awesome idea. After looking at a calendar, we decided that the Fourth of July would be a perfect day for it because it was on a Sunday and there would be a lot of people on the beach.

I feel like I need to explain Beer Can Beach. It's actually an island in the Sacramento River, kind of just a glorified sand bar. It takes about 45 minutes to get to it from the start of a tubing trip and it is about 5 minutes from the landing where most people end their trip. Erin and I discussed the logistics of getting everything to the island and we decided that it would be possible to start at the landing downriver from Beer Can Beach and go up-river to bury the treasure. We would just need to swim across a 50 foot wide lagoon, then the water would be shallow and slow enough for us to wade up to the beach.

The day before the Fourth we got all of our supplies ready. We went shopping and bought some eye-patches and bandannas from a party store. We also picked up a pirate flag and an American flag to decorate our tubes with. There's an old ice-chest at our house that we decided to make our treasure chest. The top was spray painted black with a big white skull and cross bones and the inside of the chest was painted gold. After filling the ice-chest with ice and cheap beer (Milwaukee's Best) we were ready to go and bury our treasure. It was 9:30pm.

We got to the landing with a raft, ice-chest, two shovels, a flash light and a headlamp. Even though it was 9:30 at night, the temperature was still in the mid 80s. It was a dark moonless night when we loaded the ice-chest and shovels in the raft and swam it across the lagoon. The water was cold but not too bad. Getting to the island wasn't too difficult. We left the raft at the end and started to carry the ice-chest and shovels towards the beginning of the island, where everybody usually congregates. We very quickly realized that Beer Can Beach is a lot longer and more heavily overgrown than we had thought. Rather than weave through endless bushes, we decided to wade up the six inch deep stream for a while.

All this time Erin and I felt like we had walked into a horror movie. Our only sources of light was a flashlight and my headlamp. It's kind of amazing how this lowers your depth perception and creates some optical illusions. Dead trees start to look like people standing on the shore watching you. At one point I saw a pair of eyes low to the ground, staring back at us from the opposite bank about 40 feet away; I decided not to tell Erin about it.

Erin and I finally made it to the spot where we wanted to bury the treasure. We chose a spot that we thought we could easily remember the next day. After each grabbing a beer from the ice-chest, we got to work digging.

This. Took. Forever.

Beer Can Beach is about half small rocks (ranging in size from pebbles to half-bricks) and half hard-packed sand. The digging was hard work, but we were so exhilarated from the journey there that we dug with a frenzy. At first it looked like we were making quick progress. We checked the size of our hole by placing the ice-chest in it and found that we were already “about half-way there.” Around this time the sand we were digging out started to get wet and heavy. The hole also reached that awkward depth where you can't really get good leverage on the shovel. After checking the depth a few more times, we decided that we had done a good enough job and buried the sucker. Once it was buried it looked painfully obvious to us that something was buried there because the ground looked wet and disturbed. There wasn't really anything we could do but hope the sand dried...and remind ourselves that nobody would be expecting anything to be buried in the first place.

The trip back to the car was much easier. We found a path to the other side of the island (that we had somehow missed on the way up) and Erin and I each got in the raft to make our way to the landing. While on our way back downriver there was a large splash about 15 feet in front of us. We were about 50-50 on whether it was a fish, or some psycho hiding in the bushes on shore messing with us.

It was around 11:30 pm by the time we made it home, thankful that we hadn't become the inspiration for Deliverance 2. We had been gone about 2 hours.

On the Fourth of July, Erin and I each dressed up as pirates, with an American twist. I had an American flag pattern bandanna and Erin had painted an American flag on my chest. Erin was similarly decorated. We went tubing with Jon, a couple of other roommates, and a few hundred other strangers. The weather was perfect for tubing and the trip down river was a lot of fun. The island was pretty packed with people when we arrived. Erin and I both stormed the beach with shovel and foam sword in hand screaming, “Land ho!”

I rushed to the place where we had buried the treasure and our fears from the night before were vanquished. The sand had dried and it looked just like any other stretch of beach as I started to dig. At this point we were attracting a pretty good sized crowd of people, people whose faces wore a mixed expression on surprise, confusion and excitement. People started asking us questions, we started answering succinctly.

“Why are you digging?”
“Treasure.”

“How do you know there's treasure there?”
“Pirate instinct.”

“Can I help?”
“Sure.”

We hit the top of the chest pretty quickly, much to the excitement of the crowd. After clearing out most of the sand with the shovel we just started using our hands to dig around the sides of the chest. A few strangers lent a hand. Finally, enough dirt was cleared off and the chest was opened with a cheer all around. I reached in, grabbed the handle of whiskey we had placed in the chest, and took a victory swig. Then a few onlookers swooped in a grabbed some beer for themselves, before Erin had the presence of mind to close the ice-chest. One of the guys who helped us asked us what his share of the booty was, he was already holding three of our beers; I told him he was already holding it. Then we relaxed for a while and drank our spoils.

It was a great adventure that I wouldn't mind doing again if we could get more people involved. I'm really glad that Erin is willing to do silly things like this with me, even if it is just the two of us. Next time, I'll try to remember my camera.

The Real Jeff Orr, calls out inconsiderate a$$holes: an open letter

Dear Equestrians,

You are the most inconsiderate assholes on the planet. There, I said it, and I know for a fact that everyone else agrees with me. My problem with you has nothing to do with you forcing a majestic animal into servitude. It has more to do with the fact that you think it's perfectly ok for your animal to defecate all over trails used by hikers and mountain bikers. The only people who think it's ok to leave a ten pound pile of steaming animal feces in the middle of a trail are people who own horses. Everyone else hates you and the turd mines you leave lying around. It isn't ok for someone else to leave their dog, cat, marmot, pig, monkey or turtle shit lying in the middle of a trail...SO WHY THE FUCK DO YOU THINK IT'S OK TO LET YOUR HORSE UNLOAD A MOUNTAIN OF ANAL CHOCOLATE?!?!

“But Jeff!” you argue, “Horse doody isn't as bad as doggy poo! It doesn't smell as bad because my horsey just eats hay!”

Ok straw man...first off, your overuse of the exclamation point offends me. Secondly, I don't want to step in ANY kind of shit...and I really don't want to step in a pile of crap that's big enough to cover my entire foot. I just want to have a pleasant day on the trails...and worrying about some inconsiderate dickweed leaving his animal's ass brownies all over the place is just going to ruin it for me.

“But Jeff...horses are really hard to get on and off of. I don't want to have to get off my horse to pick up his poop every time he goes number two”

Hey, it's not my fault you picked an idiotically inconvenient mode of transportation...and it's really not my fault that you're fucking lazy. If you honestly can't be bothered to personally pick up the steaming discharges generated by your horse, then you should think about having your manservant follow you around with a shovel and trashcan. If you are one of the few horse owners who can't afford a manservant, then try attaching a bag to your horses ass. Hell, your always going off about how smart horses are...why don't you try training the beast to not shit all over the trail. Just have your horse move his ass off the side of the trail when it feels the urge to go...seriously...why hasn't anyone else thought of this yet?

“But Jeff, it's just generally accepted by society that horse owners don't have to pick up horse poop.”

Like hell it is! Society hates you and your shit spewing horses. Society is sick of stepping in animal feces. Society would love to see horse owners riding around with a big trash bag filled with their animal's waste.

If you aren't yet convinced that you are the most inconsiderate assholes on the planet, I'll leave you with one final argument.

Children use those trails. Children are notorious for having terrible peripheral vision. Because of this, every 57 seconds, a child steps ankle deep in horse shit. You might as well just hold a five year old down while your horse craps all over him...you'd achieve the same result. Why do you hate children so much? What did they ever do to you? Feel free to email me with answers to these questions...just know that I might not have time to read them...I'll be too busy saving the children that you heartlessly endanger.

Fuck you,

Jeff Orr

Baskin and Robins are Dirty Dirty Liers

Ok, so if you've been watching TV recently then you've probably seen this commercial


Now you're probably thinking what I was thinking...fuck...yes! Ice-cream cake has been scientifically proven to kick 7,534 times as much ass as ice-cream or cake in their non-combined forms. AND FOR ONLY $9.99!!!

Last night a few friends and I set out to but ourselves a piece of nine dollar and ninety nine cent perfection in the form of B&R's best invention, the ice-cream cake log. Imagine our shock when we walked into that purveyor of frozen lies and found that the cake of our choice cost a staggering $29! Even though the cake was in the commercial advertising cakes for $9.99!

We had fallen into a simple trap...the marketing version of a bumble-bee enema...the old "starting at $9.99" trick. They have one cake for $9.99...the smallest, saddest, shittiest looking ice-cream cake I've ever laid eyes upon. The rest were all $20+.

In the marketing world this is known as the "bait and switch". You bait your customers into coming with the promise of something awesome...then you switch the awesome thing with something lame...but still acceptable. Unfortunately it looks like the Baskin and Robbins marketing team was busy eating paint chips when God handed out brains because their bait and switch is pulled off with the grace of a polio-stricken octogenarian drunk on cough syrup while ice skating. There is no way anybody in their right mind is going into that place expecting to pay $9.99 for an ice-cream cake log, find out it costs three times this, and then decide to purchase it anyways...and don't tell me that maybe you wanted the small crappy $9.99 cake in the first place...everybody know the log is the best cake by far.

Ben and Jerry would never treat me this way...Jon and Bon would never think of doing this. Screw you Mr. Baskin and Mrs. Robbins, I'll be getting my frozen confections elsewhere from now on.

The Real Jeff Orr, writes an open letter to Freshmen

Hey Freshmen,

Welcome to Chico! You've made a great decision in deciding to spend these very formative years of your life in this fair town. By this point you've no doubt heard that Chico is a great biking town. It's true! The citie's heavily concentrated student population and incredible flatness combine in a perfect storm of bicycling goodness. But I have some bad news, just because you rode a bike as a kid doesn't mean you know how to ride a bike safely. I should actually rephrase that...just because you rode a bike as a kid doesn't mean you know how to ride a bike without aggravating the shit out of me. So here are some tips on how to ride a bike without sending me into a complete, hulk-out rage.

So you just blew 300 of your parents dollars on one of those cool cruiser bikes (good choice, those things are both highly efficient and on the cutting edge of fashion) and you ride off towards your dorm. You decide to show off your new purchase to all those folks shopping downtown so you head north on Broadway. The fiery glare you see coming from me isn't one of jealousy at your 'hella sweet new ride', it's because Broadway is a one way street and your dumb ass is riding the wrong way. I know this may sound crazy, but just because you're on a bike doesn't mean you get to ignore basic traffic laws. You see, when someone's turning onto a one-way street they only tend to look into the direction that traffic is flowing before pulling out (with occasional glances for pedestrians, but they ten to be slow, predictable creatures) and then you come riding up from the wrong direction, the car pulls into the street and you get knocked off your bike. Now you may or may not get hurt and your new bike may or may not get fucked beyond repair, these things don't keep me up at night. The worst part of this accident is that now I have to hear from you and your friends that "people in Chico don't know how to drive with bikes in the road." Which isn't the case, you dipshits just don't know how to ride a bike like you aren't competing in the Special Olympics.

A couple other basic traffic laws that would make me less of a crocthety old man if you decided to follow them: Stop signs apply to bikes as well...shocking! Now I don't expect you to come to a complete stop for three seconds or whatever the stupid law actually is. I'm simply asking that you don't blow through them like one of those light bikes from Tron that lack the ability to stop. You know how in England they drive on the wrong side of the road? Well the last time I looked at a map it said we live in the "United Sates of A-fuckin-merica" (I love my map), and over here we drive on the right side of the road...and guess what...this is one of those things that bikes should do as well! Here's a tip, if your riding along and you see the words "Bike Lane" painted on the street upside down, that means your on the wrong side of the fucking road. It's a lot less annoying to everyone around you if you just cross the damn street. Then we wouldn't have to deal with your retarded-homunculus-ass riding the wrong way in the bike lane.

Ok, so you've got your bike, your riding on the correct side of the road, slowing down for stop signs, etc...Your phone starts to ring. It's one of your new friends! You answer the phone, "Hey man what's up?...Oh I just got a new bike!...yeah man I fucking love riding my bike, it's great...Oh man, you should hella get a new bike...Are you going to Ashley's party tonight?...etc..." During this very important conversation you've run through three stop signs, one red light...and you've been swerving all over the bike lane and half the road (making it impossible for everyone behind you to pass your leisurely 4 mph pace). Nothing pisses me off more than people riding their bike while talking on their phone. You already don't know how to ride a fucking bike and I'm surprised you can even stay upright on the thing when your talking on your fucking brain-cancer machine.

So that's about it. If you follow these simple tips then you'll be saving me from a few more ulcers.

Peace, Love and Jet Lounge,
Jeff

Post Script:
When you get better at riding your bike, please don't ride around doing the whole 'look at me, i can ride my bike without using my hands' thing. I thought that was impressive once...when I was five.

And oh yeah, the next time someone calls me "Lance Armstrong" when I'm riding my bike home from the bars, heads are gonna roll

The Real Jeff Orr, posts when he feels like it damit!

Summer's almost over and that means that Chico's respite from the student population is almost at an end. It's a damn shame because I really enjoy Chico with a rather diminished student population. Now I get to deal with idiots who don't know how to ride a bike, talking on their cell phones while not knowing how to ride a bike (edit: being called "Lance Armstrong" no less than three times while riding your bike home from the bars gets old rather fast too). Also, my circle of friends in Chico has grown one ratio smaller with the departure of one Emile Clark, who's heading off to the land of ports. Hopefully she decides to visit more than Curt...and I don't think the bar can be set much lower than once...when I wasn't even in Chico.

The last studentless weekend of the summer turned out to be one of the best. Katie works at the study abroad office, which is awesome because we get to be some of the first people international students hang out with...forever shaping their opinions about what Americans are truly like. Friday night we hung out with them and I managed to sprain my ankle something fierce while leaving the Bear...the story involves a lot of alcohol, a crowded walkway, and an empty bench.

On Saturday I finally stopped wishing my body existed in a dimension different from the one my consciousness was occupying, when KT and MLE invited me to The Olive Garden for some endless soup, salad and breadsticks. Afterward we convinced six internationalites to take a trip to Bearhole. We had to stop at Target first to pick up some swimsuits. The general reaction to Target was one of...perplexity. "I a store like this with so many different things...common in United States?" I was asked. "There's about 4 of stores like these in every town the size of Chico" I replied to widened (Japanese) eyes. After suite buying it was Bearhole time, which is always nice. Then dinner at Katsu's and some karaoke. The internationals declined our invitation to 80's night at LaSalle's...asking us, "Does everyone in chico have this much energy?" I told him American food pumps you so full of hormones and preservatives that we don't need to sleep.

Sunday marked the aforementioned Emilie Clark's last day in Chico. It started with a delicious champagne brunch...which can only lead to one of two thing...a nap, or more champagne. Being that this is from Chico and that naps are for four year olds, we chose the latter. Swimming/dance party at KT's new digs. Rock band and vodka-tonic-clemantine's at my place. Food and margaritas at Tres. Sleeping and hurried last minute packing at MLE's. Somehow KT managed to find some of that famed Chico Energy and drove MLE to the airport at 5 in the am...the work from 8 am to 7 pm (if memory serves, correct me of your feat was even more amazing)



So Jeff (you're no doubt asking) how is your ankle? Well don't worry. It turns out awesome sideburns aren't the only thing I share with Wolverine...I'm also rather adept at healing.

The Real Jeff Orr, is the human rooster

Something strange has been happening to me every day for the past two months. I've been waking up at 8 in the morning...every day...without the use of an alarm clock. It doesn't matter what time I go to sleep, 11pm...3am...I'll be waking up within 3 minutes of 8 the morning. Maybe it's my mutant power starting to manifest. Only instead of some wicked power like gravity manipulation or lazer-face, I get this weak ass rooster based ability of always waking up at the same time.

The Real Jeff Orr, smokes two wild fires in the morning

So there were two things this post could have been about: The massive amount of smoke given off by the fires, or the new FISA bill the Senate just passed. Rumor has it the fires could be put out as soon as we start to get some rain (i.e. October) but it looks like the massive shit the FISA bill took on the Constitution's going to create a pretty deep stain that's gonna be there for a while. So I'm going with the topic that's effects me most in the short term.

Other than a few days of clear sky around the 4th of July, Chico's been incredibly smokey since late June. Ash was drifting down from the sky on Tuesday, the sky is an eery orange color, and douchebags ride their bikes/jog with masks on.


This was taken today, the forecast called for completely clear skies...so that's pretty much all smoke.

Sometimes it's so bad that 80% of the people drive with their headlights on. The other 20% are the folks who only begrudgingly turn their headlights on after official sunset...no matter what the outside environment may be like...smoke, heavy rain, or Steven King's horrifying mists.

There are two upsides though. The smoke does cut into the extreme heat. What should have been 110 degree temperatures were only 100...with a nice cool 72 degree low coming sometime around 5 in the morning. The other upside is that Superman can't control us with his super-fascism because we no longer have a yellow sun for him to draw power from. That shit is redder than Jan Fonda.